The years that followed the founding of Indraprastha were a golden age, a fleeting, perfect moment in the turbulent history of the Kuru clan. The city, born of ash and magic, flourished under Yudhishthira's righteous rule. His reign was a living embodiment of Dharma, and the kingdom became a sanctuary of peace and prosperity. The five brothers, bound by their shared love for their mother and their shared destiny in Draupadi, lived in harmony, their unity the bedrock upon which their new kingdom was built.
Central to this harmony was the sacred rule established by the sage Narada. It was a delicate, carefully observed pact that governed their unprecedented marriage. Draupadi would spend a year as the exclusive wife of each brother in turn, her presence consecrating their individual homes within the grand palace complex. The rule was absolute: if any brother were to enter the private chamber while she was with another, he would be condemned to a twelve-year pilgrimage, a long and lonely exile to purify the transgression. This vow was the invisible wall that protected their brotherhood from the corrosive poison of jealousy, ensuring that their unique union remained a source of strength, not of discord.
For several years, the pact was upheld without incident. The city prospered, the family was at peace, and the dark whispers from Hastinapura seemed a distant echo from another lifetime. The rule of Dharma was absolute. But Dharma is not a simple, straight path; it is a complex web of intersecting duties, and sometimes, two sacred duties can clash with catastrophic consequences.
The crisis began not with a clash of armies or a political conspiracy, but with the desperate cry of a single, humble citizen. One afternoon, as Yudhishthira and Draupadi were together in their private chambers, their year of union drawing to a close, a frantic commotion erupted in the outer courtyard of the palace.
A Brahmin, his face streaked with tears and his clothes torn, had burst past the palace guards and thrown himself to the ground, his wails echoing through the halls. "Justice!" he cried, his voice choked with despair. "Is there no protector for the weak in this righteous kingdom? Help me, sons of Pandu! Help me, or my life's work is lost!"
Arjuna, who was inspecting the royal armory nearby, heard the man's cries and rushed to his side. He knelt and gently raised the weeping Brahmin to his feet. "Calm yourself, good sir," Arjuna said, his voice steady and compassionate. "You are in Indraprastha. No righteous man cries for justice in vain here. Tell me what has happened."
"Thieves, my lord! A band of ruthless dacoits!" the Brahmin sobbed. "I am a simple man. My only wealth is my herd of cattle, which I use for sacred fire sacrifices. The thieves came in the dead of night and have driven them all away! Without my cattle, I cannot perform my duties to the gods! My life is ruined! I came to you, the great Kshatriya protectors, to beg for your help! You are my only hope!"
Arjuna's blood ran cold. The duty of a Kshatriya, his most sacred vow, was to protect the citizens of his kingdom, especially the pious and the defenseless. To ignore this Brahmin's plea would be a stain upon his honour and a grave dereliction of his Dharma.
"Have no fear," Arjuna declared, his voice ringing with resolve. "I will pursue these thieves to the ends of the earth. I will not rest until your cattle are returned to you. I give you my word as a Pandava."
He turned to rush to the stables, but then he stopped dead, a look of horror dawning on his face. His weapons. His divine bow, the Gandiva, and his inexhaustible quivers, were not in the public armory. As a matter of royal protocol and personal pride, the principal weapons of the five brothers were always kept in the main royal chamber, the chamber currently occupied by the king. And the king, Yudhishthira, was at this moment in that chamber with Draupadi.
Arjuna was caught in a Dharma-sankat, a terrible crisis of conflicting duties. On one hand was his sacred duty as a warrior to protect the Brahmin. On the other was his sacred vow to his brothers, the rule that forbade him from entering that chamber on pain of a twelve-year exile. To save the Brahmin's property, he would have to sacrifice twelve years of his own life and break the pact that ensured his family's harmony. To uphold the pact, he would have to abandon the Brahmin and fail in his most fundamental duty as a Kshatriya.
He stood paralyzed, his mind racing. He could use a lesser bow, but the thieves were already far away, and only the speed and power of the Gandiva could ensure their capture. Time was slipping away. The Brahmin's weeping was a constant, desperate reminder of the duty he was failing.
He made his choice. The protection of a citizen who had sought refuge was the higher Dharma. A king's first duty is to his people. His own personal sacrifice was secondary.
His face set like stone, he turned and strode towards the royal chambers. The guards at the door, knowing the sacred rule, moved to block his path. "My lord Arjuna, you cannot enter," one of them whispered urgently. "The king is with the queen."
"Stand aside," Arjuna commanded, his voice quiet but absolute. "I enter on a matter of a king's duty."
He pushed open the doors and stepped inside. The scene before him was one of quiet domesticity. Yudhishthira and Draupadi, startled by the intrusion, looked up. They were not engaged in any intimate act, merely sitting and talking, but the violation was no less profound for its lack of scandal. It was the breaking of a sacred boundary. A look of shock and deep hurt flashed across Draupadi's face. Yudhishthira's expression was one of pure, bewildered alarm.
Arjuna did not look at them. He kept his eyes fixed on the far wall where the weapons were racked. "Forgive my transgression, brother," he said, his voice tight. "A Brahmin's cattle have been stolen. I have come for my bow."
He walked swiftly across the room, took the Gandiva and his quivers from the wall, and turned to leave. He did not dare to meet Draupadi's eyes. He had won her, and now he was the first to violate the very rule that protected her dignity within their strange marriage.
"Arjuna, wait!" Yudhishthira called out, his voice filled with concern. But Arjuna was already gone, a whirlwind of purpose and regret.
He leaped onto his celestial chariot and thundered out of the city gates. He tracked the thieves with the skill of a master huntsman, his divine horses flying across the plains. He caught up to them in a narrow ravine, the stolen cattle huddled together in fear.
The battle was short and brutal. The thieves, seeing a lone warrior, laughed and charged. Their laughter died in their throats as Arjuna unleashed the power of the Gandiva. His arrows were a torrent of inescapable death. He disarmed, disabled, and routed the entire band without killing a single one, his control so absolute that it was an act of mercy. He rounded up the Brahmin's cattle and, by nightfall, had returned them to their weeping, grateful owner.
His duty as a Kshatriya was fulfilled. Now, he had to face his duty as a brother.
He returned to the palace, his face grim. He went directly to the assembly hall, where Yudhishthira and his other brothers were waiting for him, their faces etched with worry.
"The Brahmin's cattle are safe," Arjuna announced simply. He then unstrung the Gandiva and set it aside. He turned to Yudhishthira and bowed his head. "I have broken our sacred vow. I have transgressed against you and against our wife, Draupadi. The penalty is clear. I am ready to depart for my twelve-year exile."
"No!" Yudhishthira exclaimed, rushing forward and gripping his brother's shoulders. "You will do no such thing! Arjuna, listen to me. You entered my chamber not for your own pleasure, not out of disrespect, but to perform a higher duty! You acted to protect a citizen, to uphold the Dharma of a king. There was no sin in your heart. The rule was made to prevent jealousy and discord between us, not to obstruct justice. I am the king, and I am the one who was wronged. I forgive you completely. There is no transgression. You do not have to go."
The other brothers murmured their agreement. But Arjuna shook his head, his resolve unshakable.
"Brother, you speak from a place of love, but not from a place of absolute truth," Arjuna said, his voice quiet but firm. "We made a vow. We did not say, 'If a brother enters, he must go into exile, unless he has a very good reason.' The vow was absolute. Its power, the trust it creates between us, lies in its unbreakability. If we start making exceptions, even for the noblest of causes, the rule becomes meaningless. It becomes subject to interpretation, to argument. And that is the path to the very discord the sage Narada warned us against."
He looked at his eldest brother, his eyes filled with both love and a profound sense of principle. "Truth, Yudhishthira, is the highest Dharma. And the truth is, I broke the rule. To lie to ourselves now, to pretend the rule does not apply, would be a greater sin than my initial transgression. I must go. Not as a punishment from you, but as a duty to the vow we all made. It is the only way to prove to ourselves, and to the world, that our word is sacred and that no one, not even the king's brother, is above the law we set for ourselves."
His argument was unassailable. He was choosing to uphold the spirit of the law by adhering to its letter, even at great personal cost. He was protecting the integrity of their family by accepting the consequence of his actions.
Yudhishthira, his eyes filled with tears, saw the profound wisdom in his brother's stance. He was heartbroken, but he was also immensely proud. This was the true strength of the Pandavas—not just their power in battle, but their unwavering commitment to Dharma, even when it was painful.
The farewell was somber. Kunti embraced her son, her heart breaking at the thought of another long separation. Bhima clapped him on the shoulder, a gesture of rough, silent respect. The twins bowed to him, their admiration clear. Arjuna then went to Draupadi. He stood before her and simply bowed his head. "Forgive me," was all he could manage to say.
Draupadi looked at him, her expression a complex mixture of hurt, respect, and sorrow. He had violated her privacy, but he was now sacrificing twelve years of his life to uphold the sanctity of the vow that protected her. He was leaving, but in doing so, he was reinforcing the foundation of her honor. She simply nodded, unable to speak.
And so, Arjuna, the greatest hero of the age, the victor of the Swayamvara, the man who had defeated the gods to build a kingdom, stripped himself of his royal robes. Dressed once more in the simple garb of a wandering ascetic, with his divine bow and quivers his only companions, he walked out of the gates of the magnificent city he had helped create. He was a king choosing the life of a beggar, an exile not by the decree of an enemy, but by the command of his own conscience. His twelve-year journey into the wilderness, a quest for purification and new knowledge, had begun.