In the court of Virāṭa, Bhīmasena beheld the cruel and shameless bearing of Keechaka and the sight struck him with such horror that even Dharmarāja, ever watchful, measured within himself the course that must follow. Bhīma, unable to endure the violent and lust-driven assault committed before his eyes, unconsciously assumed the stance of a warrior ready for combat; his very tread seemed to shake the earth, his sinews resounding like the drums of the heavens and the pulse of the soil. He appeared as one who might shatter a chain of mountains and cast them one upon another, as though the oceans had dried and their clay gathered in his grasp to be devoured, as though he meant to break the universe with a flame fit for the world’s last hour. His gaze, terrifying in its fury, fastened on Keechaka with intent to destroy, the oath of concealment momentarily forgotten. For an instant he even thought to crush King Virāṭa himself, for failing to restrain his kinsman’s wickedness. Reaching for a great tree to wrench it from the ground, Bhīma slowly returned to his senses when he caught Dharmarāja’s calm yet commanding glance, bidding him in silence to desist. That timely gesture preserved the Pandavas from peril.
Dharmaraja, wishing to dispel the court’s rising fear, spoke with a measured voice: “Vallala, why would you tear up a tree that shelters and sustains the people? Seek dry wood for your fire, but touch not that which lives and bears fruit.” By this subtle admonition, he signalled that Virata, who had given them refuge, must not be counted among those worthies of Bhīma’s wrath; the dry tree stood instead for the one devoid of righteousness, fit to be consumed by anger, but not within the sight of all. This gentle parable cooled Bhīma’s blaze.
Draupadi rose slowly, watching her husbands; she brushed the dust from her form like a tender vine freed from pollen thick upon its leaves. Her breath came in sighs, tears slipping from her eyes like dew from a lotus petal, while her loosened tresses fell across her face as the serene moon veiled by darkened clouds. Revered by all, yet humiliated by Keechaka, she approached the throne in helpless dismay, torn between the sting of outrage and the fear that her husband’s vow might be imperilled.
Casting a sharp, grief-laden glance at them, she spoke in a voice choked yet clear enough for the king’s hearing: “My husbands, masters of the bow, champions of justice, born of a gallant lineage, who guard the righteous and subdue the wicked—why do they remain silent while their wife is wronged? If such defilement befalls any woman, who shall protect her? In this court, not one voice rose to condemn this evil. None fear the stain of unrighteousness. Before this assembly, a chaste woman, adorned with merit, has been insulted by Keechaka in a deed beyond precedent. Of all these gathered here, not even a few felt moved to show kindness. I must hold the king himself answerable, for it is his foremost duty to punish those who stray from the noble path. Is it fitting for the king to sit as a silent witness to Kīcaka’s wickedness?”
King Virāṭa, moved by her distress yet lacking courage to chastise Keechaka, offered her only words of consolation and then urged his kinsman to withdraw. Meanwhile, the courtiers whispered among themselves: “Why has misfortune pursued this woman, in whom virtue shines so brightly? How could heaven permit such a blow upon a creature of such grace? And how could Keechaka commit such villainy in the king’s presence and still stand unscathed? Sudeshna’s favouritism and negligence have led to this disaster; she could expel him from the palace, and the king followed her example. Who, then, shall cast him out of the realm?” Their murmurs filled the hall with unease.
Dharmaraja, deeply troubled and fearful of how Draupadi’s impassioned appeal might stir the assembly and spread beyond, steadied himself with effort, masking anger and sweat beneath a composed demeanour. In a calm tone, he said, “O sorrowing Sairandhrī, the king and this assembly understand your plight. Depart silently to the queen’s chambers. Your Gandharva husbands will surely be angered; yet they await the proper time, mindful of the consequences. Without grasping their thoughts, it was not fitting to accuse them before the elders. Whatever hardships arise, a virtuous wife avoids reproaching her lords in assembly, as you well know.”
Still unconvinced, Draupadi remained in shock and was about to speak again when Dharmaraja, feigning sternness, rebuked her: “Sairandhrī, bold speech and impassioned display diminish the honour of noble women; this is no place for further words.” She, with deliberate sharpness, replied, “O Kaṅku-bhaṭṭu, my husband is but an actor; the younger follows the elder, thus I am an actress, even a dancer, for I have learned the ways of my lord. And my lord is also a gambler—how, then, shall his wife show flawless dignity?” Saying this, she left without another glance.
Inwardly, she thought, “The wicked woman who sent me to Keechakas’ palace must know the disgrace inflicted upon me.” With trembling limbs, tear-filled eyes, and broken voice, she reached Sudeshna, who, pretending ignorance, exclaimed with feigned innocence, “Your body is dust-covered, your face wan with sorrow, your hair damp upon your brow, your eyes drained with tears. Who has harmed you? I shall destroy them and avenge you.”
Draupadi answered, “If you pretend not to know, what more can I say? You sent me to fetch wine from that crooked Keechaka. He sought to violate me; I escaped and fled to the assembly, and he, enraged, struck me down. What further detail is needed?” Sudeshna replied, “Cast off your grief. I shall punish Keechaka and restore your honour.” But Draupadi, knowing her to be a master of deceit, said, “Do not trouble yourself. My husbands can right my wrongs and the wrongs of all who suffer. They will avenge me.”
The queen and her attendants, alarmed by Draupadi’s quiet yet unmistakable warning, tried to soothe her, yet she refused food and drink. Sudeshna, fearful of what doom might soon befall her brother, sensed that the humiliation, anger, and injustice that had gathered in secrecy would soon take form; and thus, the destiny of Keechaka hung in peril, awaiting its inevitable and ruinous end.
