Sri Krishna, in his quiet mastery, revealed that Jarasandha could never be overcome by weapons. Only in the trial of wrestling could his strength be broken, and for that task, none was equal to the son of the wind, mighty Bhīma Sena. “Let us waste no time,” said Krishna, “for with courage, moral force, and the pride of righteousness united, we shall humble him. If you trust me, send your brothers with me. Together we shall liberate the captive kings and win glory for the Rājasūya.”
Though his words were modest, the keen art of Krishna shone through. He laid bare the enemy’s strength, reminded them of the boon that shielded him, prepared Bhīma and Arjuna by quiet strategy, and then wrapped the whole in a humility that none could gainsay. Yudhishthira, moved by Krishna’s devotion and unclouded truth, answered with reverence: “You are the very axis of virtue, the steadfast ocean of compassion, the unwearied guardian of the earth. With you beside us, nothing can be denied. Bhīma and Arjuna are my eyes; you are my mind. How can I live long apart from you? Yet my heart rejoices, for your grace will lead to victory and to the freedom of countless kings.”
Thus resolved, the three disguised themselves as young Brahmins newly released from their studies, performing the sacred rite of the snātaka, and set forth. They crossed the dark Kalakuta, the swift Sadaneerā, the golden Sona and the noble Gandaki, rivers born of one mountain. They passed the Sarayū, went through the lands of Purva Kosala and Mithila, and reached the broad Ganga. Ever eastward they travelled until at last the rich realm of Magadha lay before them.
They climbed the heights of Goradha and beheld palaces of dazzling grandeur, creepers heavy with flowers perfuming the air, and fortresses carved with exquisite art, secure and impenetrable. Girivraja stood before them, radiant with wealth like Kubera’s own Alakapuri, ringed by the five protecting hills—Goradham, Rishabham, Vyāharam, Rushagiri, and Chaityakadrī—an ancient gift of the sage Gautama, whose blessing had made the Magadha kings seem unconquerable.
Krishna, wary of the city’s alarms, led his companions up the Chaityaka hill, where stood three vast drums of deep, booming voice, fashioned from the hide of a sacrificial bull slain by Magadha’s early kings. Their sound would betray any intruder the moment he entered the city. Bhīma and Arjuna shattered them with their mighty fists and passed unheard.
Descending, they forced flowers and sandal-paste from the market stalls, and with garlands and fragrant markings upon their brows, strode like Brahmins whose entry no guard might bar. Into the very chambers of Jarasandha they came, like lions walking into a cowshed. There the ruler, observing the ancient rites of honour, offered the sacred madhuparka of honey and curd. But the three declined.
With the pride of a king and the insight of a warrior, Jarasandha said: “If you are true students, is it fitting to seize flowers and paste by force, to enter by the hill and not the gate, and to spurn the welcome of your host? Your arms and sinews betray the strength of Kshatriyas.”
Krishna answered calmly: “We are indeed Kshatriya graduates, our virtues our only wealth. A warrior’s house is entered by the main door or by the power of his own fist. Flowers and sandals belong to the wealth of kings; we took them by right. We seek other business with you, and so we refuse the madhuparka.”
Jarasandha frowned: “I have harmed neither you nor yours. Why come as enemies to one who honours gods, sages and Brahmins and keeps the Kshatriya code?”
Krishna’s voice grew stern: “Protector of kings you claim to be, yet you capture kings and offer them as living sacrifice to Śiva. Is there a sin more grievous among rulers? Shall we, knowing of such cruelty, keep silent and share the guilt? Release the captive kings, or answer to justice. In ancient days, mighty lords—Jayadratha of Sindhu, Dambhodbhava of Gandhamādana, Kartavīrya of the Haihayas—were struck down when pride led them to insult the righteous. Strength is no shield for tyranny. I am Krishna; this is Bhīma, this Arjuna of the Kurus. These sons of Pandu will break the arrogance that holds those kings in chains if you do not free them yourself.”
Thus provoked, Jarasandha shook his mane like an enraged lion. “Is it wrong to conquer by strength?” he thundered. “Valour is the very breath of kings. Why should I release those whom I have won by my own courage and are destined for the worship of the Supreme Lord? If it is battle you seek, I stand ready—against your army, or against any one of you, by weapons or by wrestling.”
Krishna replied: “Let not many be drawn into needless slaughter. Choose one of us for single combat.”
With proud contempt, Jarasandha chose Bhīma, son of Vāyu, as his equal. Having anointed his own son Sahadeva king of Magadha and received the blessings of his priests, he bound his hair in a warrior’s knot and stood forth to fight.
Then began a combat like the clash of mountains, like lion against tusker, like Indra striking Vṛtrasura. Bhīma and Jarasandha circled and grappled, muscles corded, sinews slapping like thunder. One hurled the other, who sprang back; one dragged, the other resisted; each strove only for victory. For fourteen days they fought without pause, and none could guess whose strength would last.
At last, as night fell, Krishna saw Jarasandha’s power wane. “O son of the wind,” he whispered, “fame waits upon thy arm. Thy foe grows weak. Call upon thy father and show the fullness of thy might.” Bhīma bowed inwardly to Vāyu and, emboldened, lifted Jarasandha high. He dashed him to the ground again and again, bones splintering beneath the fury of his embrace. At last, with the secret art that alone could end him, Bhīma tore him asunder and left him lifeless.
A roar of victory and of terror rolled through the city. Women fled and hid as though the end of days had come. Bhīmasena dragged the shattered body to the palace gate, the people scattering in fear. The first great task was accomplished—the tyrant of Magadha lay dead—yet the release of the captive kings and the trials that must follow waited to test the steadfastness of those who had triumphed.
