The thirteenth year was a silent, grinding torture. In the court of King Virata, the five Pandavas and their queen lived as ghosts in their own lives, their true selves locked away in a deep, internal prison. Each day was a performance, a masterpiece of self-control acted out on the stage of servitude.
Yudhishthira, as the courtier Kanka, sat at the king's right hand, his days spent in the quiet agony of the dice board. He played with King Virata, his mind a whirlwind of memory and regret. Every clatter of the ivory cubes on the board was an echo of Shakuni's triumphant cry. Yet, he had to play with a smile, offering gentle counsel and feigned amusement, his heart a cold, dead stone in his chest. He was the Emperor of Dharma, now a professional sycophant, his wisdom a tool to entertain a lesser king.
In the royal kitchens, Bhima lived in a hell of steam and suppressed rage. As the cook Ballava, he was surrounded by the one thing that could never satisfy him: an abundance of food he could not eat. He would prepare magnificent feasts for the court, his skill undeniable, but his own portion was that of a servant. His Vrikodara, the wolf's belly, was a constant, gnawing fire. To vent the terrible energy that built within him, he would wrestle. The king, delighted by his cook's unusual hobby, would pit him against famed wrestlers from other kingdoms, or even against tigers and lions captured for the royal menagerie. Bhima would enter the arena, and for a few brief, glorious moments, he could be himself. He would break the backs of lions and shatter the pride of champions with an ease that terrified and thrilled the court. Then, his victory won, he would have to bow his head, accept the king's praise with humble gratitude, and return to his pots and pans, the brief release only serving to highlight the suffocating constraints of his disguise.
In the perfumed confines of the harem, Arjuna lived the strangest life of all. As Brihannala, the eunuch dance teacher, he was surrounded by beauty, music, and the gentle, feminine world of the court ladies. He taught Princess Uttara and her companions the celestial arts of song and dance he had learned from the Gandharvas. His students adored him. They saw him as a gentle, wise, and slightly melancholic soul, a being of grace and art who was neither man nor woman. They would confide in him, braid his long hair, and laugh at his stories of the celestial realm. Arjuna, the warrior who had conversed with gods and wielded weapons that could end the world, played his part perfectly. He moved with a dancer's grace, his voice a soft melody, his hands, which yearned for the rough grip of the Gandiva, now teaching the delicate mudras of the dance. It was the most profound and complete act of self-effacement, a psychological exile that was, in its own way, more challenging than any battle he had ever fought.
Nakula and Sahadeva found a small measure of solace in their roles. As Granthika and Tantripala, they were surrounded by the honest, uncomplicated company of animals. They poured their frustrated energy and their deep, innate empathy into their work. The royal stables and cattle herds of Matsya flourished under their care as never before. The horses were healthier, the cattle more numerous. They were lauded as the greatest animal handlers in the land. But every evening, when they retired to their humble servants' quarters, the praise would turn to ash in their mouths. They were princes of the blood, masters of sword and scripture, now celebrated for their skill in grooming horses and birthing calves.
But the most perilous and painful existence was that of Draupadi. As the Sairandhri Malini, she served Queen Sudeshna. She endured the queen's petty jealousies, her sharp words, and her constant, suspicious scrutiny. But far worse was the gaze of the men in the court. Her beauty, even when she tried to conceal it, was a flame that drew every moth. Her story of the five Gandharva husbands was a powerful deterrent, a shield of fear that kept most men at a distance. They would look at her with a mixture of intense desire and superstitious terror, whispering about the beautiful, cursed handmaiden of the queen. She walked through the court on a tightrope of honor, her every step a careful negotiation, her only protection a lie.
For ten months, this fragile equilibrium held. The Pandavas were exemplary servants, their skills enriching the kingdom. They were so perfect in their roles that they began to fade into the background, becoming part of the palace furniture. Their secret was safe.
Then, the shadow fell.
Kichaka, the brother of Queen Sudeshna and the commander-in-chief of the Matsya armies, returned to the capital. He was the true power in the kingdom, a man whose military prowess was legendary. It was said that his strength was second only to that of Bhishma, Drona, and Karna. He was a giant of a man, his body hardened by a hundred battles, his pride as vast as the kingdom he protected. He was also a man of insatiable appetites, accustomed to taking whatever—and whoever—he desired. King Virata, his brother-in-law, ruled the kingdom, but it was Kichaka who was its master, and everyone knew it.
He returned from a victorious campaign, and the city celebrated his arrival. A great feast was held in the court. It was here, as he sat drinking and boasting of his victories, that he saw Malini for the first time. She was standing behind the queen's throne, her head bowed, her presence a quiet flame in the boisterous hall.
Kichaka stopped mid-sentence. He stared. He had seen the most beautiful women in a dozen conquered kingdoms, but he had never seen a creature like this. It was not just her physical perfection; it was the fire in her, the innate, unsubmissive royalty in her posture, even in servitude. He was instantly, utterly, and irrevocably consumed by lust.
He leaned over to his sister, his voice a low, slurring growl. "Who is that woman, sister? The one behind your throne. I have never seen her before."
Sudeshna's heart sank. She knew her brother's nature. "She is a Sairandhri, my lord," she whispered. "Her name is Malini. She serves me."
"She will serve me now," Kichaka declared, his eyes never leaving Draupadi. "Send her to my chambers tonight. I wish to… welcome her to the court."
"Brother, you cannot!" the queen pleaded in a hushed, urgent tone. "She is not a common servant! She is protected! She is the wife of five Gandharvas, who have sworn to kill any man who looks upon her with desire!"
Kichaka threw his head back and laughed, a harsh, arrogant sound. "Gandharvas! A clever story to frighten away timid boys! Do you think I, Kichaka, who has faced down entire armies, am afraid of some invisible spirits? I am the commander of this kingdom! I am the brother of the queen! I take what I want. Send her to me with a flask of your finest wine. That is an order."
The queen, who ruled the harem, was powerless before the man who ruled the kingdom. She was terrified of her brother's wrath, and perhaps a small, spiteful part of her was not entirely displeased at the thought of this beautiful, proud servant being humbled.
Later that evening, she summoned Draupadi. "Malini," she said, her eyes refusing to meet her maid's. "My brother, the great Kichaka, has requested a flask of wine. He asks that you be the one to bring it to him in his chambers."
Draupadi's blood ran cold. She knew exactly what this meant. "Your Majesty," she began, her voice trembling but firm. "You know the vow that protects me. Kichaka is a powerful man, but he is drunk and filled with lust. To send me to his private chambers is to send a doe into the den of a tiger. I beg you, do not ask this of me. Send another servant. My celestial husbands will not tolerate such an insult. His life will be in danger."
"Do not be foolish, Malini," the queen said, her voice sharp with a mixture of fear and impatience. "You will be in the palace. He will not dare to harm you here. It is a simple request. To refuse the commander of the armies would be a grave insult. Go now. Do not disobey me."
Draupadi was trapped. To refuse a direct order from the queen was to risk being thrown out of the palace, exposing them all. With a heart as heavy as lead, she took the golden flask of wine. She offered a silent, desperate prayer to the sun, a symbol of Dharma, for protection. Then, she walked with slow, dread-filled steps towards the chambers of Kichaka.
The moment she entered, he dismissed his attendants. He rose to his feet, his massive frame blocking the doorway, his eyes red with wine and desire. "Ah, the beautiful Malini," he slurred, a lecherous grin spreading across his face. "I knew you would come. Forget the queen. A woman of your beauty should not be a servant. Be my consort. Be my chief queen. I will shower you with jewels and silks. You will be the mistress of my household."
"I am a married woman, my lord," Draupadi said, her voice cold as ice. "I serve the queen, and I belong to my Gandharva husbands. Please, accept the wine and let me depart."
"Your husbands are a myth!" Kichaka laughed, taking a step closer. "And even if they are real, what can they do to me? I am Kichaka! I will crush your invisible protectors like insects!"
He lunged for her. Draupadi, with a cry of alarm, dodged and pushed him away with all her strength. He stumbled back, surprised by her force. His lust instantly turned to rage. "You dare to resist me?" he roared.
He pursued her as she fled from the room. She ran through the corridors, her heart pounding, her only thought to reach the sanctuary of the public court. She burst into the assembly hall, where King Virata was playing a game of dice with his courtier, Kanka.
"Justice, my King! Protect me!" she cried, running towards the throne.
But Kichaka, blinded by his fury and his arrogance, was right behind her. He stormed into the open court, a place where a woman's honor was supposed to be sacrosanct. He caught her before she could reach the throne. He grabbed her by the arm, spun her around, and in front of the king, in front of the entire assembly, he threw her to the ground with a savage kick.
Draupadi lay on the floor, gasping, the pain of the blow nothing compared to the searing, soul-destroying agony of the public humiliation. It was happening again. The Sabha of Sorrows was being re-enacted in this provincial court.
And Yudhishthira, as Kanka, sat beside the king, and he did nothing. He saw his wife, his empress, kicked like a dog at his feet. A wave of pure, white-hot rage, so powerful it almost made him black out, surged through him. His hand gripped the edge of the gaming board, his knuckles turning white. But he could not move. He could not speak. To reveal himself now would be to forfeit everything. He had to remain Kanka. He had to watch. His silence was a scream that no one could hear.
From the entrance to the kitchens, Bhima saw it all. He saw Kichaka's foot strike his wife. A low, guttural sound escaped his throat, the sound of a beast being mortally wounded. His eyes locked onto a massive, load-bearing pillar nearby. In his mind, he was already uprooting it, ready to bring the entire palace crashing down upon their heads. But he caught his brother's gaze. Yudhishthira gave a barely perceptible shake of his head, his eyes filled with an agony that mirrored Bhima's own. Not yet.
King Virata, though shocked, was a weak man. He was terrified of his powerful brother-in-law. "Kichaka, control yourself," he mumbled, his voice devoid of authority. "This is a matter for the women's quarters. Sairandhri, you should not have angered the commander. Go back to the queen."
He had offered no justice. He had offered no protection. He had blamed the victim.
Draupadi slowly picked herself up from the floor. She did not weep. Her eyes were dry and blazing with a fire that seemed to consume all the air around her. She looked at the pathetic king. She looked at the triumphant, sneering Kichaka. And then her gaze fell upon her husband, Yudhishthira, the King of Dharma, who sat silent, his face a mask of impotent anguish.
She understood. There was no Dharma in this hall. There was no justice to be had from this king. She turned, her unbound hair swirling around her like a cloak of vengeance, and walked out of the hall. She did not return to the queen's chambers. She walked with a steady, deliberate, and terrifying purpose towards the royal kitchens. She was going to find the cook named Ballava. She was going to find the only force in that palace that could answer this atrocity with the only language Kichaka would understand: the language of pure, unadulterated violence.