9.
In the forest, the six fugitives
were desperate to put the greatest distance
between them and their possible pursuers.
They ran as fast as they were able, wearily
trying to take their bearings from the stars,
impeded by the leafy canopy.
Nothing had prepared them for experience
this difficult. In Pandu’s forest home
they had lived simply, but always had a roof,
plenty to eat, and the certainty
that all who knew them loved them. And at court
they had become accustomed to luxury.
Now all was stripped away. They were bereft
of all the clothing, weapons, pastimes, friendships
that told them who they were.
Hunger, thirst,
scratched flesh and bleeding feet afflicted them.
After a while, forest became thick jungle.
This was a threatening place, very different
from forests they had known and hunted in,
inflicting death for sport. Now it was they
whose skin prickled at the strange and menacing
sounds surrounding them. They had no way
of knowing fierce from friendly, friendliness
from mere indifference. Snared at every step
by twining roots and scrub, they had no notion
which plants and animals were safe to eat.
When they were dropping from exhaustion, Bhima,
powerful as an elephant, carried them.
He placed his mother on one brawny shoulder,
the twins rode on his hips, while Yudhishthira
and Arjuna were tucked under his arms.
Hour after hour, Wolf-belly forged ahead,
racing on as if with the wind behind him,
trampling, smashing every obstacle.
They entered a rank wilderness, infested
with slinking beasts and scrawny, raucous birds.
The trees were sparse, with gray and brittle leaves,
but they came across an arching banyan tree
and made a welcome stop under its roots.
All, except Bhima, fell asleep at once.
Bhima thought he heard the sound of herons
and followed it until he found a lake.
He drank long drafts, and bathed, then brought back water
for his family. He sat beside them
through the night, keeping watch, reflecting
on their misfortune: “Ah, my unlucky brothers
and my dear mother, used to comfort, now
stretched on the unyielding ground like beggars.
These vigorous vines and creepers all around
are struggling upward from impoverished soil,
helping each other climb toward the light.
Why is it, if these plants can coexist
in harmony, that all our pampered cousins
so strenuously seek to damage us
when we’ve done nothing wrong?” And he wept
for the suffering of Kunti and his brothers.
This jungle was home to a rakshasa,
Hidimba, a vile ogre, and his sister,
Hidimbaa. They were vampire bats writ large,
loathsome, yellow-eyed and tireless gluttons.
They would track and slaughter any animal,
drink its blood, gnaw raw flesh from the bones.
But what they relished above anything
was human meat. Now they were very hungry.
Prowling through the trees, the ogre picked up
the scent of the Pandavas, and growled with pleasure.
“Humans! My favorite! I long to sink my tusks
in their delicious flesh, slice their veins
and guzzle their rich, foaming blood. Hidimbaa,
go and find them, bring them here for me!”
Off went his sister, loping stealthily,
but one glimpse of Bhima, and she fell
besottedly, lustfully in love with him.
“Oh, what a gorgeous man, so strong and upright,
bulging in every place a man should bulge,
tall as a shala tree. Look at that neck!
Those lion-like shoulders! And what lovely eyes!
This is certainly the man for me.
He shall be my husband—and a wife’s duty
overrides a sister’s any day.
If I kill this family, my appetite
and my brother’s will be satisfied
for a mere half hour. But if I marry
this delicious man, I will have pleasure
for years on end!”
Then, quicker than a blink
(for rakshasas can change their form at will),
she shed her hideous aspect and appeared
as a shapely girl, casting lascivious looks
at Bhima. She sidled up and stood beside him.
“Who on earth are you, you bull-like man?
And who are these other people, sleeping
on the ground so trustfully? I warn you,
a hungry rakshasa, my wicked brother,
wants to make a meal of you. But, darling,
I shall save you. My body and my heart
are mad with love for you. Be my husband,
and we shall fly to anywhere you choose.
The whole world shall be our paradise!”
“What kind of scoundrel would I be,” said Bhima,
“if—alluring as you are, O luscious one—
I left my helpless mother and my brothers
to be gobbled by a ravenous rakshasa?”
“All right, I’ll save you all,” said Hidimbaa.
“Wake them up now. We can be on our way.”
“I won’t,” said Bhima, “they deserve their rest.
No ill-tempered ogre can frighten me,
sweetheart. The same applies, my gorgeous girl,
to any man or monster on this earth.
Go, or stay, you sexy one—you choose.
But send that evil brother of yours to me.”
Hidimbaa sent a signal to her brother
and, before long, the ugly rakshasa
came powering through the trees, sweating with rage
at how his sister had betrayed him, putting
such soppiness as love before a feast.
He had been looking forward to sweet blood,
and sucking brains from foolish human skulls.
“Have you lost your wits, stupid Hidimbaa?
You’re a traitor to the race of rakshasas.
I’ll kill you now, before I eat these others.”
Bhima laughed. “You idiot, fight with me,
not with this woman who has done no wrong—
in fact, she has been wronged herself, smitten
by the god of love, when she saw my beauty!
Come on—fight! Today, you evil beast,
your body will be severed, head from trunk
and scavengers, not you, will eat their fill.”
The monster gave a roar, insane with fury.
With claws and fangs and superhuman strength
he tore at Bhima, but he could not crush
the huge son of the wind. Bhima fought
with enormous relish, like a lion
tussling with its prey, dragging, shaking it
as though it were a game. And all the time
Hidimbaa was watching, breathless, weak with love.
At the noise, the others stirred from sleep
and were amazed to see the radiant girl.
“Who are you?” asked Kunti curiously.
“I am the sister of the rakshasa—
that flesh-eating monster over there,
being manhandled by your god-like son.
I have chosen Bhima as my husband—
I love him madly. I have to confess
I tried to get him to elope with me
but he refused to leave you unprotected.
Look at them now, rakshasa and human,
dragging each other through the dust!”
Arjuna
sprang up to help Bhima dispatch the monster
but Bhima wanted this to be his fight
and his alone; and, before too long,
the ogre was a mess of skin and blood
smeared on the forest floor. With his death,
birds sang more brightly, and the grayish trees
sprouted new green leaves and scented flowers.
What was to be done with Hidimbaa?
“Kill her,” suggested Bhima, “rakshasas
bear grudges and resort to wicked magic.”
Yudhishthira opposed him forcefully.
“Even if she is a rakshasa,
never kill a woman. It is contrary
to dharma—and what damage can she do?”
Hidimbaa spoke up. “I love your brother.
For his sake, I have betrayed my kin,
my friends, the code that governs rakshasas.
Am I to be rejected by you all
for having spoken truthfully? Have pity,
let Bhima love me, as I know he can.
You may think me foolish, but I promise
that I shall serve you—I can carry you,
all of you, over any obstacle.
Let me marry Bhima.”
Yudhishthira
softened toward her. “You can marry him,
and you can take him anywhere you wish.
But every day, at sunset, he must return
as we rely on him.”
Now Hidimbaa,
summoning her supernatural powers,
took Bhima off on blissful honeymoons
to secret places where time stopped for them
in their exquisite lovemaking. They traveled
to coral islands, sparkling mountaintops,
lovely glades where trees bent over them
heavy with ripe fruit. And, every night,
she brought him back to guard his family
where they had set up house, by a jungle pool.
Rakshasas give birth the very day
that they conceive, and Hidimbaa produced
a son by Bhima. He was huge and hairless.
“The child’s bald as a pot,” said Bhima proudly
and that became his name—Ghatotkacha.
He was an awesome sight: cross-eyed, large-mouthed,
beautifully ugly, with pointed ears
and terrifying tusks. In a few short weeks,
he grew up; it was as if he lived
in another time dimension. He became
mountainous, a master with all weapons,
devoted to truth. He loved the Pandavas
and they in turn adored him as their own.
The day arrived when Hidimbaa announced
the end of their idyllic time together.
Then she disappeared. Ghatotkacha
told his father he would always come
when he was needed. Then he too departed.
The Pandavas decided that they, also,
should seek a new life. They tied up their hair
like brahmin students, dressed themselves in deerskins
and, in this disguise, they traveled widely.
As they went, they studied the sacred Vedas
the better to conceal their identity.
Months passed by. One day the sage Vyasa,
the author of them all, arrived to see them.
As a seer, he knew the Pandavas
were alive and well. He spoke gently:
“I have long known the sons of Dhritarashtra
would try to rid themselves of you. Of course,
you and they are equally my kin.
But it is natural that I should favor you
since you are wronged, and living in penury.”
Kunti poured out her sorrow, and Vyasa
listened. Worse than anything was knowing
that their own family desired their death.
That hurt her like a never-healing wound.
“Be assured that this distress will pass,”
Vyasa said. “Your son Yudhishthira
will rule the kingdom as the Dharma King.
But, for now, you must be patient. Listen,
near here is the town of Ekachakra.
You should live there quietly, as brahmins,
and wait for better times. I shall return.”
Having left the seer, they made their way
toward the undistinguished, one-wheel town.
Vyasa had arranged for them to live
as lodgers with a kind brahmin family,
a couple and their children. Every morning
the five young men collected the day’s food,
going from house to house with begging bowls.
When the bowls were full, they hurried home
in case Duryodhana’s spies should be around.
Kunti shared out the food—half for Bhima,
half for the rest of them. But even so,
Bhima grew thin, and was always hungry.
One afternoon, when Bhima was at home
keeping Kunti company, loud crying
came from the landlord’s quarters. Kunti went in
and found the man lamenting to his wife:
“Since one of us must die, it should be I.
You have always been a loving wife,
dear to me as my friend, my great mainstay,
my children’s mother—I can’t let you die.
And how could I sacrifice my daughter?
Some say a father loves his son the most;
I don’t. She is just as precious to me
as her brother. No, it should be I
who loses his life. But then—how will you all
survive without me to work and protect you?
Better we all die!” And the poor man
gave way to utter anguish.
His wife said,
“What is the use of all your education
if you collapse just like a common man
when you meet adversity? Everything ends;
and if an ending is inevitable
grief is pointless. I myself shall go.
A woman’s task is always to defend
her husband’s welfare, even with her life.
We both will gain great merit from my action.
You’re able to protect and feed our children;
I can do neither. How can a widow manage?
How would I prevent unscrupulous men
from sniffing at our daughter? How would I teach
our son good conduct, without your example?
Our children would be left like two small fish
stranded on a dried-up riverbed.
You can find another mother for them;
that is lawful. For me, it is not the same.
My life has brought me happiness; I’ve borne
two lovely children by you. To die now
will not grieve me.” And, with that, the husband
and wife embraced each other, sorrowfully.
But then the daughter spoke. “Listen to me.
I am the one whose life should be surrendered.
You have to lose me sometime—it’s the custom
for a bride to live in her husband’s house—
so why not now? A child should be like a boat
to save its parents—in life and afterlife.
By my death, I save my father’s life
for, if Father dies, my little brother
will surely not survive. Then who will there be
to make the offerings to the ancestors?
Without me, there will still be a family.
As the saying goes, ‘A daughter is a burden.’
Without you, Father, I shall be a wretched,
unprotected girl. Do the right thing.
Sacrifice me, who anyway will be
sacrificed sooner or later.”
They all wept,
and the little boy, not understanding,
seized a stick and waved it joyfully.
“Me kill nasty monster!” he announced.
“What monster does he mean?” Kunti asked.
Then the landlord’s wife told her their trouble.
“Our turn for death has come. There’s no escape.
Baka, a rakshasa, lives in the hills
outside the town. We citizens are powerless.
There’s just one way to stop him coming down
at will, and killing anyone he likes:
each week, a member of one family
loads up a bullock cart with food, and takes it
up to his lair. He eats the food, the bullocks
and the driver—but at least that buys
a blessed reprieve for the rest of us.
And now it is the turn of our family!
We’ve talked and talked about which of us should go,
but none of us can bear to lose each other.
The only answer is to die together.”
And the poor woman began to shed fresh tears.
Kunti saw at once what could be done.
“You have only one son; I have five.
One of my sons will go on your behalf.
You’ve been so kind to us—it’s only right
that we should show our gratitude.”
“No! No!”
exclaimed the landlord. “I could not allow
a brahmin, a guest at that, to die for me,
however fond I am of my own life.
That would make me wickedly complicit
in brahmin murder.”
“It won’t come to that,”
said Kunti. “My son will kill this rakshasa.
He’s done it before; he has special powers.
But you must promise not to say a word
lest people become curious.” They agreed.
She put her plan to Bhima, who exulted
at the prospect of a square meal—and a fight!
Yudhishthira was appalled. “What mad idea
of duty led you to risk Bhima’s life
when our entire survival rests on him?”
But Kunti was firm. She knew that she was right.
The women of the house prepared a cartload
of the most delicious rice and curries.
Bhima set out, driving the bullock cart
and singing loudly. Coming to the foothills,
he stopped and, with enormous appetite,
began to eat the provisions in the cart.
He sat there at his ease, munching peacefully,
and thought no meal could be more delectable,
though all the time the bullocks were bellowing
and straining at their ropes, sensing the presence
of something dreadful.
With a thunderous roar,
Baka lumbered out from among the trees,
a ten-foot ogre, filthy and obese,
murderous at seeing the empty cart.
He picked up boulders, throwing them at Bhima
who caught them, laughing, hurling them straight back.
Baka uprooted trees, and came at Bhima
howling curses. A furious tree-fight followed,
then they grabbed each other, and for hours
they wrestled, until Baka began to tire.
Then Bhima bent him backwards, and broke his spine
as one might snap kindling for firewood.
Ekachakra was safe from the rakshasa.
In the afternoon, the brahmin landlord found
his bullocks grazing peacefully, and Baka
a sprawling corpse on the outskirts of the town.
People were agog—who could have done it?
The landlord kept his promise not to tell.
Weeks passed, and more weeks. Then one day, at dusk,
a mendicant came to the door. The landlord,
always hospitable, invited him
to shelter for the night. When he had bathed
and eaten, and all were gathered in the yard,
he began to tell them marvelous stories—
miracles he had seen at holy shrines,
amazing sights encountered on his journeys
throughout the land, from the Himalaya
down to Cape Comorin. “But I’m forgetting—
I’m really on a mission. King Drupada
has asked us wanderers to spread the word—
meant for the ears of one kshatriya.
His daughter Draupadi’s svayamvara
is shortly to take place in Kampilya.”
The mendicant then started on the story
of Drona and Drupada, and Drona’s revenge;
and of how Drupada had then obtained
both a son and daughter, born from fire.
“The son is a fine young man, and Draupadi
is the most beautiful woman in the world.”
All this the mendicant told his rapt audience.
A while later, Vyasa visited.
The brothers welcomed him with joined hands.
Having examined them on their behavior,
the blessed sage told them the following tale:
“THERE WAS ONCE a young woman, the daughter of a distinguished seer. She was of excellent conduct but, owing to some past action of hers, she was unfortunate in love. Beautiful though she was, with narrow waist and curving hips, she did not find a husband.
“She embarked on a program of austerities with the aim of achieving marriage, and impressed the god Shiva with her extreme self-discipline.
“‘Radiant maiden,’ he said, ‘choose a boon and I will grant it.’
“‘I want a virtuous husband,’ said the girl. And, in her eagerness to be understood, she said it again and again.
“‘Dear girl, you shall have your five husbands,’ said Shiva.
“‘Oh no—I only want one,’ she protested.
“‘Well, you asked five times, and five husbands you shall have, when you have been reborn in another body.’
“That maiden was eventually reborn
as the dark and beautiful Draupadi.
She is destined to become your wife.”
He smiled, and disappeared. The Pandavas’
blood was racing with the fire of youth
imagining the dazzling Draupadi.
Kunti said, “It seems to me that fate
brought us here to rid the town of Baka.
But it’s unwise to stay in one place too long.
Now, perhaps, we should be moving on.”
Taking their leave of the brahmin family,
the Pandavas set out for Kampilya.