The news of the fire at Varanavata struck Hastinapura like a physical blow. A royal messenger, his face pale with horror, galloped into the city, his horse lathered in sweat, and delivered the catastrophic report to the court. The magnificent Shiva Bhavana, the palace of prosperity, had been consumed by an inferno. The beloved Queen Kunti and her five heroic sons had perished in the flames.
When the royal search party returned from the ruins, their report confirmed the city's worst fears. They had sifted through the blackened timbers and mountains of ash. Amidst the debris, they had found the charred, unrecognizable remains of six bodies—one smaller frame, presumed to be a woman, and five larger ones. The evidence was irrefutable. The Pandavas were dead.
A wave of genuine, soul-crushing grief washed over the people of Hastinapura. The city plunged into mourning. Shops were shuttered, temples were filled with weeping citizens, and the air, once filled with cheers for Yudhishthira, now hung heavy with a collective sorrow. Their righteous prince, their hope for a golden age, had been stolen from them.
In the palace, a different kind of performance was underway. Dhritarashtra, upon hearing the news, let out a great, theatrical wail of anguish. He tore at his fine robes, his blind eyes streaming with tears as he lamented the loss of his "dearly beloved nephews." His grief, however, was not for them, but for himself. He mourned the stain this tragedy would leave on his reign, the loss of the powerful assets the Pandavas represented, and the simmering fear of what the people might think.
Duryodhana and his brothers were masters of feigned sorrow. They wept loudly, their voices choked with fabricated grief. They spoke of their love for their cousins, their cherished childhood memories, their unbearable loss. But in the privacy of their own chambers, they celebrated. They drank the finest wine, laughed until their sides ached, and toasted their brilliant success. Shakuni, the architect of their victory, accepted their praise with a modest, reptilian smile. Their greatest obstacles were now nothing but a handful of ash. The path to the throne was clear.
The only figures of true, unadulterated grief were Bhishma and Drona. The great patriarch stood like a statue carved from sorrow, his face a mask of granite. He had failed. Despite his power, his wisdom, his very presence, he had failed to protect his brother's children. The weight of his oath to protect the throne of Hastinapura felt, for the first time, like a curse that had forced him to stand by while its heart was ripped out.
Drona's grief was laced with the sharp poison of guilt. He had been the one to demand the fee from Panchala, the act that had solidified the Pandavas' popularity and directly led to Duryodhana's desperate jealousy. He had sent them into the world as peerless warriors, only for them to be consumed by a common fire. The memory of Ekalavya's thumb and Karna's dismissal now felt like precursors to this greater sin of inaction. He had protected his promise to Arjuna, only to lose Arjuna himself.
Vidura, the only one who knew the truth, was forced to play the most difficult role of all. He mourned with the rest of them, his face a perfect picture of sorrow. He organized the state funeral rites, accompanying the royal family to the banks of the Ganga to offer prayers for the souls of the departed. As he poured the holy water into the river, his public prayer was for their peace in the afterlife. His private prayer, however, was a message sent on the currents of the sacred river, a prayer of hope for their survival in the world of the living. He had done his part. The seeds of truth were planted, waiting for the right season to sprout.
Far from the kingdom of ash and lies, the Pandavas were ghosts adrift in a primal wilderness. The boatman, Vidura's silent agent, had ferried them across the Ganga under the cover of darkness and left them on the southern bank with a simple, respectful bow. They were now in a dense, untamed forest, a place that had never known the laws of men.
The initial euphoria of their escape quickly gave way to the harsh realities of their new life. They were fugitives, stripped of their names, their wealth, and their status. The forest was dark and menacing, filled with the strange calls of nocturnal creatures. Kunti, accustomed to the comforts of the palace, was exhausted and terrified. The younger Pandavas, though trained warriors, were weary to their bones from the months of constant stress.
Once again, Bhima became the pillar of their survival. The immense strength that had been a tool of sport and combat now became an engine of pure necessity. Seeing his mother and brothers stumbling with fatigue, he did not hesitate. He lifted Kunti onto his shoulders as if she were a garland of flowers. He tucked the twins, Nakula and Sahadeva, under his arms. He urged Yudhishthira and Arjuna forward, his massive body a living shield against the encroaching darkness. He plunged into the forest, his elephantine strength defying all exhaustion, his only thought to carry his family to a place of safety.
They traveled for a day and a night, moving deeper into the forest's embrace. Finally, they found a clearing beneath a giant banyan tree and collapsed, utterly spent. Sleep claimed them instantly—all except Bhima. His senses, honed by the wilderness and his own restless nature, remained on high alert. He sat guard, his mace resting across his lap, his eyes scanning the shadows.
He did not have to wait long. This forest was not empty. It was the domain of Rakshasas, demonic beings of immense power and malevolent intent who fed on the flesh of any creature unfortunate enough to wander into their territory. The scent of humans, so long absent from this part of the forest, drifted on the night air and reached the nostrils of its master: a Rakshasa named Hidimba.
Hidimba was a terrifying creature. His skin was the colour of a thundercloud, his eyes glowed a malevolent red, and his mouth was filled with sharp, yellow fangs. He was a giant of a being, his muscles coiled with brutal power. Smelling the humans, his stomach rumbled with a ravenous hunger. He turned to his sister, Hidimbi.
"Go," he commanded, his voice a low growl. "Lure those humans to me. Their flesh will make a fine meal. It has been too long."
Hidimbi was a Rakshasi, but she was different from her brother. While she possessed the same supernatural powers, she did not share his brutish cruelty. She was curious and, deep within her, possessed a longing for a life beyond their savage existence. Using her powers of illusion, she flew to the banyan tree where the Pandavas slept.
What she saw took her breath away. She saw the five handsome princes, their noble faces peaceful in sleep. But her eyes were drawn to the one who sat awake. She saw Bhima, his shoulders as broad as a bull's, his arms thick with muscle, his face radiating a powerful, masculine energy even in repose. She had never seen a being, human or Rakshasa, of such magnificent strength and form. In that instant, she fell deeply and irrevocably in love.
The thought of leading this glorious man to his death at her brother's hands was unbearable. She decided to defy him. Using her powers, she transformed herself. The dark skin, the fangs, the claws—they all melted away. In their place stood a woman of enchanting, celestial beauty, dressed in fine silks and adorned with fragrant flowers. She approached Bhima, her steps silent, her heart pounding.
Bhima, seeing the beautiful maiden emerge from the shadows, was instantly on his feet, his mace raised. "Who are you?" he demanded, his voice a low rumble.
Hidimbi bowed gracefully. "Great warrior, do not be alarmed," she said, her voice as sweet as honey. "I am Hidimbi. I have come to warn you. My brother, the Rakshasa who rules this forest, has scented you. He intends to kill and eat you all. I could not bear to see such a fate befall one as magnificent as you. Please, take your family and flee while you still can. Or better yet," she added, her eyes shining with adoration, "come with me. I will carry you away to a secret place where we can live together. I have fallen in love with you."
Bhima was stunned by her confession, but his focus was on the threat. Before he could reply, a deafening roar shattered the peace of the night. The ground shook. Hidimba, enraged by his sister's delay, had come himself. He saw Hidimbi in her beautiful human form, talking to the man he intended to eat.
"Betrayer!" he bellowed, his red eyes blazing with fury. "You dare to covet this human for yourself? I will kill him first, and then I will deal with you!"
He charged, his massive fists ready to crush Bhima. The sleeping Pandavas were jolted awake by the commotion. They saw the terrifying Rakshasa bearing down on their brother.
"Do not fear!" Bhima yelled to them. "This is my fight!"
He met Hidimba's charge head-on. What followed was a battle of primal forces. It was not a duel of skill or technique; it was a brutal, earth-shaking brawl. They wrestled, their powerful bodies straining, uprooting trees and cracking the very earth beneath them. Bhima's strength, honed in the wrestling pits of Hastinapura, was pitted against the raw, supernatural might of the Rakshasa. The forest echoed with their roars of fury and pain.
Finally, Bhima, channeling all his god-given power, lifted the giant Rakshasa over his head. With a final, mighty roar, he broke Hidimba's back over his knee. The Rakshasa king fell to the ground, dead.
The Pandavas rushed to Bhima's side. They had witnessed his power before, but never like this, never in a raw, life-or-death struggle. Hidimbi, her illusion fading, reverted to her Rakshasi form and wept over the body of her brother.
Kunti, her heart filled with both gratitude and compassion, went to the grieving Rakshasi. "You saved our lives," she said softly. "You warned us, and for that, we are forever in your debt."
Hidimbi looked up, her large, dark eyes filled with tears. She turned her gaze to Bhima. "My brother is dead, and I am alone in this world," she cried. "My only wish was to be with this great man. I have nowhere else to go. Please, do not leave me. Let me be your wife, your servant, anything. I will follow you and serve you all my days."
Bhima was uncomfortable. He was a warrior, not a husband, and he found the Rakshasi's appearance unsettling. But Yudhishthira, ever pragmatic, saw the situation clearly. They were fugitives in a hostile world. An alliance with a powerful supernatural being who knew the secrets of the forest could be invaluable. And more importantly, they owed her a debt of honour.
"Brother," Yudhishthira said to Bhima. "She saved our lives. It is our Dharma to protect her now. And her love for you is pure. You must accept her."
After much persuasion from his mother and brothers, Bhima reluctantly agreed. But Yudhishthira set the terms. "You may take Hidimbi as your wife," he decreed. "And you will stay with her until she bears you a son. During the day, you will be hers. But every night, you must return to us, for we cannot survive in this wilderness without your strength to protect us."
Hidimbi joyfully agreed to the terms. Her love had been reciprocated, and her loneliness banished. She took Bhima by the hand and, using her powers, led him to a hidden, beautiful part of the forest, a secret paradise where they began their life together. The Pandavas, having survived their first great test, had forged their first new alliance in the wilderness. They were no longer just running; they were adapting, surviving, and planting the seeds of their future. A new generation, born of a union between man and demon, was about to begin.