novelraw Arc 5 - Sambhava - Chapter 32 - Bhima’s Poisoning and Encounters with The Nagas
Arc 5 - Sambhava - Chapter 32 - Bhima’s Poisoning and Encounters with The Nagas
Vaiśampāyana continued:
When the śrāddha rites had been performed with full solemnity and all due observance, the venerable Kṛṣṇa Dvaipāyana Vyāsa beheld the kingdom wrapped in mourning. The people’s faces, once bright with royal pride, now bore the hue of grief; even the streets seemed quieter, the air heavier.
And Vyāsa, seer of past and future, gazed into the stream of time and spoke to his mother Satyavatī, aged now and solemn in her silence:
“O Mother, joy has departed from this house of kings.
The fragrance of dharma grows faint on the wind.
Sin, once veiled, now walks unmasked—
And the fire of strife prepares its fuel.”
“The days of righteousness are passing. The world, once upheld by truth and sacrifice, has grown old. Injustice multiplies, and the reign of the Kauravas shall no longer endure. O noble one, retire now into the forest. Let not your aged eyes behold the ruin of the house you once raised.”
Moved by his words, Satyavatī entered the inner chambers and addressed Ambikā, widow of Vicitravīrya:
“O daughter, I have heard a terrible truth—
That our line shall perish in flames of youth.
The sins of your grandsons shall sunder the land,
And none shall hold dharma with steady hand.
If you permit, I shall depart into the forest with Kausalyā, who is herself consumed by sorrow after her son’s cremation.”
With Bhīṣma’s blessing, and with the quiet sorrow of the court behind her, the queen of the Kurus, mother of sages and kings, departed. Together with her daughters-in-law, Ambikā and Ambālikā, she journeyed into the forest—leaving behind palace, throne, and name. There, in the deep silence of trees and winds, they entered the life of contemplation, devoting themselves to yoga and austerity. And in time, casting off their mortal bodies like garments worn, they ascended to heaven.
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Thus did the elder generations pass, and the children of Pāṇḍu began to flourish like young lions in the shelter of the Kuru household.
Having completed all Vedic rites of purification, they dwelt once again in their ancestral home. Raised with royal discipline and divine strength, the five brothers grew in body and spirit. But even in play, their distinction was unmistakable—especially that of Bhīmasena, second son of Vāyu.
When they raced upon the sand,
None could match Bhīma’s hand.
When they fought with fist or eye,
He stood alone beneath the sky.
In speed and strength, in appetite and mischief, Bhīma eclipsed the hundred sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra. Often he would pull them by the hair, wrestle them to the ground, and laugh aloud as he made them fight among themselves. Though still a child, he handled them as if they were dolls—dragging, lifting, and even dunking them into ponds until they sputtered and gasped for breath.
Sometimes, when they climbed trees to gather fruit, Bhīma would strike the trunks with his heel, shaking the branches so that the princes fell along with the harvest.
He crushed their pride with playful might,
A whirlwind clad in boyhood’s light.
But never once with malice burned—
His blows were sport, not hatred earned.
Yet, beneath the laughter, the seeds of envy had begun to stir.
The Kaurava princes—one hundred and one—could not match the son of the wind. And the tale of that growing disparity was whispered through palace halls, drawing the first shadows across Hastināpura’s peace.
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Vaiśampāyana continued:
But as the sons of Pāṇḍu grew—strong in arm, noble in spirit, and luminous in fame—a shadow began to form in the heart of Duryodhana, eldest of Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s hundred sons.
He watched, day after day, as Bhīma—born of the wind and blazing with force—defeated his brothers with ease, though only in childish sport. Yet behind the laughter, behind the bruises and games, Duryodhana’s pride burned. Jealousy, like a vulture, perched upon his heart.
“None can match him,” he thought in wrath,
“He blocks my kingdom, bars my path.
Though still a boy, he shames our line—
If he lives, the throne is never mine.”
And thus, blinded by ambition and bound by envy, the wicked-hearted prince conceived a plan of deception. Unable to defeat Bhīma in open battle, he resolved to strike by stealth.
“Bhīma,” he thought, “stands alone in might. If I am to rule unchallenged, I must rid the world of him. None can subdue him by arms—but perhaps, by guile, he can be undone. I shall wait for a moment when he slumbers—when his strength lies at rest beside the waters of the Gangā. Then, I shall throw him into the river’s current. Once he is drowned, I shall imprison Yudhiṣṭhira and Arjuna, and the kingdom will be mine.”
Thus, in secret, he set his plot in motion.
He planned not with sword, but smile and feast,
He wrapped his hate in garlands at least.
For evil wears a honeyed face
When dharma it would displace.
Near the banks of the sacred Gangā, at a place called Pramāṇakoti—renowned for its flowering trees and celestial breezes—Duryodhana caused a pleasure-palace to be built. It was adorned with flowing silks, carved pillars, painted ceilings, and a thousand fluttering flags. Rich delicacies were prepared; vessels brimmed with wine and sweetmeats; music awaited in hidden chambers.
It was named "The Water-Sport House"—a palace of play, designed not for joy, but for treachery.
Its walls were bright, its banners high,
Its kitchens rich, its purpose sly.
For built beneath its painted dome
Was the silent wish to steal a home.
When all was prepared, and the scent of luxury filled the breeze, Duryodhana gave the word.
“O cousins,” he said, with a smile cloaked in deceit, “let us now go to the banks of the Gangā, where the trees are crowned with flowers and the air is pure. There, we shall bathe, play, and sport in the water, as princes do in springtime.”
Yudhiṣṭhira, always courteous and unsuspecting, agreed without hesitation. The Pāṇḍavas joined their Kaurava kin, unaware of the malice coiled beneath the invitation.
Then the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra and the sons of Pāṇḍu mounted great elephants of the finest breed and golden-decked chariots that rumbled like clouds, and departed from Hastināpura in festive procession.
The path was lit with banners and festivity—but fate, unseen, followed close behind.
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Upon arriving at Pramāṇakoti, that forested jewel upon the banks of the Gangā, the princes—sons of Pāṇḍu and Dhṛtarāṣṭra alike—dismissed their attendants and stepped into the garden-palace that awaited them. Like lions entering hidden caves upon mountain slopes, they moved through the groves and into halls where beauty lay in every corner.
The palace gleamed with polish and paint—its walls adorned with flowering vines, its ceilings twinkling like the sky. Sculpted fountains danced in hidden alcoves; windows cast patterned light upon lotus-filled pools. The air was sweet with the scent of mālatī and ketakī. On the banks of clear tanks, wildflowers bloomed in profusion, filling the garden with the fragrance of spring’s divine breath.
There, the cousins sat together, royal blood mingling in laughter and play. Fine foods were served, and they began to exchange morsels with mirthful hands, as children born of the same fire.
But not all smiles are made of truth,
And not all laughter springs from youth.
For one among them bore a knife
Behind his grin—a thirst for life.
Duryodhana, whose words were sweet but whose heart was sharp as a razor’s edge, had prepared a cruel artifice. He mixed into Bhīma’s food a deadly poison—slow, silent, and subtle. With feigned affection, he offered it to the son of Vāyu, pressing him gently to eat more.
Bhīma, ever trusting and of iron frame, accepted the food without suspicion, and consumed it in large measure. Duryodhana, seeing his plan unfold, felt joy well in his heart, mistaking cunning for victory.
“He falls tonight,” the sinner thought,
“And with him, all my fears are naught.
Yudhiṣṭhira and Arjuna, too,
Shall soon be bound—and power accrue.”
Soon after, the princes all entered the waters of the Gangā to play. Like celestial youths frolicking in heaven’s pools, they splashed, raced, and laughed. When the games ended, they dressed in pure white garments, adorning themselves with fragrant garlands and ornaments of gold.
But Bhīma, exhausted from the day’s sport and dulled by the poison coursing through his veins, staggered and lay down upon the cool ground. The evening breeze stirred gently across his limbs, quickening the poison’s grip. His mighty arms slackened. His breath slowed.
And then, his senses failed him.
The wind-born son, who shook the skies,
Now fell beneath his cousin’s lies.
His limbs betrayed, his vision fled—
He sank into a poisoned bed.
Seeing him thus insensible, Duryodhana, cruel and cunning, bound Bhīma with vines and creepers from the grove—fetters of shrub and silence. Then, alone and unchallenged, he dragged the unconscious hero to the water’s edge and cast him into the river, watching as the form of Bhīma sank beneath the surface, disappearing into shadow.
But fate, ever watchful, had other designs.
Bhīma’s body, pulled by the current, sank deep—deeper than the eye could see—until it reached the hidden realms of the Nāgas, serpent-folk of the underworld.
They found him there, lifeless in drift, and thinking him a trespasser, they struck.
A hundred fangs, a thousand bites,
Lit up his form with poisoned lights.
Their venom surged through every vein—
Yet Bhīma did not cry in pain.
For the poison already within him—plant-born and mortal—was met and neutralized by the virulent might of Nāga venom. Like fire fighting fire, the substances warred in silence within his blood.
And strange was the effect.
The Nāgas bit—but not his chest,
For there the skin, by Vāyu blessed,
Was hard as stone, like diamond hide—
A sign of strength the gods provide.
Thus Bhīma lay among serpents—not slain, but stilled—while destiny turned its gaze upon the netherworld.