Virāṭa Nagari

The thirteenth year had come, the hardest of all, for in this final year the Pāṇḍavas had to live in the midst of a peopled kingdom, in disguise, unrecognized, and if they were discovered before the year was out, the whole cycle of exile would begin again. So they came out of the wild forest and into the civilized court of King Virāṭa of the Matsya country, and there they had to lay down every mark of their royalty, their armour and their weapons and their very names, and take on the humble garments of servants.

And this disguise, the tellers note, was itself a spiritual discipline: the shedding of the outer, temporary self, the surrender of pride and rank and identity, while the inner and eternal soul held steady to its purpose beneath the servant's dress.

They hid their celestial weapons in a leather bag high in a Shamī tree near the cremation grounds, where no common traveller would dare to touch it; and then each took on a disguise. Yudhishthira, the king, became Kanka, a learned brāhmaṇa who could entertain the king with dice and astrology and scriptural talk. The mighty Bhīma, who could slay demons, became Valala, a humble cook.

Arjuna, master of the celestial weapons, turned a curse he had received from the nymph Urvashī into a shelter, and became Brihannalā, a teacher of dance to the princess Uttarā, living as a eunuch. Nakula became the keeper of the king's horses, and Sahadeva the keeper of his cattle. And Draupadī, the empress, became Sairandhrī, a serving-woman to Queen Sudeshṇā, dressing her hair and doing light domestic tasks.

There is a deep lesson in this year of disguise, and it is worth pausing on, for it completes the teaching of the whole exile. The greatest souls of their age, a king, warriors whose strength shook the earth, an empress, laid down every outward token of their greatness and served in humble stations, and did it without complaint, holding their true selves steady and hidden beneath the servant's garb.

And they were not diminished by it; the king was a king still, in the cook's kitchen and the serving-woman's chamber, for their greatness was in their souls and not in their robes. It is the final proof of the truth the exile had been teaching them: that the outer fortunes, rank and title and finery, are only garments, and that the soul beneath is untouched by their putting-on or their putting-off; and that one who knows this can wear a crown or a servant's dress with equal steadiness, being neither exalted by the one nor humbled by the other.

But the year did not pass in peace, for the queen's brother Kīchaka, the powerful commander of Virāṭa's armies, saw Sairandhrī and was seized with a violent lust for her.

She warned him that she was guarded by unseen and terrible husbands, but he would not be deterred, and pursued her relentlessly, even scheming with the queen to trap her; and when at last he laid hands on her, she wrenched free and fled to the royal assembly, where Kīchaka, before the very eyes of King Virāṭa, kicked her to the ground, and the whole assembly sat silent in fear of his power. And Draupadī, weeping in her helpless agony, went in the dead of night to Bhīma, and Bhīma's rage flared up, and he swore to end Kīchaka's life.

And by a careful plan, Sairandhrī pretended to yield, and invited Kīchaka to a secret midnight meeting in the darkened dancing hall; and when Kīchaka came there expecting the woman, he found instead Bhīma waiting in the dark, and in a brutal silent struggle Bhīma crushed him into a shapeless mass, and so avenged Draupadī and proved once more that those who abuse the helpless are consumed, in the end, by the swift reaction of their own sins.