At dawn, the people of Varanavatha gathered in awe and horror to behold the wax house reduced to smoldering ashes. Where once stood a grand arsenal, there now remained only a heap of dust. When the charred remains of five youths and a woman were discovered, the citizens, with heavy hearts, concluded they were Kunti and the Pandavas. They spoke among themselves in grief—how the noble preservers of the Bharata lineage, masters of astras and valorous strength, had perished in flames by the deceit of Dhritarashtra and his sons. Though they mourned, a shadow of suspicion hung over them, for they perceived the subtle hand of treachery from Hastinapura.
Meanwhile, the tunnel-digger, feigning the act of uncovering the remains, quietly closed the secret passage to avoid arousing attention. He recognized the dead as tribal folk and their children, and swiftly conveyed the truth of the Pandavas’ escape to Hastinapura. Yet the citizens of Varanavatha, believing the crime to be the wicked work of Duryodhana and his henchmen, sent word to Dhritarashtra. The blind king, in dramatic display, lamented loudly, while Gandhari and her attendants filled the harem with cries of sorrow. Bhishma and the elders grieved in silence, though Vidura knew and had whispered that the Pandavas lived. Still, Bhishma restrained himself, choosing not to oppose the court’s pretense. Dhritarashtra performed the last rites on the banks of the Ganga, offering oblations and gifts to Brahmins in lavish measure.
Duryodhana, though outwardly somber, inwardly exulted, believing his rivals destroyed, though he lamented the loss of Purochana. Yet the truth lay hidden—Bheema, with secret might, had set Purochana ablaze, preserving the safety of his kin. The Pandavas crossed the Ganga and journeyed southward into forests devoid of light and air. Faint from hunger and thirst, they faltered until mighty Bheema bore them upon his shoulders, resting them beneath a vast banyan tree. Seated upon a stone slab, they gazed around in weariness. Bheema climbed a tree, scanning the distance, and spied a lake shimmering with lotuses in bloom. Descending swiftly, he made his way to its banks, where bees swarmed over blossoms, ruddy shelducks flocked in harmony, and herons lay spread like a white carpet upon the waters. He bathed, drank deeply, and carried water in lotus leaves to his mother and brothers, guarding their sleep as twilight drew near.
As night fell, herds of elephants emerged from caves to graze, their dark forms resembling moving clouds. The Pandavas, weary of journey and hunger, lay asleep upon the earth, using their arms as pillows and cloths as covering. Bheema’s heart sank at the sight—princes, heirs of Hastinapura, reduced to slumber like common men upon bare stone in a forest filled with beasts. Kunti, daughter of Shurasena’s line, sister of Vasudeva, queen once wedded to Pandu, delicate as a blossom, lay exhausted upon the ground. Bheema, though grieved, resolved not to disturb their rest and preserved the water carefully. His thoughts burned against Dhritarashtra, whose blind folly had driven them into the fiery snare of the wax house.
Even as he kept watch, the forest stirred with danger. In a grove of arjuna trees dwelt a demon named Hidimba, with his sister Hidimbi. Scenting human flesh, Hidimba rose, his body swelling, his fangs gnashing, and said to his sister, “At last, humans have come to feed our hunger. Kill them now, and let us feast.” But Hidimbi, sent to carry out the deed, beheld Bheema’s form—broad-chested, lion-waisted, with arms like thunderbolts—and her heart was ensnared. Transforming herself into a graceful woman, she approached him with gentle steps.
“Warrior,” she whispered, “I am Hidimbi, sister of Hidimba. My brother commanded me to slay you, but I am drawn to you with a force beyond my will. Become my husband, and I shall save you from his wrath. I can bear you wherever you desire, and guard you from all harm. For you alone I live.”
Bheema, firm in duty, answered, “O maiden, even the meanest man would not forsake his mother and brothers for the sake of a woman. Shall I, bound by honor, abandon them? Stay aside, for if your brother comes, I alone shall face him.”
Even as they spoke, Hidimba, enraged by his sister’s delay, stormed forth, vast as a thundercloud, with eyes like burning coals and fangs bared. “Wretched sister!” he roared. “How dare you betray me for these mortals?” Trembling, Hidimbi fled behind Bheema, who stood like Garuda himself, fearless. “Do not fear,” said Bheema. “Watch as I rid the forest of this scourge.”
The two clashed with earth-shaking force. They grappled like raging elephants, hurling trees, kicking up dust until they appeared as mountains cloaked in storm. Hidimba roared, seizing Bheema’s hands, but Bheema, with might beyond measure, dragged him away from his sleeping kin. Their struggle shook the forest until dawn’s light painted the east. Arjuna, awakened, called out, “Brother, end him now, for the hour of demons is fading.” Summoning his strength, Bheema seized the fiend by the legs, whirled him around, and dashed him lifeless upon the ground.
The Pandavas marvelled at Bheema’s power and praised him, though he rebuked Hidimbi sternly, warning her to keep her distance. But Yudhishthira, ever the voice of dharma, spoke gently: “Brother, you have slain the guilty. But this woman is innocent. To harm her would stain righteousness. Dharma follows beyond this life; hence, let us not err. She has shown devotion, not deceit.”
Hidimbi, bowing low, confessed her heart: “I am bereft of kin and drawn only to Bheema. For him, I would forsake all. Spare me, and I shall serve you in every way, protecting you when danger nears. I foresee a sage’s grove and a sacred lake near at hand, created by Salihotra’s penance, where hunger and thirst shall not afflict those who drink its waters, and a tree that shields from heat, cold, and storm. There, a holy sage, Krishna Dwaipayana, will come to guide you with wisdom.”
Kunti, perceiving Hidimbi’s sincerity, turned to Bheema: “My son, obey what your elder commands. Accept this woman, for she is fated to bring forth a child for the honor of Pandu’s line. She will be faithful and devoted. Think not ill of her.” Thus persuaded, Bheema consented, and Hidimbi became his wife, dwelling with him by night and wandering by day, until in time she bore a mighty son.
So, the Pandavas, guided by divine grace, came to Salihotra’s hermitage, where they bathed, offered oblations to the Sun, and were welcomed in peace. There they dwelt with comfort, blessed by fate that turns trials into triumphs. The fiery ordeal of Varanavatha, the hunger of the forest, and the battle with Hidimba—all became steps upon the path of destiny, lighting the way with hope and strength.
