Yajnaseni: The Story of Draupadi Read online

  About the Author

  Pratibha Ray is an eminent novelist and short story writer of Orissa. In her stories she has tried to unravel the underlying mysteries of society. From romanticism she moved into the realities of life. Her interest and choice of a subject for novel or short story are varied. The innumerable strains of modem life, the alienation of individuals, hedonistic philosophy, corruption in the narrow lanes of politics and moral degradation which comprises the nucleus of her thoughts are reflected in her novels. Pratibha Ray's Yajnaseni is the best seller of Orissa and her novels have gone into several editions. The author was presented the Bharatiya Jnanpith's prestigious ninth Moortidevi Award in 1993 for her novel Yajnaseni.

  About the Translator

  Pradip Bhattacharya is the author of 14 published books covering English literature, rural development, homoeopathy, children's stories, ancient Indian history, the Mahabharata. He has also translated Rabindranath Tagore's Shantiniketan and Bankim Chandra Chatterjee's Krishnacharita into English for the first time.

  He is the only Indian to be awarded the International Human Resource Development Fellowship (1989) by Manchester University and the Institute of Training and Development, U.K. He is a member of the Indian Administrative Service and a Secretary to the Government of West Bengal.

  First published in 1995 by

  Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd.

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  Copyright © Pratibha Ray 1995

  Translation copyright © Pradip Bhattacharya 1995

  Ninth impression 2012

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

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  1

  "Finis,"

  your dear sakhi.

  But after writing finis it seems as though I have not been able to write anything at all. The long-drawn tale of life brimming with tears and laughter lies fluttering like a blank scroll on the breast of inexorable Time. As if the pilgrim on the road to Death leaves behind everything in this world! Though we may well so imagine, actually he leaves behind nothing. Just this crumbling body is left here and even that is not his own. The soul flies away — when was it his, anyway?

  The skies have no beginning and no end. The ocean neither wastes away nor increases. The sun neither rises nor sets. Your heart's desire is neither fulfilled nor left empty. Our relationship too has no name and no end. Therefore, in this insignificant letter what final word will I be able to set down? Even after relating everything of life the last word is invariably left unsaid. After receiving everything, fulfilment is left. After all has ended, the auspicious beginning remains. Beginning of what and whose end? That which is creation is annihilation. Inauguration is itself dissolution — that is mighty Time, eternal and infinite.

  As the breeze carries scent from flowers, I wonder: attracted by whose perfume does life leave this body? Where does it go and where does it come from?

  Lust, anger and greed are the doors to hell. O Lord! Is hell the end? Till the last moment when death's icy hands freeze a creature's soul, is doubt finally dispelled while struggling to utter the last word on life? The golden dust of Mount Meru is slipping underfoot. There is no feeling left in the feet. They are gone, those people, who knows where, following whom throughout life these tender feet shed blood, bore pain. Not once did any of them exclaim, "Oh!" and look back. What mighty obstacle would that "Oh!" have created to their attaining heaven? Who had wanted heaven? Who had craved a kingdom? And you had wanted war? Despite someone else being the root of all the causes, they emptied the entire cup of blame on my head and went away — leaving me thus at death's door!

  Giving the innocent child a toy and snatching it away the next moment to make it cry! Why fabricate this elaborate drama of taking along all this? It is fun to play with one who asks with hands outspread. But one who asks for nothing — with her such toying! If this is not cruelty, what is? He who is far from the perishable, who is beyond the imperishable, is Purushottam to whom all is owed. He is the lord of supreme bliss. Why does He play such a game? To whom does He give and from whom does He take?

  Life is slipping away underfoot. Those who were my companions have gone ahead on the road to heaven. In the great blue expanse everything seems empty, meaningless. Yet today on the way to death all of life's congealed pride and hurt begins to flow like melting wax. Query after query dashes against the shores of the heart. Still, the last word cannot be said. Finis has been written to the letter. Moment by moment as I slide down the path of Death I begin to read the letter again. Perhaps the secret of this creation is infinite, unplumbed curiosity about life! That is why despite the varied experience of life it remains shrouded perpetually in the mystery of joy and sorrow, prosperity and poverty, love and loss, life and death. This letter, written with my blood, is my only companion on the road to death. While reading my own letter should my soul leave the body, remember that it is you who are its recipient, Priya Sakha! Govind! O best of all men, Krishna! O Madhusudan! Krishnaa's pranani!

  All the grievances, all the silent hurts and reproaches of life, today, in these last moments, I place here. In life regrets will remain.

  What agonies did I not suffer for preserving dharma? I had thought that on the strength of my adherence to dharma and fidelity as a wife I would be able to accompany my husbands to heaven. Yet, I had but touched the golden dust of Himalaya's foothills when my feet slipped and I fell! Five husbands — but not one turned back even to look. Rather, Dharmaraj Yudhishthir, lord of righteousness, said to Bhim, "Do not turn back to look! Come forward!"

  Those very words of his shattered my heart. I mused: how false is this bond between husband and wife! Affection, love, sacrifice and surrender! If man suffers the consequences of his own deeds, then offering myself at the feet of five husbands for the sake of preserving Yudhishthir's dharma, why did I have to bear the burden of the whole world's mockery, sneers, innuendos, abuse, scorn and slander?

  Dvaparyuga was about to end. The day Abhimanyu's son Parikshit was anointed king on the throne of Hastinapur from that very day the Kaliyuga commenced. It is said that my name will be counted as one of the five satis, renowned for chastity. Men and women of Kaliyuga will laugh scornfully saying, "If with five husbands Draupadi could be a sati, then what is the need for fidelity to one husband?" With many husbands why can't the women of Kaliyuga be satis? Draupadi will be food for mockery and jest amid the perverted sexuality of Kaliyuga's debauched men and women. How will these people appreciate that five-husbanded Draupadi had to burn inch by inch in the cause of chastity? Then the heroine of Hastinapur, Draupadi, will become a condemned soul, the heroine of a tale of calumny. O Krishna! O Vasudev, you are omnipotent! It is by your wish that Draupadi has made this long journey from birth till now. By your wish Draup
adi's eyes have opened and shut, her breath has come and gone. Then, have you no share in her praise and blame?

  Today with the blood dripping from her heart Draupadi is writing about the start of her life on the stones of the holy Himalayas. Some day, for saving the oppressed world, you will arrive on earth by way of the Himalayas. That day you will read this blood-drenched autobiography written in indelible letters. "Aha!" — the exclamation will be voiced for Draupadi. Enough — that is all I want for myself.

  You are the knower of hearts. What is unknown to you? Yet, the tormented cry does not reach you unless it is voiced aloud. Therefore, I am placing everything before you.

  Time may transform me into a goddess, but I appeared on this earth with this body in human form. My five husbands are each a creature of this mortal world. Our master, the great sage, Krishna Dvaipayan, has established me as a deity. In his eyes I appear divine. The cause of my having five husbands he has attributed to some boon by Shiva. But I am no goddess and no knower of past births. Therefore, today on the road to death whatever I say I shall speak the truth. The story of my life, is nothing other than the life-story of any human being on this mortal world. Read the indelible words of this letter. Seeing each hair-raising incident of my life the people of Kaliyuga will be able to decide whether the insults Draupadi suffered have ever been borne by any woman of any time. God forbid that in future anyone should ever suffer such abuse.

  O Sakha! The day I was insulted in the Kuru court, having lost confidence in the five husbands, casting all shame aside, with both hands uplifted, it was you I called, it was before you that I surrendered. And today when once again my five husbands have gone ahead leaving me helpless, I am offering myself to you. All my grief and agony, insults and heartbreaks — I am offering you everything. If I am no longer my own, why should my grief remain mine?

  O Krishna, knower of hearts! What is unknown to you? Yet I am setting down my story. Grief is lessened by unburdening the heart. And when I am unburdening the heart then everything — my faults, weaknesses, illusions — all will be exposed. If the world blames me for this, what can I say? I could not rise above mistakes and avoid false steps, perhaps that is why the road to heaven was blocked to me.

  Time is passing away. My body is lacerated, my heart is shattered. Blood is dripping from my heart and it is in this blood that my story is drenched. At the time of death, whatever a man says or does is beyond his control. May the accumulated agony of so many years gush out as a libation at your feet. Let the world see. O Govind! do not turn my mind and heart inert till my story is complete. Do not destroy my memory, do not give it into the hands of death. Only let me tell my story — standing at death's door this little I pray.

  From where shall I begin? My birth? But my birth was an exception. I was born nubile. The sacrificial altar is my mother. Yajnasena is my father. So I am Yajnaseni.

  Yajnaseni! Panchal princess, Panchali! Drupad's daughter, Draupadi!

  2

  In the Dvaparyuga it was the area under the Kurus and Panchals which was the Aryan heartland. Bharat's descendants — the Kurus — made Hastinapur on the banks of the Ganga the capital of their kingdom. At this time it was the symbol of the country's pride and glory. The descendants of the Panchal king were not inferior to the Kurus. Actually, between them a sort of rivalry prevailed.

  My father's childhood friend was Drona. And he was the tutor of the Pandavs. Once he approached King Drupad for help. Father blurted out in jest, "A begging Brahman and friend to a king! Friendship can be only between equals."

  Insulted, Drona left. He got employment in the Kuru court. That insult kept smouldering in his heart. After the weapons-training of the Pandavs was over Drona asked for his fees: "Bind king Drupad and throw him at my feet!"

  The third Pandav, Arjun, was Drona's favourite disciple and supremely proficient in archery. In all Aryavart no one except Radheya Karna dared to face him.

  It was nothing much for the Pandavs. Arjun imprisoned my father and threw him at Drona's feet.

  Drona returned the insult saying, "Only a king can be a king's friend. But today you have no kingdom. From now on the northern portion of Panchal is mine. You shall be the ruler of the southern side of the Ganga river. Now we are equals. Is there any bar to our friendship now?"

  Losing half his kingdom, Drupad put forward his hand in false amity. It was the northern part of Panchal that was more prosperous. Drona had kept it for himself.

  A kshatriya warrior can never forget an insult. The insult could not be avenged without the killing of Drona. On Drona's side were Bhishma, Karna, Shalya, Jayadrath, Duryodhan and his hundred brothers and then the huge army of Hastinapur! Who was there in Panchal who could slay Drona?

  To get a son who could kill Drona, king Drupad gratified Upyaj, descendant of sage Kashyap, and had Upyaj and Yaj conduct a sacrificial ritual.

  From the sacred flames of the sacrificial fire a radiant son, my brother Dhrishtadyumna, was born and from the sacrificial altar I was born, like a blue lotus-coloured gem — Yajnaseni!

  People said of me — exquisitely beautiful! Amazing! Complexion like the petals of the blue lotus! Thick hair like the waves of the ocean, and large, entrancing blue lotus-like eyes radiant with intelligence! Like an image sculpted by the world's greatest sculptor, with unblemished beauty of face and matching loveliness of figure. Tall, well-formed breasts, narrow waist, plantain-stalk-like rounded firm thighs, fingers and toes like champak petals, palms and soles like red lotuses, pearl-like teeth, a smile that shamed even lightning, moon-like nails. The lotus-fragrance of the body deluded even bees. The serpentine loveliness of my hair would imprison even the breeze into stillness. Poets described my beauty as depriving even sages of their senses.

  In white garments, wearing a white crown and holding a white lotus, when I appeared like a blooming blue lotus on the sacrificial altar, every part of my body was resplendent with the glow of youth. Seeing me, even the sages seated around the altar who had controlled their senses were stunned. The chanting lips trembled, the voices grew still. Some young ascetics fell senseless. Even tree leaves were stilled for some moments. The fire flared silent, unflickering. Perhaps mighty Time stood still at that moment.

  I am not describing the beauty of my own form. People said so. Father's court poets were exclaiming, "Dark beauty, Shyama! However much you may describe her beauty, so much is left out. Even after composing poems all through life one will not find a simile for this incomparable loveliness. Krishnaa is herself her own simile"!

  At my birth there was a prophecy: "This woman has taken birth to avenge your insult. She has appeared to fulfil a vow. By her, dharma will be preserved on this earth, kshatriyas will be destroyed. She will be the destroyer of the Kauravs."

  God had given me a body of unprecedented loveliness and a heart full of goodness. Opening these lovely eyes as I was gazing at this entrancing creation, I heard the utterances of the sages and ascetics performing the sacrifice — my birth was not from my father's seed but from the sacrificial altar built for fulfilling a vow. From even before birth, I was destined to avenge my father's insult! I was going to be the weapon for preserving dharma on this earth and destroying the wicked. It was for this that I was born. Should only woman be forced to be the medium for preserving dharma and annihilating evil throughout the ages? Is it woman who is the cause of creation and destruction? Sita had to become the medium for the destruction of Lanka and the establishment of Ram's rule. For this, she had to discard all the joys of her life and become a forest-dweller. Then, Ravan's lust imprisoned her in the Ashok forest, insulted her, tormented her. Finally, dharma was established on earth. The intention behind Lord Ram's birth was fulfilled. But ultimately what did Sita get? The sentence of exile from Ram! Public test of chastity! The earth cracked open at the calumny. To hide her sorrow, shame and insults Sita sank into Earth's lap.

  Even to think of all this makes the heart tremble. My life's goal: preservation of dharma and destruction of the K
auravs! Immersing itself in fantasies of happiness, my mind shivered with some unknown apprehension. Joining my palms, with eyes closed I prayed, "O Lord! If my birth is for preserving dharma on earth then give me all the insults and calumny that are to come, but also give me the strength to bear them all."

  Noticing me lost in thought Father was much pleased. Blessing me with his hand on my head he said, "Yajnaseni! It is you who will avenge your father's insult. That is why both of you have been born of the sacrificial fire. My sacrificial ritual has been successful."

  Touching Father's feet I said, "It is my duty to fulfil your desire. May your blessing be ever on my head."

  Father said nothing. His eyes were brimming with tears. Even now his heart was burning with the agony of Drona's insult. I vowed, "If need be, I shall quench this fire with the tears of my life."

  Our naming ceremony was held. Brother was bom with armour, resplendent with nobility. Sage Upyaja said, "This son is bom from fire. It is this famous son who will slay Drona. Let him be named Dhrishtadyumna."

  Looking at me affectionately he said, "Let Drupad's daughter, this dark complexioned one, be named Krishnaa."

  "Krishnaa!... Krishna and Krishnaa! How beautiful!" Father said and gazed at the sky, his face gleaming with satisfaction. Father's happiness rubbed off on me. I began thinking, "Who is this Krishna whose name itself is so nectarous?"

  Father was softly saying, "O Krishna! It is to you that I shall offer my Krishnaa. After all, you are the best of all men in Aryavart! A hero! And the establishment of dharma is the goal of your life. You are pride-humbling Govind. On giving Krishnaa into your hands my lost honour will return. It is for this that Krishnaa's birth has taken place."

  Some unknown sensation thrilled me. Every pore in my skin throbbed with joy. The finest of Aryavart's heroes! The greatest warrior and dharma-establisher! Who would not desire him? And moreover I had no separate desire of my own. Just now I had made a vow before my father. So I was an offering to Krishna. If that were not so, why would sage Upyaj have christened me "Krishnaa"?