The journey of the cart was slow, the creaking of its wooden wheels a mournful sound in the quiet of the morning. To any observer, it was a familiar, tragic sight: the weekly offering of life and sustenance to the monster that held Ekachakra in a state of perpetual fear. But the man driving the cart was not weeping. He was not praying. He was, in fact, smiling.
Bhima sat atop the mountain of food, his massive frame dwarfing the cart, his expression one of blissful anticipation. The aroma of the freshly cooked rice, the fragrant curries, and the sweet puddings was a symphony to his senses. For over a year, he had subsisted on meager alms, his wolf's belly a constant, aching void. Now, before him, was a feast fit for a king, and he had no intention of letting it go to waste.
He began his journey by leisurely making his way out of the town, but as soon as he was out of sight, hidden by the first line of trees, he brought the cart to a halt. With a sigh of pure contentment, he reached into a large pot and pulled out a handful of spiced rice and roasted meat. He began to eat. He ate with a single-minded, joyous abandon, his hands moving from pot to pot, sampling every delicacy. He was not just sating his hunger; he was performing an act of supreme defiance. This food, meant to appease a tyrant, was instead fueling the tyrant's destroyer. He was consuming the very fear of the town and turning it into strength.
In his dark cave, Bakasura was growing impatient. The sun was high, and his tribute was late. His cavernous stomach rumbled, and his temper, always foul, began to sour even further. He could smell the food, the delicious aroma carried on the wind, but its slow approach was an insult. He emerged from his cave, a creature of nightmare made manifest. He was a giant, even for a Rakshasa, with long, spindly limbs and a bloated torso, giving him the grotesque appearance of a crane, the bird after which he was named. His skin was a sickly, mottled grey, his eyes were small, red, and filled with a cunning cruelty, and his mouth was a cavern of razor-sharp teeth.
He stalked out of his cave, his rage building with every step. And then he saw it. The cart was stopped in a clearing, and the human who was meant to be his final course was sitting atop the tribute, stuffing his face with the demon's food, his expression one of utter bliss.
For a moment, Bakasura was too stunned to react. He had seen fear, pleading, and resignation in the eyes of his victims for years. He had never seen contempt. He had never seen a human dare to touch his meal.
"WRETCH!" Bakasura's roar was a physical force, a blast of sound that shook the trees and sent birds scattering for miles. "You dare to eat my food? The offering meant for me, Bakasura? I will tear the flesh from your bones and grind them into dust for this insult!"
Bhima looked up from a pot of sweet curd, a dollop of it on his nose. He did not look afraid. He looked annoyed. He held up a hand. "Quiet, you," he said dismissively, his mouth full. "Can't you see I'm eating? Your turn will come when I am finished."
This casual, utter disrespect was more enraging to Bakasura than any weapon. He let out another roar of pure fury and charged. He grabbed a massive tree, tore it from the ground, roots and all, and swung it like a club at Bhima.
Bhima, with a sigh of irritation at having his meal interrupted, casually picked up a leg of roasted goat from the cart and used it to block the blow. The tree trunk shattered against the bone, sending splinters everywhere. Bhima then took a bite from the goat leg and tossed the bone aside.
The fight was on. It was a battle of titans, a primal clash that seemed to shake the very firmament. Bakasura, in his demonic rage, hurled giant boulders at Bhima, who simply punched them out of the air, shattering them into gravel. The Rakshasa's supernatural strength was immense, but he was fighting against a man whose power was equally divine, a son of the Wind God infused with the might of the serpent kings.
Finally giving up on his meal, Bhima leaped from the cart. He met Bakasura's charge, and the two behemoths locked arms. The ground cracked under their feet. They were a whirlwind of destruction, their struggle leveling a wide swathe of the forest. Bakasura clawed and bit, his fangs seeking purchase, but Bhima's skin was as tough as iron. Bhima, in turn, landed thunderous blows with his fists, each one sounding like a smith's hammer striking an anvil.
The Rakshasa, realizing he could not overpower Bhima with brute strength alone, began to use his demonic powers. He grew in size, his form shifting and twisting. But Bhima was relentless. He grabbed the demon by his long legs, swung him around his head like a sling, and smashed him repeatedly against the ground, the impacts creating craters in the earth.
Bakasura, battered and bleeding, let out a scream of pain and fear. He had never met a force like this. He tried to flee, to retreat to the safety of his cave, but Bhima was upon him. He grabbed the demon from behind, his arms wrapping around the creature's torso like iron bands.
"You have terrorized these good people for too long!" Bhima roared, his voice filled with the righteous fury of a protector. "Your reign of fear ends today!"
He placed his knee against the Rakshasa's spine. With a final, tremendous surge of his god-given strength, he pulled. There was a sickening series of cracks, like a great tree splitting in a storm, and Bakasura's body was broken. The demon let out one last gurgling cry and then fell silent, his reign of terror over.
But Bhima was not finished. This was not just about killing a monster; it was about killing the fear the monster had created. He grabbed the massive, grotesque corpse and, with an effort that would have been impossible for any other mortal, dragged it all the way back to Ekachakra. He did not enter the town. He simply left the broken body of Bakasura lying in the dust just outside the main gate, a gruesome, undeniable testament to the town's liberation. Then, he quietly circled around and re-entered the potter's house through the back, his face and clothes smeared with dirt and blood, but his belly, for the first time in a long time, pleasantly full.
The next morning, the first villager to leave the town stopped dead in his tracks, his scream of terror quickly turning into a gasp of disbelief. Others came running, and soon the entire population of Ekachakra was gathered at the gates, staring in stunned silence at the dead monster. Their tormentor, the source of their weekly nightmare, the creature that had haunted their lives for years, was dead.
The silence erupted into a single, massive roar of joyous celebration. People laughed, they wept, they embraced one another. A festival far greater than any dedicated to a god began spontaneously. They wanted to know who their saviour was. They rushed to the potter's house, knowing that it had been his turn to provide the tribute.
The potter, his heart filled with an awe so profound it bordered on religious reverence, met them at his door. He remembered his promise to Kunti. "It was the will of the gods," he said, his voice shaking with emotion. "The Brahmin who is my guest is a man of great spiritual power. Through his prayers and penances, a celestial being was summoned who slew the demon. He wishes for no credit and seeks no reward. He asks only to be left in peace to continue his worship."
The townspeople accepted this explanation without question. It made perfect sense. Who but a man of immense spiritual attainment could command such a miracle? Their respect for the humble Brahmin family grew tenfold. They brought offerings of the finest food, clothes, and gifts to the potter's house, leaving them at the door for their anonymous saviour.
Inside, the Pandavas quietly accepted the offerings. Yudhishthira looked at Bhima, who was happily munching on a sweet cake, and a rare, small smile touched his lips. His mother had been right. They had not only fulfilled their duty to their host, but they had also fulfilled their greater Kshatriya Dharma to protect the innocent. They had done so without revealing their identities, without seeking glory.
The legend of the 'Brahmin Champion of Ekachakra' spread through the surrounding villages and towns. It was a story told around firesides, a tale of hope that proved that even in dark times, when kings were weak and monsters were strong, divine intervention could still protect the righteous. The Pandavas, believed to be dead by the world, had just authored the first chapter of their own myth. They were ghosts, but their actions were beginning to cast a very long, and very heroic, shadow.