Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 1 - Aranyaka and Kirmirabadha Parva - Chapter 4 - The Demon Kirmira

Dhṛtarāṣṭra, the blind monarch of the Kurus, sat in uneasy silence, his heart still heavy with the tidings of the Pāṇḍavas’ exile. The echo of dice on the polished hall at Hastināpura seemed to linger in his mind, as though the very stones mocked him for the injustice done. The memory of Draupadī’s humiliation stung his soul, yet his love for his sons, blind as his eyes, held his voice in chains.

Breaking the silence, he turned toward his half-brother and counsellor, the wise Vidura.

“O Kṣattā,” he said, his voice low but urgent, “I am desirous to hear in detail of the destruction of Kirmira. Tell me, how did the encounter between this Rākṣasa and Bhīmasena unfold?”

Vidura, calm as the steady flame of a ghee lamp untouched by wind, inclined his head.

“Listen, O King,” he said, “to the story of Bhīmasena’s deed—one of superhuman power and fierce resolve. I heard it often in the company of the Pāṇḍavas, for they did not hide their trials from me.”

He began to recount what had taken place.

After their defeat at dice, the Pāṇḍavas—stripped of kingdom and honour—departed from Hastināpura with Draupadī and the priest Dhaumya. For three days and nights they travelled, the dust of exile settling upon their hearts as much as upon their garments, until they reached the shadowed wilderness of Kāmyaka forest, a realm of solitude and lurking peril.

It was the dreadful hour of midnight, when nature sleeps and the unseen wander freely. At such times, man-eating Rākṣasas—masters of illusion and cruelty—stalk the land. The sages, cowherds, and hunters of that region avoided Kāmyaka’s depths, fleeing at night to distant shelters, for in those woods death prowled with flaming eyes.

The Pāṇḍavas, entering those forest paths beneath a waning moon, were suddenly halted.

Before them, from the gloom, a figure emerged—a towering Rākṣasa bearing a burning brand. His arms stretched wide to bar their way, his face twisted in menace.

His teeth, eight in number, jutted outward like the fangs of serpents; his coppery eyes glowed like embers in a dying fire. The hair on his head rose in a fiery halo, as though each strand were a spark of lightning. He stood like a mass of storm-clouds lit from within, flocks of pale cranes seeming to flutter across his dark frame in the flicker of the torchlight.

Roaring like monsoon clouds charged with rain,

He wove illusions thick as mist in the night.

The forest trembled beneath his breath,

And fear took wing in every living thing.

Birds fell silent and dropped from the air. Deer, leopards, buffalo, and bear fled in every direction. The movement was so great that the forest seemed to sway, as if the very earth recoiled from his presence. Creepers twisted around tree trunks as though seeking protection; the wind, driven by the monster’s sighs, scattered dust into the sky, shrouding the moon.

Like grief, the foe stood before their senses—

Dark, overwhelming, unbidden,

An enemy unknown but destined,

Closing the path with the weight of fate.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

Clad in black deer-skins, the Pāṇḍavas approached, but the fiend blocked them like Maināka mountain barring the path of the ocean. At the sight of him—unknown yet dread—Draupadī’s heart quailed. Her lotus-eyes closed, and she turned her face away, for the memory of Duḥśāsana’s cruel hand in the Kuru court was still raw in her mind.

She stood in their midst as a stream caught between five hills, her beauty trembling like moonlight on troubled waters. The brothers gathered close around her, as the five senses cling to the pleasures of their objects, protecting her with their bodies and their gaze.

The sage Dhaumya, master of sacred rites, stepped forward. Murmuring mantras of power, he dispelled the dark illusions the Rākṣasa had conjured. The night’s veil of deceit was torn away, revealing the monster in his true form—wrathful, massive, and terrible to behold.

Yudhiṣṭhira, ever courteous even to foes, called out,

“Who art thou, and whose son? Tell us what thou desirest, that we may know our course.”

The Rākṣasa’s reply was a growl wrapped in words.

“I am Kirmira, brother to Vaka, of whom ye have surely heard. These are my woods. Each night I feed upon men I have vanquished. And now fortune favours me! For here stands Bhīma—the slayer of my brother, whom I have long sought. He slew Vaka in the guise of a Brāhmaṇa, not by strength of arms but by deceit of science. He slew also my friend Hiḍimva and took his sister. Tonight, O Yudhiṣṭhira, I shall feast upon him, quenching the thirst of Vaka’s manes with his blood. As Agastya swallowed the Asura Vātāpi, so shall I devour Bhīma!”

At these words Yudhiṣṭhira’s eyes grew hard.

“It cannot be so,” he said, his voice edged with anger.

Bhīma, whose wrath is swifter than thought, uprooted a tree of ten Vyāsas in length, stripping it of its leaves with a single motion.

Arjuna, ever ready, strung his Gāṇḍīva bow in a flash, its twang like thunder in the night. But Bhīma stayed him with a gesture.

“Stay, Partha. This one is mine.”

Tightening the cloth at his waist, rubbing his palms, biting his lip, he advanced. The tree in his hand was like the mace of Yama himself.

Like Indra hurling the thunderbolt,

Bhīma brought the tree down upon the demon’s head.

Yet Kirmira stood unmoved,

A mountain laughing at the wind.

The Rākṣasa flung his burning brand at Bhīma, but with a deft flick of his foot, the Pāṇḍava sent it spinning back. Kirmira answered by uprooting his own tree and charging forward, the clash of their weapons shattering trunks like reeds.

The forest shook as if in the grip of an ancient quarrel between gods. Trees fell in splinters, their fall like the crash of temple drums. It was a battle like that of Vāli and Sugrīva in ages past—two mighty forms locked in feral struggle.

When the trees were gone, Kirmira seized a crag of stone and hurled it at Bhīma, who did not move an inch. Then the Rākṣasa rushed forward, arms outstretched, seeking to crush the Pāṇḍava in his grasp.

They grappled—two bulls with horns locked, two tigers with fangs bared. Bhīma’s mind flashed to the humiliation in the Kuru court, to Draupadī’s downcast eyes, to Duryodhana’s smirk. Strength welled in him like the Ganges in flood. Kṛṣṇā’s gaze was upon him, and he could not fail.

Fierce as an elephant in rut, he seized the foe.

The Rākṣasa’s grip was iron,

But Bhīma’s arms were the coils of death—

No foe could slip them.

With a heave, Bhīma threw Kirmira to the earth. The sound of their hands striking was like bamboo splitting in a storm. Lifting the monster by the waist, Bhīma whirled him around as a tempest spins a tree. Kirmira’s roars faltered into gasps. Bhīma bound him in his grip as a hunter binds a beast with cord.

The demon’s struggles weakened. Sensing the end, Bhīma pressed his knee into Kirmira’s waist and his hands against the monster’s neck.

“O sinful wretch,” he cried,

“No more shalt thou wipe away the tears of Hiḍimva or Vaka.

Thy path now lies to Yama’s dark hall—

Go and greet thy kin among the dead!”

With a final twist, he broke the Rākṣasa’s life. The great body, dark as a raincloud, lay still upon the ground. Bhīma rose, his chest heaving, his eyes still bright with wrath.

Yudhiṣṭhira praised his younger brother for his courage and strength. Draupadī, though shaken, felt the weight of fear lifted from her heart. Placing Kṛṣṇā at their head, the Pāṇḍavas moved deeper into the forest, now freed from the menace that had stalked its paths.

The forest sighed in relief,

As though it too had feared the fiend.

Stars peered once more through parted clouds,

And the wind’s breath grew gentle.

Vidura concluded,

“It was thus, O King, that Bhīma, at Yudhiṣṭhira’s command, rid the forest of its pest. The Brahmanas dwelling there rejoiced, praising the Pāṇḍava’s might. And I myself, passing through that forest, beheld the corpse of the fearless Kirmira, and heard of Bhīma’s deed from the sages who had gathered around your exiled sons.”

Vaiśampāyana, narrating to Janamejaya, added softly,

“Hearing of Kirmira’s death, Dhṛtarāṣṭra sighed in sorrow, his mind clouded in thought.”