Back in December 2018, a small accident left me with a spinal injury, forcing me to stay in bed for more than two weeks. Outside my room, the world was moving through a momentous winter: the passing of former U.S. President George H. W. Bush, headline-making decisions at the G20 Summit in Argentina, and the afterglow of the dramatic Thailand cave rescue that had captured global attention earlier that year. India, too, had its own share of notable events—sharp cold waves sweeping across the north, the country retaining its position as the world’s largest receiver of remittances, and celebrations in the fields of literature and sports, including Amitav Ghosh being honoured with the Jnanpith Award.
Amid this combination of personal stillness and global motion, I found one unexpected gift of time: the opportunity to read through all ten volumes of Bibek Debroy’s complete English translation of the Mahabharata.
When I entered Volume 3 of Debroy’s Mahabharata translation, I felt like I was walking out of a grand palace and straight into the wilderness, barefoot and bruised, with the echo of dice still ringing in my ears. After the glittering architecture of Sabha Parva, Vana Parva struck me almost like exile from my own body.
Maybe it’s because I had been bedridden when I first read it, spine stubbornly refusing cooperation, that the idea of forced immobility resonated so sharply. The Pandavas, stripped of their kingdom and dignity, stepped into the forest; I, stripped of movement, stepped into the long, internal forest of this volume.
And if Sabha Parva was a stage, Vana Parva is a pilgrimage—sometimes luminous, sometimes torturous, always transformative.
The first thing that hits me every time I read Vana Parva is how vast it is. It sprawls like a broken map glued together with stories, warnings, myths inside myths, and sermons that feel like the philosophical prequel to the Geeta.
Debroy’s translation handles this volume with the same clarity and discipline that I’ve come to expect, but here his restraint becomes almost like a companion. Vana Parva can easily feel unwieldy—it’s a jungle of narratives, an archive of moral anxieties, and a travelogue of inner worlds. But Debroy doesn’t flinch.
He lays out the stories with a scholar’s calm and a yogi’s patience, allowing me to walk alongside the Pandavas rather than drown in footnote jungles. There’s something deeply dignified about that.
The exile itself begins in heartbreak. Yudhishthira’s despair is thick, almost Shakespearean—I could imagine him staring into the forest like King Lear raging at the universe, except Yudhishthira doesn’t rage. He breaks inwardly, quietly, with the kind of softness that’s more devastating than fury.
If Shakespeare had written the Mahabharata, he would have paused right here to deliver a soliloquy: the fall of a just king, undone by his own attachment to justice. But Vyasa chooses something more subtle—he lets the silence speak. And in that silence, I felt my own pain lining up beside Yudhishthira’s, forming a strange fellowship of injured spines and injured destinies.
One of the most beautiful shifts in this volume is Bhima’s anger emerging like a roaring counterweight to Yudhishthira’s philosophical paralysis.
Every time Bhima snaps—whether at Yudhishthira or the wind or fate itself—I feel a rush of catharsis. Bhima is the part of us that refuses to spiritualize suffering. He is the muscle memory of resistance.
And in that winter of 2018, when I could barely turn without wincing, Bhima felt like my proxy—the part of me that wanted to punch destiny in the face.
But the forest doesn’t belong to the Pandavas. It belongs to the sages, the stories, the illusions, and the dreams. And once those begin to appear, the volume transforms into something more mystical. Markandeya arrives with narratives that feel like antique mirrors—reflecting not just the Pandavas’ lives but the architecture of cosmic time.
Then Lomasha steps in, guiding them through pilgrimages that feel both geographical and psychological. For me, reading these episodes was like floating in an ocean of stories where meaning glimmers just beneath the surface. It reminded me of something Rabindranath once said: that the universe is not a problem to solve, but a presence to encounter. Vana Parva is basically that principle wearing the clothes of an epic.
But nothing prepared me for Draupadi’s voice in this volume. If I had been reading the epic casually, her speeches would still be powerful. But lying injured—body refusing to obey, mind racing through rage and helplessness—her words struck me like lightning. Her fury at injustice, her refusal to romanticise Yudhishthira’s dharma, her demand that virtue must be backed by action, not excuses — it all felt like spine-deep truth. Draupadi in the forest is not the ornamental queen of popular retellings; she is the flame the forest cannot extinguish.
Her anger becomes the moral spine of the epic even as mine was physically compromised.
Debroy translates her voice with precision—not sweetening it, not softening it, simply letting it burn. And I’m grateful for that. Draupadi’s clarity slices through the forest fog: she holds the entire epic accountable in ways few characters dare. If Shakespeare had written her, she would be a fusion of Lady Macbeth’s fire and Cordelia’s moral gravity—unbearable to behold, impossible to dismiss.
Then, like a sudden shift of breath, comes the story of Nala and Damayanti. A story within exile. A heartbreak within a heartbreak. A journey of a king losing everything—kingdom, dignity, identity—only to rebuild himself through patience and humility. Reading Nala’s shame while lying helpless in bed felt almost personal. I understood the humiliation of helplessness and the fear of losing agency. And I felt Damayanti’s loyalty like a warm hand held through long pain. Rabindranath would have smiled at this tale—it carries the quiet assurance he loved: that love is a force of reconstruction.
Vana Parva keeps doing this—shifting from cosmic to personal, from philosophical to intimate, like the forest itself breathing in and out.
Vyasa’s philosophical discourses, especially the ones delivered to Yudhishthira, unfold like previews of the Geeta’s moral terrain. Sometimes I laughed because the epic seemed to be setting up the greatest motivational duel of all time— “Sad Yudhishthira vs. Wise Sages.”
But at other times, the teachings cut straight into me. The discussions on desire, destiny, free will, karma—they felt strangely relevant to lying in bed wondering why a spine could hold so much power over one’s life.
The Geeta’s whisper returned often: ‘Samatvam yoga uchyate.’ Equanimity is yoga. Balance is liberation. And in that difficult winter, I realised I wasn’t just reading the Mahabharata — I was participating in it.
One of the most unforgettable episodes in this volume is the encounter with the Yaksha. Yudhishthira’s answers — quiet, poised, rooted in simplicity — felt like the distilled essence of everything the forest had been trying to teach him.
Every question is a philosophical tripwire; every answer is a moral compass. When he chooses Nakula over Bhima or Arjuna, valuing balance over sentiment, I felt a chill. This is the Yudhishthira the epic wants me to respect — the man who has learnt to hold his grief lightly, like a fragile bird.
And Shakespeare, had he seen this scene, would have bowed. It is one of the greatest dialogues ever written — a duel of wit, wisdom, and destiny.
Debroy’s translation here shines. He does not amplify. He does not dramatise. He simply allows the episode to stand in its own stark brilliance. His translation becomes like a lamp: illuminating without altering.
Throughout the volume, the forest becomes a character. Not a passive backdrop but a shifting moral landscape, a teacher wearing foliage. It tests the Pandavas, comforts them, confuses them, breaks them, and remakes them.
And I cannot shake the feeling that my body, immobilised on that bed, had also become a forest — dense with discomfort, echoing with unanswered questions, but offering unexpected doorways into reflection.
Rabindranath once wrote that suffering is not a punishment but an invitation. And Vana Parva, with all its spirals and stories, feels exactly like that — an invitation to look inward until the inward becomes a universe.
By the time the twelve years of forest exile end, I felt an ache that surprised me. I was not eager for them to leave. The forest had become familiar, like a harsh teacher whose lessons I had finally begun to appreciate. The transition from Vana Parva to the next phase of the epic feels like stepping out of a long meditation into blinding sunlight.
Debroy’s translation of Volume 3 left me with a sense of completion — not because exile ends, but because the exile inside me had learnt something. Something about patience. About perspective. About rage that purifies instead of corrodes. About strength that grows in stillness. About the thin, sharp line between suffering and wisdom.
When I closed the book, I felt that I had travelled far — even though my physical world had shrunk to a bed, a pillow, and a window. The Pandavas walked through forests; I walked through sentences.
They endured exile; I endured immobility. And the epic braided our journeys together in ways I never expected.
Volume 3 taught me one quiet truth I still carry: sometimes the forest is not a place you enter; it is a place that enters you.
Read and reread. Keep reading. Every reading gives you a new meaning.