The death of Kichaka was a stone dropped into the placid pool of the Matsya kingdom, and the ripples of fear spread to its furthest shores. The commander-in-chief, the pillar of the kingdom's military might, the man whose arrogance was second only to his strength, had been reduced to a grotesque, boneless lump of flesh in a locked room. The official story, the one whispered in terrified tones by the palace guards and proclaimed by a shaken King Virata, was that the beautiful Sairandhri's Gandharva husbands had descended from the celestial realm to deliver a terrible, supernatural vengeance.
This story achieved its immediate goal. Draupadi, as Malini, was now sacrosanct. The men of the court, who had once looked at her with hungry eyes, now averted their gaze, their desire replaced by a mortal terror. They saw not a beautiful servant, but a woman guarded by invisible, jealous, and terrifyingly powerful beings. She was treated with a new, fearful reverence that was, in its own way, as isolating as their scorn had been. Her honor was safe, but her secret had been protected by an act of violence so profound it had sent a tremor through the very foundations of the kingdom.
The most immediate consequence was the rage of the Upakichakas, Kichaka's one hundred and five younger brothers. They were men of similar stock—strong, arrogant, and brutish—and they did not believe the tale of the Gandharvas. They saw only their powerful brother slain and the beautiful servant girl as the cause. They stormed before King Virata, demanding justice.
"This is no celestial vengeance, O King!" their leader roared. "This is a woman's treachery! This Sairandhri lured our brother to his death! She is a witch, a poison-damsel! She must be burned! We demand that she be placed on our brother's funeral pyre and sent with him to the next world!"
King Virata, a weak man terrified of the Gandharvas, was now equally terrified of his enraged in-laws. Trapped between two fears, he chose the path of least immediate resistance. He gave his silent, reluctant consent.
The Upakichakas, roaring in triumph, seized Draupadi. For the third time in her life, she was manhandled by brutes, her pleas for justice ignored. They dragged her from the palace and towards the cremation ground, intending to bind her to their brother's corpse and set the pyre alight.
As she was being dragged through the streets, her cries for help echoing through the city, Bhima heard them from the royal kitchens. A sound that was not quite human escaped his lips, a low, guttural growl of pure, murderous rage. He did not ask for permission. He did not make a plan. He simply moved.
He burst from the palace, not through the gates, but by smashing a hole through a side wall. He took a shortcut, running with the speed of the wind, and arrived at the cremation ground before the procession. He concealed his massive form behind the largest banyan tree, a silent, waiting predator.
When the Upakichakas arrived with their captive, laughing and jeering, they were met with a storm. Bhima erupted from behind the tree, his face a mask of divine fury. He did not bring a mace or a sword. He had uprooted a massive tree during his run and now wielded it like a simple club.
The one hundred and five brothers, brave when tormenting a helpless woman, were frozen with terror at the sight of this giant, roaring cook. The battle was not a battle; it was a slaughter. Bhima fell upon them like a lion upon a flock of sheep. The great tree trunk rose and fell, and with every blow, men were thrown into the air like broken dolls. Their swords and spears were useless against his rage. Within minutes, the ground was littered with the broken bodies of Kichaka's kin.
He freed Draupadi from her bonds. She looked at the carnage, then at her husband, her champion, her avenger. Her eyes were filled with a fierce, unwavering love and gratitude.
"You have saved me again, my lord," she whispered.
"No one will ever lay a hand on you again, Panchali," Bhima vowed, his voice a low rumble.
He then slipped away as silently as he had come, returning to his kitchens before the rest of the city could arrive and discover the identity of the Sairandhri's "Gandharva" protector. The legend grew. The beautiful servant was protected not by one celestial being, but by a host of them, and their wrath was swift, brutal, and absolute. The kingdom of Matsya was now truly terrified of her.
The news of the death of Kichaka and his one hundred and five brothers traveled, as all sensational news does, on the swiftest of winds. It reached the ears of the spies that Duryodhana had scattered across the subcontinent, their single, obsessive task to find any trace of the Pandavas. For twelve years, they had found nothing. But this report was different. It was an anomaly, a roar in the silence.
The spies reported back to the court of Hastinapura. They described the death of Kichaka, a warrior famed for his immense strength, a man who had been mysteriously killed in a locked room, his body crushed into a shapeless ball of flesh. They then reported the even stranger event that followed: the slaughter of his one hundred and five brothers at the cremation ground by a single, unseen assailant.
Duryodhana listened, his mind racing. He was consumed with one thought: the thirteenth year was drawing to a close. If the Pandavas remained undiscovered, they would return, their vow fulfilled, to claim their kingdom. The ticking of this cosmic clock was a source of constant, gnawing anxiety.
He convened his council of war. Bhishma, Drona, Karna, Shakuni, and the other elders gathered in the great hall. "We are running out of time!" Duryodhana declared, his voice tight with frustration. "My spies have scoured every kingdom, every holy site, every forest, and there is no sign of them! It is as if the earth has swallowed them whole! This is our last chance. Where are they?"
It was Bhishma, the great patriarch, his mind a vast library of human nature and worldly affairs, who saw the pattern in the chaos. He listened intently to the spies' report from Matsya.
"Think carefully," Bhishma said, his ancient voice cutting through the tension. "Who in this world possesses the strength to kill a warrior like Kichaka with his bare hands and reduce him to a boneless pulp? I can think of only one man: Bhima. And who could have slain one hundred and five trained warriors in a single onslaught? Again, only Bhima."
He looked around the council. "The tale of the Gandharvas is a clever ruse. Where Bhima is, his brothers are not far behind. Where the Pandavas are, there you will find a land that is suddenly prosperous, righteous, and free from fear. The kingdom of Matsya, under the good King Virata, fits this description. I would wager my life that our cousins have spent this past year hiding in plain sight, as servants in the court of Virata."
Drona nodded in agreement. "The logic is sound. It is exactly the kind of audacious, clever plan they would devise."
A slow, predatory smile spread across Duryodhana's face. He had them. He had found them. "Then the matter is settled," he declared. "We will march on Matsya. We will surround the city and demand that Virata hand them over. We will expose them before their year is complete!"
"And on what pretext will you attack a neutral kingdom?" Bhishma asked, his voice cold. "To do so without provocation would be an act of adharma that would turn the entire world against you."
It was Shakuni who provided the serpent's logic. "We will not attack the kingdom," he said, his eyes glinting. "We will merely raid it. King Virata's greatest strength is his army, but his army's greatest strength was Kichaka. With him gone, Matsya is vulnerable. And what is Virata's greatest wealth? His cattle. We will use his neighbor, King Susharma of the Trigartas, as our cat's-paw."
He explained his two-pronged plan. Susharma, who held an ancient grudge against Virata and was a sworn ally of the Kauravas, would be incited to attack Matsya from the south. His objective: to create a diversion and steal the southern herds. While Virata and his main army were engaged in the south, the full might of the Kuru army—led by Bhishma, Drona, Karna, and Duryodhana himself—would launch a massive raid from the north, their objective to steal the rest of the cattle and, in the ensuing chaos, to force the Pandavas to reveal themselves to protect the king who had given them shelter.
"It is a perfect plan," Shakuni concluded. "If they do not fight, the kingdom that has protected them is destroyed, and they are shamed. If they do fight, they are discovered, and they must return to the forest for another twelve years. Either way, we win."
The plan was set in motion. Susharma, promised a share of the spoils and the humiliation of his old rival, eagerly agreed. He gathered his army and launched a surprise attack on the southern pastures of the Matsya kingdom, driving away tens of thousands of cattle.
The news reached the capital like a thunderclap. The cowherds burst into the court, their faces pale with terror. "The Trigartas have attacked! King Susharma is laying waste to the southern plains! The army is stealing all the cattle!"
King Virata was thrown into a panic. His greatest general was dead. His army was demoralized. He was an old man, not a great warrior himself. He wrung his hands in despair. "What is to be done? Kichaka is gone! Who will lead my army against the treacherous Susharma?"
It was in this moment of crisis that the courtier Kanka stepped forward. Yudhishthira, his face calm and his voice steady, addressed the king. "Do not despair, O King," he said. "You have mighty warriors in your service whom you do not even recognize. I know of them, for they once served my great master, Yudhishthira."
He gestured towards the kitchens. "Your cook, Ballava, is a warrior of immense strength, a wrestler who can defeat lions. Your horse-master, Granthika, is a commander of cavalry without equal. Your cattle-chief, Tantripala, is a master of infantry formations. And I, Kanka, though a Brahmin, have studied the art of strategy at the feet of the greatest kings. Let the four of us accompany you. We will lead your army. I promise you, we will not only defeat the Trigartas, but we will bring King Susharma back to you in chains."
Virata, clutching at this last straw of hope, agreed instantly. The royal armory was thrown open. Bhima, laughing with a joy he had not felt in thirteen years, cast aside his cook's apron and donned a suit of shining armor. Nakula and Sahadeva, their eyes blazing with a warrior's light, took up their swords and shields. Yudhishthira, though he would not fight, stood ready to command.
The Matsya army, confused but inspired by the sudden transformation of these four humble servants into confident, formidable warriors, rallied behind them. They marched south to meet the Trigarta invasion.
The battle was a revelation. The soldiers of Matsya, who had expected a desperate defense, found themselves part of an unstoppable force. Yudhishthira, from a command chariot beside King Virata, directed the battle with the flawless, geometric precision of a grandmaster. Nakula and Sahadeva led the cavalry and infantry in maneuvers so brilliant and so swift that the Trigarta army was instantly thrown into confusion.
And at the heart of it all was Bhima. He did not bother with a chariot. He leaped to the ground, uprooted a massive tree, and charged into the heart of the enemy army. He was a force of nature, a whirlwind of destruction. The soldiers of Trigarta broke and fled before him in terror. He sought out King Susharma, smashed his chariot, and dragged the terrified king from the wreckage.
By sunset, the battle was over. The Trigarta army was utterly routed, the stolen cattle were recovered, and King Susharma was a captive, thrown at the feet of King Virata.
Virata stared at his four servants, his mind reeling with awe and disbelief. These were no ordinary men. He embraced them, his heart overflowing with gratitude. "You have saved my kingdom!" he cried. "Ask of me anything, and it shall be yours!"
They began their triumphant march back to the capital, their victory absolute. But as they celebrated, a lone, dust-covered scout galloped towards them, his horse nearly dead from exhaustion.
"My King!" he gasped, falling from his saddle. "A new disaster! While we were fighting in the south, another army has appeared in the north! A vast, terrible army! The entire host of the Kuru clan is upon us! Bhishma, Drona, Karna, Ashwatthama, and Duryodhana himself! They have defeated our northern garrisons, and they are driving away every last cow in the kingdom!"
A cold dread replaced the joy of victory. They had won the battle, only to be caught in the second, far more dangerous jaw of the trap. The capital was defenseless. The king and his entire army were here, in the south. And the only "warrior" left to defend the city was the king's young, arrogant, and completely untried son, Prince Uttara. The true test, the final, desperate gamble of their thirteenth year, was about to begin.