The man chosen to be the first dove of peace was a figure of impeccable virtue. He was King Drupada's royal priest, a Brahmin of great age and even greater learning, his white beard a testament to a life spent in the study of the Vedas and the performance of sacred rites. His heart, however, was as heavy as the ceremonial gold he wore. He was a man of peace being sent with a message of peace to a court that had feasted on hatred for thirteen long years. He knew, with the weary wisdom of his age, that he was not a diplomat on a mission of reconciliation; he was a formality, a final, necessary sacrifice at the altar of Dharma before the real sacrifices of blood and bone could begin.
His journey from the bustling war-camp of Upaplavya to the grim, fortified capital of Hastinapura was a passage between two worlds. He left behind a camp filled with a righteous, unified energy, an alliance of kings bound by a just cause. He arrived in a city that felt cold, its grandeur soured by an undercurrent of paranoia and arrogance. He was received with all the formal honors due to an envoy, but there was no warmth in the welcome. He was escorted into the great, soulless assembly hall, the monument to Duryodhana's envy, and found the Kuru court assembled, their faces as hard and unyielding as the polished stone around them.
He stood before the blind king, Dhritarashtra, a lone, white-robed figure in a den of serpents. He saw Duryodhana, his face a mask of impatient contempt. He saw Karna, his arms crossed, his expression one of stoic, unwavering support for his friend. And he saw Shakuni, a crooked smile playing on his lips, his eyes holding the glint of a man who had already won the game. On the other side of the throne, he saw the faces of the elders—Bhishma, Drona, Vidura—their expressions a portrait of pained, helpless nobility.
After the formal greetings were exchanged, the priest drew a deep breath and began to speak. His voice, though old, was clear and steady, carrying to every corner of the silent hall.
"I come before you, O great King Dhritarashtra, and before this august assembly of Kuru elders, as a messenger from the Emperor Yudhishthira, son of Pandu."
He began by recounting the history, not with accusation, but with a simple, undeniable recitation of facts. He spoke of the game of dice, of the vow of exile, and of its meticulous, painful fulfillment. "For thirteen years," he said, "the sons of Pandu have lived as ghosts in the wilderness. They have eaten the bitter fruits of the forest, slept on the hard ground, and shed their royal identities, all to honor a word given in this very hall. That vow is now complete. The debt has been paid in full. Now, the time has come for the promise to be honored."
His gaze swept the court. "King Yudhishthira, the embodiment of Dharma, desires peace. His heart aches at the thought of a war between kinsmen. He remembers with love his childhood spent with his cousins. He honors his grandsire Bhishma and his guru Drona with every breath. He does not wish to see their blood spilled upon the earth. Therefore, he sends this message of reconciliation. He asks for what is rightfully his, as was agreed upon when the kingdom was first divided. Return to him his half of the kingdom. Return to him the city of Indraprastha, which he raised from a barren wasteland. Let the two houses of Kuru rule side-by-side in peace and mutual respect, as is the way of Dharma."
He paused, letting the first, primary demand settle in the tense air. He knew what the answer would be. He then delivered the alternative, the brilliant concession crafted by Krishna.
"But if, in your wisdom, you feel that this is too much to ask," the priest continued, his tone humble, "then the Emperor, in his great desire to avoid bloodshed, makes a lesser plea. He is a Kshatriya, as are his brothers. A warrior needs land, however small, to call his own. Grant them, then, just five villages. One for each brother. A place to live with honor, to rule in peace, to provide for their families. Grant them Kusasthala, Vrikasthala, Makandi, Varanavata, and any other fifth village of your choosing. Grant them this small token, this symbol of kinship, and they will be content. They will sheath their swords and renounce their claim to the empire. They will accept this as your final settlement and the matter will be closed forever."
The offer was stunning in its humility. From an entire empire to a mere five villages. It was a golden bridge, a final, honorable exit from the path of war.
The priest delivered his final, terrible sentence. "This is the message of King Yudhishthira. He prays for peace. But know this, O Kurus: if you deny him his kingdom, and if you deny him even these five villages, then you will have chosen the path of adharma. And the sons of Pandu will have no choice but to wash away your injustice with a river of blood. They are ready. Their seven armies await their command. Choose wisely, O King. Choose peace, or choose a war that will be the annihilation of your race."
With his message delivered, the priest fell silent. The hall was so quiet you could hear the flicker of the torches.
Then, the storm broke. Duryodhana leaped to his feet, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. "Five villages?!" he shrieked, his voice cracking with rage. "You dare to come here and beg for five villages? After they have allied with our enemies and gathered an army to threaten us? I will not give them five villages! I will not give them five houses! I will not give them enough land to stick a needle into without a fight! The kingdom is mine! I won it! There will be no division! There will be no gifts! Let them return to the forest and beg for their food, for that is all they are fit for!"
Bhishma rose, his ancient form radiating a sorrowful authority. "Peace, Duryodhana!" he commanded, his voice a low thunder. "Do not let your anger speak for you! You are a prince of the House of Kuru! Listen to the words of this wise envoy. The Pandavas have fulfilled their vow. Their claim is just. Their offer is more than reasonable; it is an act of profound grace. And their strength," he added, his gaze sweeping the court, "is now greater than ours. They have Arjuna, who wields the weapons of the gods. They have Bhima, who can shatter armies with his bare hands. They have Krishna on their side. To choose war with them is to choose suicide. Accept the offer. Give them their half of the kingdom. It is the only path of wisdom, the only path of survival."
Drona, his heart heavy, nodded in agreement. "The grandsire speaks the truth. I have taught both you and the Pandavas. I know your strengths. But I also know theirs. Arjuna, when he wields the Gandiva, is a force that even the gods cannot defeat. Do not lead these brave Kuru soldiers to their deaths out of your own pride."
But Karna, his loyalty to his friend absolute, stepped forward. His voice was cold and sharp as steel. "Why do you both sing the praises of our enemies?" he challenged the elders. "You are the great commanders of this army, yet you speak with the trembling voices of frightened men. You have forgotten the strength of our own side. We have the great Bhishma, who can choose the very moment of his own death. We have the master Drona, who knows every secret of warfare. We have Ashwatthama, his son, who is their equal in every way. And you have me." He looked directly at the envoy. "Tell your masters that the King of Anga does not fear their celestial weapons. Let them come. We will meet them on the field of battle and settle this matter with our arrows, not with the whining of messengers."
The court was now hopelessly divided, the voices of war and peace locked in a furious struggle. It was then that Dhritarashtra, the blind king, finally spoke. He had listened to all the arguments, his mind a battlefield of greed, fear, and a twisted love for his son.
"I have heard the message of my nephew, Yudhishthirona," he began, his voice attempting a tone of regal deliberation. "And I have heard the counsel of my wise elders. Peace is indeed the highest virtue." He paused, and for a fleeting moment, a glimmer of hope appeared in Vidura's eyes. But then the king continued. "However, my son Duryodhana is the crowned prince of this undivided kingdom. His claim is also just. I cannot simply give away half of what is his. This is a complex matter that cannot be decided under the threat of war."
He turned his sightless eyes towards the Brahmin envoy. "Go back to my nephews. Tell them that I grieve for their hardships. Tell them that my heart is with them. But tell them also that Duryodhana will not yield a single inch of land. Therefore, there is nothing more to be said."
It was a declaration of war, wrapped in the silken, evasive language of a weak and duplicitous king. He had not said no. He had simply stated that his son had said no, abdicating his own responsibility as the ultimate authority.
The envoy bowed his head. He had his answer. He did not offer any further argument. He simply turned and walked from the hall, his mission a complete and utter failure.
As he departed, Vidura made one last, desperate plea to his brother. "Brother, what have you done?" he cried, his voice filled with anguish. "You have just pushed your own sons, and the sons of your brother, off a cliff! You have chosen the path of annihilation for a piece of land! Your attachment to this wicked son of yours, this moha, is a sin that will drown our entire lineage in a sea of blood. Remember the teachings of the wise: the Self is the friend of the self, and the Self is the enemy of the self. You have, this day, become your own greatest enemy!"
But Dhritarashtra did not listen. He had made his choice. He had chosen his son over his nephews, his greed over his duty, and the counsel of Shakuni over the wisdom of Bhishma.
The Brahmin priest returned to Upaplavya. He stood before the great council of the Pandava alliance, his face a mask of grim finality. He recounted every word that had been spoken in the Kuru court. He told them of Duryodhana's insult, of Karna's challenge, of the elders' helplessness, and of the blind king's final, cowardly refusal.
When he finished, a profound and terrible silence fell over the assembly. The last hope for peace had been extinguished. Yudhishthira, his face pale, closed his eyes. He had offered them an empire. He had offered them five villages. He had offered them peace. And they had thrown it all back in his face.
He opened his eyes, and the look of the sorrowful ascetic was gone. In its place was the look of a king who had been pushed to the very edge of his patience, a king who had finally accepted the terrible duty that fate had thrust upon him.
"So be it," he said, his voice quiet but as final as a death sentence. "The path of peace is closed. Prepare the armies. Send the summons to our remaining allies. We have offered them Dharma. Now, we will serve them justice."
Across the camp, the war drums began to beat, a slow, steady, and inexorable rhythm. It was the sound of a world preparing to end. The dove of peace had returned with an olive branch spattered in the venom of serpents, and its mournful cry was now the signal for the eagles of war to take flight.