Arjuna's Wandering Year

When the five Pandavas had settled into their share of the kingdom at Indraprastha and had taken Draupadi as their common wife, the sage Narada had come to them with a quiet warning. Five brothers married to one woman, he said, must guard against the jealousy that had destroyed even gods. So they made a rule, sworn before him as witness. Draupadi would dwell with each brother in turn through the seasons, and while she sat with one in private, no other brother would enter that chamber. Whoever broke the rule, however small his fault, would impose upon himself a pilgrimage of twelve months, living apart, as penance for the breach.

For a long while the rule held, and the house was peaceful. Then came an afternoon when Draupadi was with Yudhishthira, and Arjuna's bow and quiver hung on the wall of that very room. Into the courtyard ran a Brahmin, his face wet with tears, his hands open in appeal. Robbers had driven off his cattle, his whole wealth, and were even now carrying them toward the forest. "Is there no Kshatriya here," he cried, "whose duty it is to protect the helpless? Or has righteousness fled from the house of the Pandavas?"

Arjuna heard him and his heart turned over. A warrior who let a Brahmin be robbed before his eyes would carry that shame forever. But his weapons lay where Yudhishthira and Draupadi sat together. To enter was to break the sworn rule. To stay out was to fail the man who wept in the courtyard, and to fail the duty that defined his very birth.

He chose. He walked to the chamber, his eyes lowered, gave brief and quiet apology, took down the great bow Gandiva and the quiver, and was gone before a breath could be drawn. He overtook the robbers, scattered them with a few arrows, recovered every animal, and returned the herd to the trembling Brahmin, who blessed him and went away rejoicing.

Arjuna came home with the Brahmin's blessing still in his ears, but no joy in his face. He went straight to Yudhishthira and stood before him like a man come to confess. "I entered the chamber while you and Draupadi were within. I broke the rule we swore before Narada. I have come to take leave of you, for I must keep the penance. Twelve months of pilgrimage, living apart, as we agreed."

Yudhishthira was distressed. He embraced his brother and tried to turn him from it. "You did no wrong that needs forgiving, Arjuna. The rule was made to guard against quarrel and jealousy, and you came in not for yourself but to serve a Brahmin and uphold the duty of your order. A younger brother may look upon an elder and his wife without offence, just as a son upon his parents. There is no fault in you. Stay. I am not angry. I will not have you go."

"You are gracious, brother, and your mercy is real," Arjuna answered, "but truth is not to be bent even by kindness. You yourself have taught me that a man must hold to his word and find no excuse to soften it. I will not take shelter in evasions. The oath was sworn. I broke its letter. If I let your love excuse me now, then the next time, and the time after that, the rule will mean nothing, and our house will lose the one fence that keeps the peace. Let me keep the penance honestly, so that the rule keeps its strength."

Yudhishthira looked long at his brother and saw that he would not be moved. He gave his blessing, with grief in it. The next morning Arjuna set out. Brahmins versed in the scriptures went with him, and others skilled in tales of gods and ancient kings, so that the long road would be filled with sacred talk and learning rather than with loneliness. He turned his face toward the rising sun and walked toward the headwaters of the Ganga, to begin a year of wandering among holy places.

He wandered through the early weeks visiting the sacred fords and hermitages of the north, bathing in cold mountain streams, sitting with the sages who lived among the foothills. At length he came to a stretch of the Ganga where the water ran deep and clear, and where the bathing steps stood oddly empty. The Brahmins who travelled with him made their camp on the bank, and at dawn Arjuna went down to perform his river prayers.

He waded out into the current until it reached his waist, the cold of the snow-fed water tight around him. He had bent to take up the morning water in his cupped hands when something closed upon his ankle - a slim, strong hand - and pulled him down with a force he could not resist.

He went under without time to take a breath. The river bottom slid past beneath him, and beneath that an opening, and beneath the opening, light. He fell through clear water that did not drown him, down and down, until he came at last into a great vaulted hall lit by glowing crystals, where the water hung still and breathable as air. It was the palace of the Nagas, the serpent people, whose kingdom lies beneath the deep places of the rivers.

Before him stood a young woman. She was tall and dark haired, her pale skin marked faintly with the diamond patterns of her people, and she watched him with a steady, fearless gaze. Around them moved the hooded forms of serpent attendants, and along the walls a sacrificial fire burned without smoke, which told Arjuna at once that this was a house of Brahmins among the Nagas, devout and well kept. He gathered himself, for he was a guest pulled by force into a stranger's hall, and waited to learn why.

"Forgive the manner of your coming," the young woman said, with little sorrow in it. "I am Ulupi, daughter of Kauravya, lord of the Nagas of this realm, of the line of Airavata. I saw you on the bathing step, and I have loved you from the first sight. I knew that if I asked you in the open daylight you would refuse me, pleading the vow that binds you. So I brought you here below, where I might speak my heart plainly."

Arjuna answered her gently. "Princess, you are bold and you are beautiful, and your hall is a righteous one. But I am under a hard vow. My elder brother Yudhishthira has commanded me to live in continence and pilgrimage for a full twelve months as penance for a fault, and I am only in the early part of that year. I cannot speak an untruth even to please so fair a hostess. How can I do as you ask without breaking faith with my brother and with myself?"

Ulupi had thought of this. "Hear me before you refuse," she said. "I know the manner of your vow. It binds you to keep apart from Draupadi, the wife you share, so that no jealousy may arise among your brothers. It was never meant to forbid mercy to one who would die without it. And I will die, Arjuna, if you turn from me, for my heart is wholly given. To protect the life of one who has thrown herself upon your protection is the highest duty of a warrior. There is no breach of righteousness in saving me. Indeed, refusing me would be the fault. Be mine for this one night, and your vow toward Draupadi stays whole and unbroken."

Arjuna weighed her words and found them just within the law as he understood it. To preserve a life was duty; the vow concerned Draupadi alone; and a single night by Naga custom would leave his pilgrimage otherwise untouched. He bowed his head. "Then for this one night, princess, and for the saving of your life, I am yours."

They were wed that evening in the hall of King Kauravya, with the grave, slow music of the serpent folk and the steady light of the sacred fire. Ulupi was glad with a deep gladness, for the desire of her heart had been granted. Through the night the river palace lay quiet around them, and the great rivers of the upper world ran on far above, unknowing.

Of that union was born a son, Iravan, swift and strong, who would grow far from his father in the realm beneath the waters. Years afterward, when the great war came at Kurukshetra, Iravan would rise out of obscurity to fight for the Pandavas, his father's people, and would give his life on the field with the courage of his blood. Ulupi, holding the promise of him, was content.

In the morning, before she sent him back, Ulupi gave Arjuna a boon out of love and out of the power that was hers among the water creatures. "All beings that dwell in the rivers and the deep," she said, "shall be obedient to you. In any water, you shall be unconquerable. This is my gift, that some part of me may guard you when you are far from me."

Then she led him up through the bright shaft of water to the surface, and set him down upon the very bathing step from which she had drawn him. He came out into the dawn light, dry and refreshed, as though no time had passed for the waiting world. The Brahmins on the bank rejoiced to see him returned. He told them what had befallen, gave thanks for the strange grace of it, and when his prayers were finished he gathered his company and turned again to the road, continuing his pilgrimage toward the east.

His wandering carried him in time toward the southern country, and there in the holy places along the coast he heard of five bathing fords that lay empty and shunned. They had once been crowded with ascetics, but no one went near them now, for the fords were haunted by great crocodiles that seized and devoured any who entered the water. The sages who dwelt nearby begged Arjuna to leave the cursed pools alone.

But Arjuna, ever fearless and remembering perhaps the gift of Ulupi that made him master in any water, would not be turned aside. He went down to the first of the fords and waded in. At once a huge crocodile rose and clamped its jaws upon his leg and tried to drag him under. Arjuna, far from struggling in terror, seized the great beast in his powerful arms and hauled it bodily up onto the dry land.

And there, in the moment it touched the shore, the crocodile changed. The scaled hide fell away, and in its place stood a woman of radiant beauty, an apsara of heaven, trembling and weeping with joy. "I am Varga," she said, "a dancing girl of the court of the gods. Long ago I and four of my companions, in our pride and folly, disturbed a Brahmin deep in his austerities and mocked him. In his anger he cursed us to become crocodiles, dwelling in these five fords. We pleaded, and his heart softened, and he set a term to the curse. He told us that a great man would one day come, and by drawing us from the water would release us all. You are that man."

Arjuna asked where her companions were, and she told him they lay in the other four fords nearby, suffering as she had suffered. So he went from ford to ford, and from each he drew out a crocodile by main strength, and each as it touched the land became a shining apsara restored to her true form. Five women freed, five curses ended. They blessed him and ascended again to their place among the gods, and the southern waters, cleansed of their terror, were given back to the ascetics who had feared to enter them.

Wandering on through the eastern hill country, Arjuna came to the kingdom of Manipura, ruled by a wise and gentle king named Chitravahana. He entered the city as a pilgrim and was received with honour, and there he saw the king's only child - a young woman named Chitrangada, who walked the palace not in the manner of a sheltered princess but with a sword at her hip and the steady eye of a soldier. She had been raised as a son, for she was her father's sole heir, and Arjuna's heart was moved as he watched her.

He went to King Chitravahana and asked for her in marriage, telling him plainly that he was Arjuna, son of Pandu, of the line of Kuru. The king was glad of so noble a suitor, but he had a condition, and he set it out honestly. "There is an ancient grace upon my house," he said. "Long ago a forefather of mine, by hard penance, won from Lord Shiva the boon that each king of this line should have but a single child to carry on the throne. The line has run through one heir in every generation. By misfortune the heir in my time is a daughter, and she is all my house has. Whatever son she bears must remain here as my child and the heir of Manipura, to continue the line that the god's boon protects. If you will agree to this, give me the price of marriage, and take her."

Arjuna considered it and found nothing dishonourable in it. He gave his word that the son born of Chitrangada would belong to her father's line and remain in Manipura as its heir. On these terms the marriage was made, and the warrior princess and the wandering prince were joined.

Arjuna stayed in Manipura, and the time passed in a quiet happiness he had not looked to find on a year of penance. He came to honour Chitrangada not only for her beauty but for her courage and her command of arms, and she for her part loved him with the steady devotion of a soldier who has at last found an equal. The court of King Chitravahana grew bright with their union.

In time Chitrangada bore a son, and they named him Babruvahana. The old king was overjoyed, for here at last was the heir his line had waited for, and he reared the boy with care to be a worthy ruler of Manipura. Babruvahana would grow into a king of great valour. Long years afterward, when Arjuna followed the sacrificial horse of the Ashvamedha across the world, he would come again to Manipura, and there father and son, not knowing each other, would meet in single combat, and Babruvahana, fighting as duty seemed to demand, would strike his father down - only for Arjuna to be restored to life through the power of Ulupi, who came up from the river realm carrying a serpent gem of revival. But that sorrow and that wonder lay far in the future.

For now there was only a young father and his small son, and a wife who had given him a year of joy. When the time came that Arjuna's penance allowed him to move on, he took his leave with a heavy heart. He kissed Chitrangada, and he blessed the boy who would never leave these hills, and he held to the promise he had given the king - that the child belonged to Manipura. Then he turned westward, for his wandering was carrying him now toward the great city by the sea, toward Dwaraka, where his cousin Krishna dwelt.

His long pilgrimage brought him at last to the western coast, to the sacred ford of Prabhasa near the sea, where the great rivers meet the ocean and the holy bathing place draws pilgrims from every land. Word reached Krishna that his beloved cousin Arjuna had come to Prabhasa, and Krishna went out to meet him in his chariot. The two cousins embraced with great gladness, for there was no friendship in all the world dearer to either of them. They asked after one another's welfare and walked together, and Krishna heard the tale of the year of wandering with delight.

Krishna brought Arjuna away from Prabhasa to the pleasant slopes of Mount Raivataka, near Dwaraka, where the Yadavas were holding a great festival. The mountain was hung with garlands and bright cloth, music sounded along its paths, and the chiefs of the Yadava clans had gathered with their households to feast and rejoice. Arjuna, still keeping the outward marks of his pilgrimage, moved among them as an honoured guest at Krishna's side.

There, amid the festival crowd, he saw Subhadra, the younger sister of Krishna and of Balarama, daughter of Vasudeva. She was lovely and quick of wit, and the moment Arjuna's eyes fell upon her his heart was lost. Krishna, watching his friend, read the longing in his face at once and was not displeased, for he had long wished his sister and his dearest friend to be joined. He drew near and said with a smile, "Is this the conduct of a forest pilgrim, cousin? Can love stir even in the heart of one given to penance?" And Arjuna, not hiding it, confessed that he desired Subhadra above all women, and asked his cousin how such a marriage might be brought about.

Krishna grew thoughtful. "My brother Balarama," he said, "has set his heart on giving Subhadra to Duryodhana of the Kauravas, and the matter is not yet settled but it leans that way. As for asking openly and waiting upon the choice of our elders, that is a slow and uncertain road for a Kshatriya, and a public courtship may not go as you would wish. But there is another way, an honourable one. Among the eight forms of marriage that the wise allow, the carrying away of a willing maiden by a warrior of his own strength is praised for men of our order. Seize Subhadra and bear her off, cousin, for who can say whether persuasion would ever win her hand for you. Better to take her by the bold and lawful path of a warrior than to lose her to another."

Arjuna agreed, and word was sent secretly to Yudhishthira at Indraprastha, who gave his consent to the plan. On a day when the festival was at its height and Balarama was occupied, Arjuna armed himself, mounted a swift and well-furnished chariot of gold, and at the moment appointed took up Subhadra - who went with him gladly, for her heart was his as much as his was hers - and drove away at speed toward Indraprastha. The Yadava guards raised the alarm and ran to the assembly hall crying that the maiden had been carried off.

Balarama, when he heard, was filled with fury. He rose like the sea at the day of dissolution and called for the Yadava host to arm and pursue, demanding how Arjuna dared to eat at their table and then steal their daughter away. The warriors of the clan clamoured for the chase. But Krishna rose and spoke softly to cool his brother's anger. "Arjuna has done us no dishonour," he said. "He has not stolen like a thief but won like a warrior, in a manner our own laws praise. He is the noblest match in the world for our sister, of the highest blood, and Subhadra went willingly. Consider: had we offered her and been refused, where would our honour be then? Send messengers after them with respect, and bring them back not as captives but as bride and groom." Balarama heard him out, and his rage cooled into reflection, and at last he was content.

So the chase became an embassy of goodwill. The Yadavas overtook the chariot not to fight but to honour it, and Subhadra and Arjuna were brought back to Dwaraka, where the marriage was celebrated with great splendour. Krishna and Balarama, reconciled, sent their sister forth with a dowry of royal magnificence - chariots of gold, horses, elephants, herds of cattle, servants and serving women, jewels and rich cloth - befitting the daughter of the Yadava house and the bride of a Pandava prince.

When the months of the marriage celebrations had passed and Arjuna's year of penance was fully and honourably completed, he set out at last for home, bringing Subhadra with him. They came into Indraprastha to great rejoicing, and the brothers and the people welcomed them with delight. But Arjuna, in his wisdom, did not bring Subhadra straight before Draupadi in her finery as a rival queen. He sent her first into the inner apartments dressed simply, in the red garb of a cowherd girl, that she might come to Draupadi as a humble younger kinswoman rather than as a challenge.

When Subhadra came and bowed and named herself as Krishna's sister and Arjuna's wife, the eldest queen's heart was won. Draupadi embraced her and said, "May your husband have no rival," and welcomed her into the household without bitterness. Subhadra in turn gave her the love and deference of a younger sister, and so peace was kept among the women of the house, as it had been kept among the brothers.

In the fullness of time Subhadra bore Arjuna a son, and he was named Abhimanyu. He was lion-shouldered and broad-eyed, fierce and beautiful even as a child, and the sages who saw his birth foretold that he would be the equal of his father in arms. He grew up beloved of Krishna his uncle, the hope of his whole line - the same Abhimanyu who, scarcely more than a boy, would one day break alone into the deadly Chakravyuha at Kurukshetra and die surrounded by the greatest warriors of the age, fighting to the last. But that grief lay far ahead. For now there was only a child in his mother's arms, and a father come home from his wandering, and a house at peace, its rule kept whole by the honesty of the man who had honoured a vow he need not have honoured at all.