Though he had been warned that he would scarcely live after laying his hand upon my form, the rash chieftain, still uttering disordered and wandering words, moved as one whose reason had deserted him and whose dreams bore him toward his own doom.
While he drifted in this cloud of delusion, Bhīma released a sudden, ringing laughter that shattered the veil about him and called him back to the brief remnant of life left to him. In the blink of an eye the mighty son of the wind seized that boastful warrior as an eagle seizes its prey; yet the other, summoning all his strength, heaved Bhīma to the earth and pinned him with the practised craft of seasoned wrestlers.
This sudden turn, though unforeseen, awakened in him a last flicker of warrior’s alertness, whispering that some hidden power was at work. Then Bhīma, like a serpent stung to fury, hissed, gathered his breath, shook his vast frame, and wound his arms about his foe as a python coil upon the quarry it will crush.
Rage filled the other to the last fibre of his body, and in blind desire to shatter his enemy, he twisted the son of Pandu by the neck and struck at his thighs with quick, perilous kicks—tricks born of a cruel wrestler’s discipline.
They grappled with the unwearied ferocity of wild elephants, rolling and whirling, rising and falling, each moment changing their advantage; one hurled the other down, only to be hurled in turn. Fearing that the noise of the struggle might betray his presence, the proud warrior struck in silence, driving his fists like falling stones; and Bhīma, no less cautious, retaliated with clenched hand, knee, and foot, not permitting a breath of sound to escape.
To him the death of this oppressor was the price of Draupadi’s honour and the safeguard of the Pandavas’ destiny; but to the other, clothed in ignorance, his opponent seemed only a lesser spirit to be crushed. Both strove with care to still the tremor of their feet, for each sought secrecy—one to escape unseen after murder, the other to shield his queen’s dignity from gossip.
Again, he caught Bhīma by the throat, flung him down, and sat upon his chest; but Bhīma, gripping his legs, strove to wrench his neck and smother his breath. Their strength and skill were so evenly matched that neither gained mastery for more than a heartbeat. They surged across the chamber like two storms colliding, meeting with crashes that shook the walls. At length Bhīma, with calculated cunning, whirled his foe off balance and dashed him repeatedly to the ground.
This relentless tactic sapped the last power from that wicked warrior, raising Bhīma’s confidence. Sensing the advantage, the son of the wind sprang upon him as a lion upon a stricken deer, hurling him down again and again, raining blows of fist and knee until his enemy’s eyes bulged and his limbs beat helplessly upon the floor in search of breath. With one final, immense effort, Bhīma lifted him high and dashed him to the earth with the weight of a falling tree.
, his wrath still unsated, he crushed the limbs and frame of the fallen one until the body lay mangled and formless like a mass of flesh, unrecognisable to any casual gaze. Though Draupadi trusted the strength of Bhīma’s mighty arms, a tremor of doubt touched her heart, for in the darkness and silence she could not know which of the two had fallen. Perceiving her fear, Bhīma lit a torch and silently revealed the crushed remains of her tormentor. Astonished, she approached and whispered, “Your misdeeds have borne their fruit. Be still, for this is the end earned by your lust and your desire to seize another’s wife.” Bhīma, seeing her freed from humiliation by the very means they had resolved upon, spoke gently: “Lotus-faced one, is your distress lifted? Has the fire of your wrath been calmed? You have witnessed the fall of the wicked. Has joy entered your heart? May all who cast an impure glance upon you meet such an end.” Her heart stirred, she replied, “I beheld the storm of your anger held in check within Virata’s hall; it was wondrous.
Now I have witnessed your silent strength and your firm vow to strike down the offender unseen. None but you could have achieved this feat. He who terrorised the world is now a mere remnant of flesh; such is the measure of your courage. I am filled with awe.” Joy rose in Bhīma at her praise, yet he urged that they should not linger, and departed. Later, as recounted by Vaisampayana to Janamejaya, Bhīma returned to the kitchen, washed away all trace of battle, anointed himself with fragrant paste, and rested upon his cot; and Draupadi, assured of his safety, left the dance-chamber, summoned the guards, and commanded them to see what her celestial husbands had done to the wicked man.
The guards hastened with torches, shouting, and the tumult roused the brothers of the slain warrior. They raced to the spot and, beholding his unthinkable end, wailed in disbelief, for the hero they had trusted to be invincible now lay as a shapeless mass. They circled the remains, murmuring in dread, asking where the head had gone, where the hands lay, where the legs had vanished. “Such is the fate,” they said, “of those who fall beneath the hands of celestial warriors.” Their grief mingled with fear, yet one among them urged,
“He cannot hear our cries. Before this mystery spreads, let us carry him to the funeral ground.” Roused by these words, they quickly prepared for the rites. Draupadi watched silently, wondering what turn of fate would follow, when the companions of the slain man—the upstart kin of that proud house—spied her. Fury flared within them, and they seized her, bound her hands, and declared that she should be burned upon the same pyre as the man whose ruin she had wrought.
They resolved to inform King Virāta. Hearing of his brother-in-law’s demise, the king was struck with sorrow, for the man had guarded his kingdom with great might. When the clan informed him of their plan to burn Sairandhrī alongside the body, Virata, sensing their unyielding rage and knowing that her hidden husbands were formidable beyond mortal measure, replied, “Do as you will,” for he foresaw that no harm could befall her. At once they rushed forth, dragging the blameless wife of the Pandavas toward the bier, binding her beside that impure and fallen man.
The noble, chaste, and illustrious lady—born of divine grace and exemplar of virtue—was borne along with the corpse amid the laments and cries of the kin. Torches flickered like a garland of fire about them as they advanced. Though her heart trembled, she steadied herself and cried aloud: “Hear me, my guardians! When such men disgrace your refuge, shall I be bound thus while you live? O Jaya, O mighty Jayantha, O destroyer of foes, O slayer of the wicked with iron sinews, O Jayatsena, O Jayadbala—let your strength awaken!”
In calling upon the Gandharva’s, she spoke in secret code to the Pandavas, for by their pact only Bhīma would answer in deed, while the others held back until the year’s vow was fulfilled. To them she cried as one reminding them that they never leave a task undone, that their hearts are tender to those who seek protection, that they would give life itself for a just cause.
To the crowd she gave only hints—where she was taken, by whom, and in what manner—so that Bhīma might act swiftly and that the foolish horde might not raise a clamour when the storm of the son of the wind descended upon them. In this manner she summoned her protector without betraying the least secret of their hidden exile.
