Draupadi, having completed her duties and bearing a quiet radiance upon her face, walked toward the kitchen with a resolve that the passing hours should not quench the fierce fire smouldering within Bhīmasena. His spirit, she knew, must remain unbroken and fixed upon the solemn work of bringing down the braggart once and for all. With a calm yet earnest tone, she said, “Bhīmasena, my part has been executed with exactitude. The deep night descends to lull the world into sleep and also to seal the fate of the wretch. All rests now upon your will. Tell me what you intend.” Bhīma, confident and smiling, replied, “O Draupadi, why do you question me so? Speak clearly of the exchange between you both, that I may discern whether any fissure lies hidden in the plan. I shall soothe your wounded and dishonoured heart. A warrior’s mind must stay alert, sealing every gap in a task demanding secrecy, especially when the foe is strong and arrogant.” Though assured, he hid from her his worry that the undertaking, though righteous, was arduous. Yet, he would not inflame her anxieties and instead sought to learn every shade of her conversation, lest the enemy had conceived some cunning manoeuvre.
Draupadi then recounted how she was occupied with her tasks in the chambers of Queen Sudeshna when the wicked intruder arrived, adorned in vanity. She, unmoved by his charms, held firm to the solace Bhīma had earlier offered. The villain tried every art of persuasion—gentle words, lavish promises, crafty temptations, and veiled threats—to lure her. Gradually, she feigned acceptance, letting him believe she was swayed. Subtly, she invited him to the Nartanāśālā at the stillest hour of the night, alone. His foolish heart leapt with delight at the time and place she named, not knowing they were shaped by Bhīma’s design. He left in swelling joy. Bhīma’s eyes gleamed with grim satisfaction; the second movement of the plan had begun smoothly. The first was Draupadi’s mastery of words, drawing the beast into the snare without a single reckless gesture or misplaced syllable. Bhīmasena admired her cleverness in ensnaring the mad predator. “Draupadi,” he said, “my wrath burns because justice has been delayed. It weighs heavily and consumes my spirit. You have prepared me for a task that stands on the edge of our vow of concealment. Yet to earn the silent praise of Dharmaja by avenging the foul assault on your honour, I must proceed. Still, my mind is troubled—what if he suspects, or what if some hidden design of our foes uses him to expose me and condemn us all to unending exile? This thought gnaws at me.”
After some reflection, he asked, “Tell me truly, will he come without hesitation to the spot you named? Or will he bring companions as protection, as is customary for secret ventures? Will his loose tongue betray the meeting unknowingly? My caution stems from my duty to protect the lives and futures of the Pandavas. Our yearning for revenge must not cloud the destiny awaiting us.” Draupadi answered that his desire had drowned his reason, that genuine eagerness shone in his face, and that a mind enslaved to passion has little room for prudence. Bhīma felt assured and said, “Yes, a heart shackled by craving sees no danger. He will come blindly, driven by lust. Let him resist as he will; he shall fall beneath the might of my arms and the weight of my vengeance. Let us not imagine countless possibilities and disturb our purpose.” He added with stern resolve, “When he arrives in shameless eagerness to touch and fondle you, he will be startled to find not you but me. In that very moment, I shall rise like a wounded tiger and seize him. Should he attempt flight, I will grasp him as an eagle clutches a trembling bird and crush him until his breath flees.”
He continued, “Draupadi, if he dares gather his strength against me, know what shall follow—the earth will quiver, the sky will shudder, the mountains will sway, and the seas will convulse. My fury will rise and torment him stroke by stroke until justice is satisfied; I shall reveal my warrior’s terror and break his spirit.” At these words, Draupadi grew anxious. She knew such fury, such roaring force, would shatter their concealment and rouse the entire palace. Gently yet firmly, she sought to calm him, reminding him that a reckless display would expose them. “Bhīma, our foes will mock us, Dharmaja will sink into anguish, and the world will deride our failure if you act in unbridled rage. The task will perish, and with it our future. This must be done in silence. If not, abandon the plan at once; I will not risk our lives for vengeance alone. This danger is vaster than the wager that once ruined us.” She warned him that if the foe offered fierce resistance, he must still strike without sound.
Bhīma admitted the difficulty of restraining himself in a battle of life and death but vowed to hold her counsel close. “Within the limits of my strength, I shall end him quietly, bringing you joy without breaking our hidden path.” Draupadi, comforted by his resolve, blessed his endeavour and departed, saying Sudheṣṇā might already be seeking her. She left with renewed confidence that the plan would unfold without error, while Bhīma steadied his mind for the impending deed.
Elsewhere, the wicked one was burning with desire, restless and unseen by his attendants. Sending away his guards on some false errand, he slipped into solitude, losing himself in fevered imaginings. He recalled her glances, her luminous form, her slender waist, her delicate grace; her beauty danced before him, and he clasped his arms as though embracing her. Every word she had spoken replayed in his mind, quickening his breath. Her expressions shimmered like the moon in his thoughts, and he wandered in a delirious joy, unaware that he was baring his very soul to madness. Sweat gathered on him; sudden dread seized him; he lurched between trembling hope and sinking fear, his mind torn by conflicting fantasies. He wondered whether she would come as promised, whether her earlier hostility had softened, whether Sudheṣṇā might detain her, whether her husbands—if they existed—might intervene, or whether she might herself regret the promise and stay away. Yet he convinced himself she would not deceive him. “If she refuses,” he thought in torment, “this fire will consume me; perhaps I shall destroy her too.”
One moment he feared she would not come; the next he imagined dragging her away by force. Then again, he dreamed of showering her with comforts if she arrived willingly. These storms of thought drained his strength. Soon he saw her form everywhere—coming near, turning away, smiling, vanishing. He stretched out his arms to clasp her but found only emptiness, and his heart fell again into despair. His mind conjured her presence, yet each vision dissolved, leaving him trembling, sweating, and bewildered. He did not know he was ensnared by his own delusion. Fate had turned his thoughts into his tormentors, for one who yields to impure desires becomes his own enemy long before meeting the challenger outside. Thus, the elders teach that the first foe to conquer is the wandering mind. He who neglects this truth invites destruction. Now the villain’s destiny swayed between his fevered thoughts and the flawless design woven by Sairandhrī.
