by Mukunda Rao
Something totally unexpected was happening to the Pandavas. Vyasa laughed as though Arjuna had cracked a joke but, inwardly, he was flustered. Was Arjuna planning to marry someone like Hidimbi? Vyasa studied them doubtfully. Then, suddenly, with a knowing smile, he said, ‘Get out of this maya. Trust me, you have just begun your long journey. You do not know the end, you do not know the unknown.’
The Pandavas were quiet. How could they know what the future held in store for them? Vyasa knew with his clairvoyant vision. He knew what was inevitable, what was in accordance with their karma. It was not in Yudhishthira’s nature to question or doubt his elders; otherwise, he wouldn’t have listened to Dhritharashtra and agreed to stay at the House of Lac in the first place.
All this while, Bheema had stood still, arms folded over his great chest, showing no interest in the conversation. Intrigued by his strange silence, Vyasa asked, ‘Bheema, why aren’t you saying anything?’
Bheema only grinned, as if to say he didn’t care what the future held for him.
As the child grew in her womb, Hidimbi grew to be more beautiful, and Bheema became increasingly attached to her. Kunti became quite concerned for the coming child, Bheema’s child, and wouldn’t let Hidimbi do hard work. The brothers did the household chores. In the evenings, they would sit with Hidimbi and speak to the child growing in her enormous belly. They told Puranic stories, chanted sacred shlokas and sang songs they had learnt in their childhood. In this way, they entertained mother and child until they went to sleep.
At the end of the eighth month, as if in a hurry to see his uncles and grandmother, Hidimbi’s son emerged into the world with a joyful cry that shook the cottage and scattered the leaves on the trees outside the window. He was a big baby, with his mother’s features and the body of his father.
The child, whom Kunti named Ghatotkacha, grew rapidly like a wild bull. She would spend long hours with her grandson. Meanwhile, she had forgotten all about Vyasa’s warning. Still, she had no reason to doubt that Hidimbi would let Bheema go with them to Ekachakra at the completion of a year.
The uncles lovingly nicknamed the child ‘Bhidimba’, and they not only played with him but also taught him their skills with weapons. Yudhishthira, despite the boy showing little interest, discoursed upon the ways of dharma. On the days Ghatotkacha accompanied his parents into the forest, Bheema taught him the art of wrestling while Hidimbi familiarized him with the enchanting life of the forest as well as the dangers he needed to protect himself from.
Thus, absorbed in the growing life of the boy, the Pandavas forgot the passage of time. It seemed that their only desire was to be with the boy and happily grow old in the forest, shedding their bodies like the tree sheds its yellow leaves when the time comes.
But that was not to be.
Early one morning, Ghatotkacha was attracted by a golden deer just outside the cottage. Its head turned in his direction, the deer’s translucent eyes stared directly into his. The next moment the deer leapt away and scurried into the forest. Mesmerized by its strange beauty, Ghatotkacha ran behind the animal. After moving a considerable distance from the cottage, the deer stopped and looked back. Ghatotkacha paused too, now wondering if he had broken his mother’s rule in coming alone deep into the forest. He looked around.
The trees looked frighteningly large, and suddenly he was not sure of his way back to the cottage. He remembered his mother’s warning about dangers in the forest, and her advice that in such a situation he must climb on top of a tree and shout for help. But he couldn’t move his limbs, and something choked his voice. Through fearful eyes, he saw the golden deer change into an orange flame, out of which a woman emerged. ‘Don’t be afraid, my dear child,’ the figure spoke affectionately, and slowly approached him. She was beautiful, and Ghatotkacha was struck with wonder at the woman’s close resemblance to his mother.
Meanwhile, at the cottage, Bheema was shouting. There were seven of them and yet not one person had kept an eye on the child. The brothers had gone in search of the boy in different directions, only to come back empty-handed. Surely it must be a trick of some mischievous god or a wicked demon. But why? ‘I can’t sit like this, waiting,’ cried Bheema. Hidimbi said, ‘My dear husband, don’t get so agitated. He’ll come back. He must be playing in the trees somewhere close by.’
‘What do you mean?’ questioned Bheema. ‘The forest is infested with wild animals, and then you have those mayavi demons. He is a mere child.’
‘He is a forest child, and my heart tells me no harm will come to my son.’
‘If he comes to any harm,’ Bheema roared, ‘I’ll destroy this forest and every creature living in it.’
Hidimbi had never seen her husband in such a rage before. His face had turned a burning red, and he was heaving like a mountain. Intervening, Yudhishthira spoke quietly, ‘Brother Bheema, it is not good to be consumed by such anger.’
‘Look, look,’ Kunti suddenly shouted in joy. And there he was, coming out of the shadows of a tree like a yaksha. Bheema ran and picked his son. ‘Where have you been?’ he asked. The child did not answer. Wide-eyed, he gazed fixedly at his father’s face as if he were seeing him for the first time.
Hidimbi grabbed her son and hugged him tight. ‘My dear son, where were you all this time?’ she asked.
Kunti intervened, saying, ‘Don’t ask him anything now. Let him relax. Poor child, come, come to your grandmother.’ She ruffled his hair and hugged him tenderly, cooing, ‘He is a Pandava, no harm will come to a Pandava.’
This was the first time Kunti had called him a Pandava. Hidimbi was stunned for a moment and then her eyes filled with tears of joy. Bheema, eyes moist with feelings he had not felt before, came and held her hand in silent communion.
Seven days after this strange episode that had bound them together as a family in a way nothing else had done before, the Pandavas prepared to leave Salivahana. Perhaps they would never see Hidimbi and Ghatotkacha again. It was cruel to leave the mother and child behind to fend for themselves. Maybe Hidimbi and the child could go back to their tribe. Still, was it right to abandon the mother and child at this stage? And they would all miss them terribly. Yudhishthira could not even imagine what Bheema was going through at the thought of the separation. He was in a dilemma. What was his dharma in such a situation? To obey Vyasa and leave the mother and child in the forest or take them along to Ekachakra?
But there were other thoughts, other compulsions that screamed for his attention. Yudhishthira was doomed to live in an eternal quandary.
It was King Pandu, their father, who, by his incredible valour and military genius, had extended the kingdom far and wide, bringing neighbouring kingdoms under the suzerainty of the Kurus. So, as the eldest among the Pandavas, and older than Duryodhana too, Yudhishthira was the rightful heir to the kingdom. Dhritharashtra was not so much the king as the caretaker of Kurujangala. Kunti had revealed all this only after their father’s death when they were on their way from Satashringa to Hastinapura.
Almost two years later, upon the advice of Bheeshma, Drona and Vidura, and in accordance with the laws, Dhritharashtra had no choice but to install Yudhishthira as the yuvraj. Within that year, he had grown in stature and become immensely popular with the people as an upright and compassionate prince. The people wanted him to take over the reins of the kingdom from the blind man. Yet, even before the completion of a year, everything had changed so fast and so drastically. He who should have been the king was on the run now.
But not for long. Soon they would return and fight back. Duryodhana’s evil intentions to usurp the kingdom had to be thwarted. Vidura had been shrewd enough to guess Duryodhana’s intentions and save their lives. Bless the man; Yudhishthira offered his silent thanks to his uncle. They must fight against the evil ways of the father and his sons, he told himself, trying to whip himself into a moral rage. They could not let adharma prevail.
But first, they had to leave the forest.
And so it was that one evening,
after their meal, they sat around the fire warming themselves. A full moon looked upon them like a benevolent spirit. For a while, in tense silence, Yudhishthira studied their faces, and then fixing his eyes on Hidimbi, he said almost tearfully, ‘I must admit, I must admit that we have been very happy living here for more than a year now. And your son Ghatotkacha had been our source of great joy. But now the time has come for us to leave. Our duty demands that we leave. We came from very far, escaping from the deadly fire, but now we must return so we can reclaim our right and re-establish dharma. It’s with a heavy heart we bid farewell to you and your son. I hope you understand. Early morning tomorrow, we will leave…’
Arjuna, Nakula and Sahadeva nodded in agreement. Bheema was silent, deep in thought. Kunti spoke with a heavy heart, avoiding Hidimbi’s eyes. ‘Hidimbi, you understand that we delayed our departure because we didn’t want to disappoint you. But we must leave now. You remember the promise you had made?’
Hidimbi did not speak but looked at her husband, hoping against hope that he would decide to stay back. Yes, she had agreed to Kunti’s condition that she would return Bheema to them at the end of the year. But now, after the birth of Ghatotkacha, she had believed that they wouldn’t insist upon taking Bheema with them. She couldn’t imagine her life without him. And the child needed the father.
It was a cruel plan that she had agreed to. The situation, however, was different now. As a mother of five sons, couldn’t Kunti understand the feeling of another mother? What could she say to Kunti? That she would never go back on her promise, or that she did not care what she had promised a year ago? She was a forest woman, but not one without morals or dignity. And, as a wife, she had her right over her husband.
According to the tribal culture, a man dare not abandon his wife after begetting a child from her. Still, if he had to for some strong reason, he could do so only after the approval of the elders and the consent of his woman. But her situation was truly hopeless. She could not take the help of the elders of her tribe because she had married outside the tribe and without their approval. And her husband seemed keen on obeying his mother. At least he could insist on taking them with him.
Hidimbi looked at Bheema, wondering why he wasn’t saying anything. No, he did not love her, did not love his son. He had just wanted to enjoy her body until he went to Ekachakra. Tears filled her eyes. Bheema sat still like a rock, his eyes fixed on the flames, as if trying to read the hidden meaning in its dance.
‘Where are you all going?’ The child asked suddenly.
No one answered. The child deserved an answer, but would he understand? The boy now looked at his father and queried, ‘Are you going too?’ His eyes still fixed on the fire, Bheema appeared deaf. Disappointed, the son turned to his mother and saw her weeping. Something was wrong; he had never seen his mother weep before. The others would not meet his eyes. He went and sat on his mother’s lap. ‘Why are you crying?’ he asked, wiping her tears with his fingers. Hidimbi hugged her son and burst into loud sobs.
‘I think we must sleep early tonight,’ said Kunti, and stood up. Avoiding her grandson’s inquisitive stare, she spoke to no one in particular. ‘It’s a long way to Ekachakra and we must start early when the air is cool…’ Kunti stopped abruptly, afraid she would lose control over her emotions if she were to say anything more. She quickly walked into the cottage. Yudhishthira, Arjuna, Nakula and Sahadeva got up one after the other in awkward silence, and followed their mother.
With the departure of his brothers and mother, Bheema came alive. ‘Come here,’ he said gruffly to his boy. Ghatotkacha happily went to his father and sat on his lap. His heart thudding with unutterable feelings, Bheema caressed his son’s hair, his hand trembling. Then he turned to his wife. ‘Why are you sitting so far away from me?’ Wiping her tears, Hidimbi got up and went and sat by her husband, leaning her body against his, her head on his broad shoulder.
‘Father, why don’t you take us with you?’ the son asked.
Yes, why not? Why shouldn’t I take them with me? Bheema asked himself. Hidimbi is my wife. I am her husband. It’s a blessing that we came to this forest and I found her. There cannot be another woman in my life. But then, I cannot abandon my brothers and mother either. They depend on me and I cannot betray their faith in me. Oh God! I cannot betray my wife and son either. They too depend on me, and I need them. And there is such a thing as love.
What should he do now? It was the moment of truth, Bheema’s truth. Was there a choice? The veins in his neck stood out, and his head burst with questions he could not answer. Enough, he told himself suddenly; till now I have fretted and fumed and raged enough against fate. But now, I have touched something deep. Can this be the source of happiness? Whatever it is, shouldn’t I take some time off from this burden of duty, from this burden of righting wrongs, and find things out for myself? After all, what is right? Was it right to get the tribal woman and her sons and Purochana drunk and leave them behind to be roasted in the fire? Was it right to kill Hidimba? And with such rage. Did I kill him to make Hidimbi my wife? What is the truth? And what am I? I must find out. I must know myself. Am I only Kunti’s son, Bheema? A Pandava? Am I not Hidimbi’s husband and Ghatotkacha’s father? Am I what I am only in relation to others?
Bheema put his son down and stood up. ‘You two go and sleep,’ he ordered, and strode into the forest. Unmindful of the fearful darkness, of the possible dangers from the wild animals and forest demons, like a man possessed, he kept walking and talking to himself. He paused in a clearing and, looking up at the ancient moon, bellowed, ‘You tell me. You have been a witness to human existence for several kalpas. You tell me what is right. Perhaps it’s not the right question, but you know what I mean, don’t you?’
Suddenly, he was startled by something that scurried past him and disappeared behind a bush. He breathed deeply to calm his fear, and then, overcome with sudden rage, he knelt down on the ground and yelled, ‘Come, you dark forces of the forest, come and devour me. Make me your food and return me to the elements.’
There was no response. Only the forest hissed, and that ancient witness in the sky smiled indifferently. He took several deep breaths and roared thus: ‘I, Bheema, this very moment, with all the elements of nature as my witness, relinquish this burdensome and oppressive life of the mind. I will listen to the wisdom of my body and live by it. I am the body, I am the sea, and I am this mysterious forest and that intriguing moon. I don’t know myself and I’ll start from here.’
Just as the moon went to sleep under the waters and the sun awoke, sending forth his coruscating rays to the four corners of the world, the Pandavas got ready to leave. Bheema, however, was not to be seen anywhere. Her face swollen with suffering, Hidimbi told them that Bheema had asked them to sleep, and had walked off into the forest. She hadn’t seen him since.
Kunti was shaken. Bheema had never behaved like this before. Something terrible was happening to him, she was sure, but he hadn’t cared to share it with her. Kunti knew the thoughts, knew the feelings of all her children; there were no secrets hidden between them. It was strange indeed, Yudhishthira agreed. Arjuna smiled to himself, for he understood that his brother was in love.
Every moment of waiting seemed an age. What if Bheema had left them? Why would he do that? The suspicion shook Kunti to her roots. Was there something she did not know, she did not understand? Bheema, my dear son, she prayed silently and nervously, don’t do this. We depend on you for everything. Without you the Pandavas are incomplete. Please come back.
As if in reply to her prayer, there was a great rumbling in the nearby lake, and they saw Bheema emerge. Water dripping from his huge body, his face tranquil like the lake under the moon, Bheema approached his mother.
‘Mother,’ he said quietly but with a firm resolution, ‘believe me, it has been a very difficult decision to make. I know that as a son, it is my duty to take care of you until your last days. But I’m also the husband of a woman and the father of a child now. And my d
harma demands that I stay with them. My inner voice tells me that my life is here and I must make this forest my home, my Satashringa. You have four other great sons who should keep you happy. You will not miss me.’
Kunti turned pale. What she had dreaded had come to pass. She shouldn’t have permitted their marriage in the first place. She had laid a condition, but only Hidimbi was bound by it, not her son. Who knew Bheema would change so completely? She had presumed that it would only be a brief romance, and once his desires were satiated he would return with them. If only she had known how things would turn out!
‘Bheema, what are you saying? This is impossible,’ she cried. ‘Your marriage to a forest woman is no marriage at all. You are a prince, always remember that. You are a Pandava and your life is at Hastinapura, not in this evil forest.’
Bheema did not react. He was not interested in the life of Hastinapura; he had never been. From the day they had arrived in Hastinapura, he had never been able to relax and be himself. There was something about the city, a malignant tension, and something strained, affected and false, that had soon turned him into a terribly self-conscious, resentful and hot-tempered boor. The continual rivalry between them and the Kaurava cousins had pushed him to the edge, sapping his energy and destroying his capacity for happiness. The very presence of his cousins and their almost continuous, sly watch over him, their malicious smiles and obscene laughter would drive him mad with anger and hatred. Since they were young, even the usually simple and harmless games boys played in joyous companionship would turn into ugly battles between the cousins.
Ah, the carefree and sunny days at Satashringa seemed like a dream, like a memory from the previous life. No, he didn’t want to go back to Hastinapura. There was nothing there to go back to. Even the elders there did not seem to him worthy of love and respect. The great Bheeshma was a whining, tired old man who had lost his way and come to camp at Hastinapura to spend his last days. Guru Drona was never straightforward in his dealings but always scheming; he was like a wounded leopard grown mean and cruel. And the blind king’s manners and reactions were so studied that even his breathing seemed planned well in advance.
