Following the celestial guidance of their grandfather Vyasa, the Pandavas arrived at the town of Ekachakra. The town was a peaceful, unassuming place, a tapestry of modest mud-brick houses, bustling little marketplaces, and the gentle, pervasive scent of woodsmoke and piety. Here, the five princes of Hastinapura and their queen mother completed their transformation. They were no longer royalty in hiding; they became, to all outward appearances, a family of impoverished Brahmins, adrift in the world and dependent on the charity of strangers.
They found lodging, as Vyasa had instructed, in the humble home of a potter. The potter was a kind, god-fearing man who saw it as his sacred duty to offer shelter to wandering holy men. He gave them a small, clean room in his house, asking for nothing in return, his heart content with the spiritual merit he would gain.
A new, harsh routine began. Each morning, the five brothers would go into the town to beg for alms. They would stand before different houses, their voices, which had once commanded armies, now humbly chanting Vedic hymns and begging for a handful of flour or a scoop of rice. The citizens of Ekachakra were kind, and they would give what little they could spare. At midday, the brothers would return to the potter's house and lay all that they had collected at their mother's feet.
It was here that Kunti performed a daily, painful act of love and necessity. She would take the collected food and divide it into two equal halves. One entire half, she would give to Bhima. The other half, she would divide among the remaining four brothers and herself. It was a practical solution to a difficult problem. Bhima's divine strength was fueled by an equally divine hunger, the Vrikodara, the 'wolf's belly', that was a constant, gnawing fire within him. Without this lion's share of the food, his strength would wane, and their very survival depended on his power to protect them.
Yet, this daily division was a source of quiet friction. Bhima, though he received the most, was never truly satisfied. He would devour his portion in moments and then watch with hungry, longing eyes as his brothers and mother ate their meager shares. The others, particularly the ever-observant twins, felt the pang of their own hunger sharpened by the sight of their brother's insatiable appetite. It was a constant, unspoken reminder of how far they had fallen. They were princes of the blood, reduced to rationing scraps, their unity strained by the most basic of human needs. Kunti watched this silent drama with an aching heart, praying for an end to this life of hardship.
For several months, they lived this way, their identities a carefully guarded secret. They were simply the 'Brahmin family' staying at the potter's house. But soon, Kunti began to notice a strange, pervasive sorrow hanging over the town, a fear that lay just beneath its pious, peaceful surface. Then, one afternoon, she heard it clearly. From the main room of the potter's house came the unmistakable sound of weeping—not the quiet tears of a single person, but the loud, unrestrained wails of an entire family consumed by utter despair.
Her Kshatriya heart, trained to protect and serve, could not ignore such profound suffering in the very house that had given her shelter. She went to the door and saw the potter, his wife, his young son, and his teenage daughter huddled together, clinging to one another as if facing the end of the world.
"What is it, good sir?" Kunti asked, her voice gentle. "Why do you weep so? You have given us shelter and kindness. Your sorrow is our sorrow. Please, tell me what troubles you."
The potter looked up, his face streaked with tears. At first, he was hesitant to burden his guests, but the weight of his grief was too much to bear alone. "O, revered mother," he choked out. "My family is doomed. Our turn has come."
And then, the story tumbled out, a tale of terror that explained the town's hidden sadness. Several miles from Ekachakra, in a dark cave deep within the forest, lived a Rakshasa of immense power and insatiable hunger named Bakasura—the Crane Demon. For years, he had terrorized the region, emerging from his lair to snatch villagers, devour livestock, and wreak havoc. The local king was too weak to challenge him. In desperation, the town elders had made a terrible pact with the demon to save the town from total annihilation.
The agreement was gruesome in its details. Once every week, the town had to send a tribute to the demon's cave. The tribute consisted of a cart drawn by two strong buffaloes, laden with a mountain of cooked rice, curries, and other delicacies. And, as the final part of the meal, the person who drove the cart was also to be devoured by Bakasura.
To ensure fairness in this horrific lottery of death, the town maintained a roster. Each family had its turn. And this week, the lot had fallen upon the potter.
"One of us must go," the potter wept, his body trembling. "It is my duty as the head of the house. But if I die, who will care for my family? Who will work the wheel?"
"No, husband!" his wife cried, clinging to him. "A family can survive without a mother, but not without a father! I will go. Let me be the one to die!"
Their young daughter, her face pale with terror but her eyes filled with a fierce love, stepped forward. "Neither of you shall go," she said, her voice shaking. "A daughter is born to be given away. My life is a debt to you both. Let me repay it by saving you. I will go to the demon."
Then their little son, no older than ten, puffed out his chest and picked up a small reed he had been playing with. "Don't cry, Father! Don't cry, Mother!" he said bravely. "I will go! I will take this stick and I will kill the Rakshasa!"
The sight of this loving family arguing over who would sacrifice themselves for the others shattered Kunti's heart. This was the pure, selfless love that Dharma was meant to protect. And it was being threatened by a monster while she and her five heroic sons—the rightful protectors of the innocent—were living under this very family's roof, eating their food, accepting their protection. Her Kshatriya blood, so long dormant beneath the guise of a Brahmin, began to boil.
She stepped into the room, her presence suddenly radiating an authority that made the weeping family fall silent. "Stop your tears," she said, her voice calm but filled with an unshakeable resolve. "No one from this house will die. You have given my sons and me shelter. It is a debt we must repay. I have five sons. One of them will take your place. He will drive the cart and deliver the food to this demon."
The potter and his wife stared at her in horror. "No, revered mother, you cannot!" the potter cried. "To allow a guest, and a Brahmin at that, to die for our sake would be the greatest sin! We would be cursed for all eternity! We cannot allow it!"
"You will allow it," Kunti said, her voice leaving no room for argument. "My sons are not ordinary men. Have no fear for them. This is my decision. It is our Dharma."
She returned to her own chamber, her mind made up. Her sons, having overheard the commotion, were waiting for her. Yudhishthira, his face pale with alarm, confronted her immediately.
"Mother, what have you done?" he asked, his voice sharp with disbelief. "How could you make such a promise without consulting me? You have offered one of your sons to a Rakshasa! Bhima is our strength, our shield! His life is not yours to wager! This is a reckless act, born of emotion, not of wisdom!"
Kunti faced her eldest son, her expression unyielding. "It is you who are thinking with emotion, Yudhishthira," she replied calmly. "You are thinking of him as only your brother. I am thinking of our duty. First, we owe a debt of honour to this family who has sheltered us. To live in their house and allow them to perish while we hide in the shadows would be the act of cowards, not of Kshatriyas. Second, it is the highest duty of a warrior to protect the innocent from evil. This Bakasura is a plague upon this town. To ignore it would be a stain on our lineage."
She then turned her gaze to Bhima, who had been listening with a growing, eager excitement. "And third," she said, her voice ringing with absolute faith, "you underestimate your brother. I have not forgotten the boon of the Nagas that gave him the strength of ten thousand elephants. I have not forgotten how he single-handedly crushed the mighty Hidimba. I know my son. This is not a death sentence for him, Yudhishthira. It is a feast. He is not the sacrifice. Bakasura is."
Bhima let out a great, joyous laugh. He was tired of hiding, tired of begging, tired of being hungry. The prospect of a real fight, a chance to unleash his full, untamed power and save an entire town, was the greatest gift he could imagine.
"Mother is right!" he boomed, stepping forward. "Let me go! I will not only deliver the food, I will make this Crane Demon the main course! I will tear him limb from limb and rid this town of its fear forever! This is the work I was born to do!"
Seeing Bhima's eagerness and hearing the unshakeable conviction in his mother's voice, Yudhishthira's objections faded. He saw the wisdom in her plan. It was a risk, but it was a righteous one.
And so, it was decided. The next morning, the potter and his family watched in stunned silence as a mountain of food was loaded onto a cart. But instead of one of their own tearfully taking the reins, the mighty Bhima, his eyes gleaming with anticipation, climbed aboard. He thanked the potter for his hospitality, promised them they had nothing more to fear, and with a flick of the reins, began the slow journey towards the forest cave, not as a victim being led to slaughter, but as a champion on his way to serve a long-overdue justice.