The Story of Rama

Deep in the years of exile, in the great forest where the Pandavas lived on roots and the kindness of sages, a heavier grief than hunger settled over Yudhishthira. Word had reached the brothers that Jayadratha, the king of the Sindhus, had carried off Draupadi by force from their hermitage while they were away, and though they had ridden him down and won her back and shamed him, the wound to their honor would not close. Yudhishthira sat by the evening fire with his head bowed.

"Is there any man," he asked at last, "more unfortunate than I am? A kingdom lost at dice, my brothers and my wife dragged through insult, and now even in the depths of the forest we are not left in peace. Tell me, holy one - has there ever lived a king whose fortune sank lower than mine, and who yet did not break?"

The sage who sat with them that night was Markandeya, the deathless rishi who had watched the ages of the world rise and fall like waves. He looked at Yudhishthira with the patience of one who has seen ten thousand sorrows, and he smiled.

"Listen, son of Kunti," he said, "and do not think your grief is the heaviest the earth has carried. There was once a prince, the eldest son of a great emperor, born to inherit the finest kingdom under the sun. On the very eve of his crowning he was sent into the forest for fourteen years. His wife, gentle and faithful, was stolen away across the sea by the mightiest demon that ever lived. And he, with no army but the beasts of the wood, made war upon that demon in his island fortress and won her back. His name was Rama. Hear his story, and measure your sorrow against his, and take heart."

And the brothers and Draupadi drew close around the fire, and Markandeya began.