The season of spring was
coming to an end; each day, in the past fortnight, had been hotter than the
last. But, that morning, a silent, cool breeze blew through the garden where
Draupadi sat, contemplating a pair of bulbuls at play in the branches above.
She felt a strange nervousness as she waited for the inevitable meeting. A day
earlier, Arjuna had finally ridden into Indraprastha. She had only seen him
from afar, as she stood on the roof of the palace and watched the Yadava host
ride into the city.
It had been twelve
years since she had last seen the man, who had actually won her hand, a
lifetime ago. She had been as nervous on that day as well, as she watched from
behind thin curtains, as princes and kings had tried their hand at shooting the
eye of a fish that hung some thirty hands above them. As prince after prince,
tried and failed, she had gasped silently, her heart in her throat, thundering
like a galloping horse. Finally, when there was no one left, when the
competitors were all spent, when the girls behind her, her friends and maids,
whispered that the competition would start all over again until a winner was
found, he had stood up. He had been sitting with the brahmanas attending the
swayamvara; there had been no cause for her to believe that he was anything,
but a Brahmana. She had thought, that he was some wise soul standing up to
explain what to do in the condition that no prince had qualified for her hand.
But, he had left her and the entire gathering stupefied as he walked up to the
pedestal on which the trial bow was placed. Before anyone could even react, she
had seen the flash of the strong arms raising the bow. For a moment, that would
remain frozen in her hear forever, he had pulled the arrow down to his waist,
bow raised in tension high above his head and the arrow had whizzed upward, his
aim perfect, flawless.
The rest of the day had
gone past in a blur. Even now, after all those years, she could not remember
clearly the events that had passed. Her maids, had rushed her away from the
enclosure where they had stood and watched, as the gathering descended into
chaos behind her. She thought she would be rushed back to the palace, but her
father had met her half-way. The wedding was clumsy, hurried; a priest had
chanted a few hymns and she was perfunctorily handed over to Arjuna, like a cow
being gifted to a Brahmana. Before she knew it, she walked behind him, his
brothers on either side, through the narrow alleys of Kampilya. She had not
understood what happened on that fateful evening; she would take several days
to understand that she was wed not to one, but five men. But her heart was
already taken by the young Brahmana. She had slept on her floor, as she had
until the other fateful day of her life when Drupada had adopted her as his
daughter. She had cried herself to sleep, because her dreams of marrying a
prince, of palaces and handmaidens, and finery and pomp, had all come crashing
down in thatd dingy, dusty hovel. But, the next day held more unforeseen
surprises to come. The young Brahmana turned into a prince, and she was married
to the famous and mighty sons of Pandu, taken for dead, almost forgotten.
Soon, they had left
Kampilya for Hastinapura, and her eyes had grew wide at the sight of the city,
twice as big as Kampilya, it’s mighty white walls mounted with the red banner
of the Kurus, with its majestic black elephant. The days went by quickly, and
they had travelled again. She had still not seen Arjuna after the swayamvara.
They had reached Khandavaprastha, a wasteland on the far reaches of the Kuru
kingdom, beyond the Yamuna, surrounded by foreboding woods, peopled by fisher
folk and hunters. Here in this strange land, she was married again, finally
with pomp, five times to the five brothers and the Narada had come and he had
set the terms for the marriage; terms broken by Arjuna so soon. She had watched
from the roof of the palace, as heart sobbed tears of grief as he had left the
city on an exile of twelve years.
For close to three
years, news had reached Khandavaprastha of Arjuna’s travels on his exile, as he
went north to the source of the Ganga, as he had performed penance at
Gangadwara, as he went east again until Mahendragiri. There, he had left behind
the brahmanas who had accompanied him and travelled further east. The trail had
run cold and Arjuna was not seen or heard of. By then, she had already borne
her eldest son, Prativindhya, born of Yudhishtira. The years had passed and she
had borne another child, and another, and the happiness and the frustrations,
the anxieties and the bliss of maternity had made her forget her unrequited
love for the youngest son of Pritha.
Then, suddenly one day,
a rider had come from Dwaravati. Arjuna was with Krishna. He had survived,
jungles and rivers, deserts and seas and reached Prabhasa where Krishna had met
him. For Draupadi, the long lost feelings had returned in a surge of emotion.
As she tended to her youngest son, Shrutasena on the maternal bed, she had
remembered the forgotten past, and dreamt of a forgotten future. She thought that Arjuna would rush back to
Khandavaprastha, but the twelfth year was yet to be completed. And so, again
the days dragged on, while more news of his adventures seeped in through the palace
walls. Arjuna had been with a nagini; Arjuna had married five nubile maidens,
far to the south, in an enchanted land by the southern ocean; Arjuna had
begotten a child on an exotic princess, far to the east, in the mysterious
mountain lands beyond Pragjyotisha; Arjuna had learnt the art of warfare at
Mahendragiri from the great Rama, and pledged himself to a life of celibacy.
And so, they reached her ears, rumours or truth, she knew not; but she waited
for him. The rains stopped, and the seasons, followed, Sharad and Hemantha and
Shishira, when the cold winds crept from the north and the fog of
forgetfulness, once again crept upon her memories. Maybe, he would not come she
thought.
But then, he had
returned on the day before, with a thousand Yadavas behind him and a fair
Yadavi in a beautiful palanquin. Subhadra had walked into the chamber of the
queens, the night before, a shy girl, petite, yet womanly, shy and blushing.
She had greeted Draupadi with respect and a hint of fear. Late in the night,
Draupadi had looked at herself in the burnished copper mirror that hung on her
wall, comparing herself to the young girl who had usurped the dashing Brahmana
that she knew. Where Subhadra was fair, she was dark, her body bearing the
signs of four children, her face starting to show her age, the thin lines at
the corners of her eyes; her palms, once soft as the down of swans, now lined
deeply; her once tender arms, now sinewy with years of carrying her children.
Why, she thought, would Arjuna remember her now? Maybe she was consigned to be
Yudhishtira’s chief consort, the Mahishi, the Maharani, wife to a great king,
and mother to a great king, but not the woman of her man’s heart.
Footsteps, broke her
reveries and she turned around.
Arjuna came to her, as
time slowed down in her mind and sat down beside her.
She looked at him. He
had changed; the youthful face that she remembered, was lined and freckled now,
darkened by years of harsh seasons. When he had left her, his tight curls had
been short; now they had grown into a thick mass of brown, which he had tied
back. His arms were scarred more than she could remember and his body and face
had aged so much, that he looked older than both Bhima and Yudhishtira. But, as
he looked at her, she saw that his eyes were just as clear as she had once seen
them, set close together, beneath deep brows, a dark brown ocean of
determination and calm.
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