novelraw Arc 6 - Bakasura - Chapter 7 - The Slaying of Vaka
Arc 6 - Bakasura - Chapter 7 - The Slaying of Vaka
Vaiśampāyana said:
After Bhima had firmly pledged himself, saying, “I will do it,” the Pāṇḍavas returned home, carrying the alms gathered that day. But as they sat together, Yudhishṭhira, son of Pāṇḍu, observed the fierce light upon Bhima’s face and grew troubled. The flame in his brother’s eyes betrayed the weight of some grave purpose.
Quietly, he approached his mother and spoke in a low voice:
“O mother, what is this task which Bhima, mighty and terrible in prowess, has taken upon himself? Is it by thy command, or of his own will?”
Kuntī answered with calm resolve:
“By my command, O son. For the sake of this afflicted Brāhmaṇa and to liberate this city from fear, Bhima will perform a great deed.”
But hearing her words, Yudhishṭhira’s heart trembled, and with concern he spoke:
“O mother! What rash decision hast thou made?
This task is perilous—almost a call to death.
The wise do not commend the sacrifice of one’s own child,
Even for virtue’s sake, such a course is harsh and wild.
How can you, O mother, place your own son at such risk?
It is against the path of worldly conduct; it opposes even the Vedas.
That Bhima—upon whose strength we rest at night,
In whose might we see the hope of regaining our lost kingdom—
That Bhima, whose prowess keeps Duryodhana and Śakuni sleepless,
Who rescued us from the blazing palace of lac and the snares of our foes,
Who slew Purochana with his burning wrath—
It is his strength alone that gives us courage to face the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra,
And to dream of ruling this earth once more.
Upon what ground, O mother, do you now resolve to forsake him?
Has grief clouded thy judgment? Has the weight of suffering broken thy reason?”
On hearing Yudhishṭhira’s words, Kuntī spoke gently, yet firmly, her voice steady with the clarity of her purpose:
“O Yudhishṭhira, grieve not for Vṛkodara.
My resolve is not born of weakness or folly.
Grateful we are, for the Brāhmaṇa’s kindness—
Sheltered, protected, unknown to the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra.
For his selfless care, this debt we owe;
And Bhima, mighty as he is, shall repay it so.
Know this, my son, for certain and true:
No favor is lost upon the noble and the just.
I have witnessed Bhima’s strength with my own eyes,
When flames devoured the house of lac,
When he slew the fierce Hidimba in the wild—
What strength! What power in his mighty arms!
The force within Bhima equals ten thousand elephants;
Did he not carry you all, like the wind bears leaves,
Each of you heavy as an elephant’s form,
Through the forests from blazing Vāraṇāvata?
On earth, none rivals Bhima’s might—
Not even the wielder of the thunderbolt.
At his birth he fell upon a rocky mount,
And shattered stone beneath his infant weight.
O son of Pāṇḍu, these signs I saw;
And from them grew my confidence in Vṛkodara’s power.
Therefore I send him forth against this foe,
Not from ignorance, greed, or heedless impulse—
But from rightful thought, with virtue as my guide.
By this act, two paths are joined:
The Brāhmaṇa’s debt repaid with honor;
And merit earned in Dharma’s eyes—
For thus does a Kṣatriya serve.
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O son, he who aids a Brāhmaṇa
Wins heavenly realms beyond this earth.
He who saves a Kṣatriya’s life
Shall earn unending fame, in both worlds.
Who helps a Vaiśya gains wide renown;
And even the Śūdra, when protected well,
Grants his savior, in future birth,
Royal fortune and sovereign might.
Thus spoke Vyāsa, sage most wise,
Whose words were born of penance high.
It is by his counsel I am moved—
And so I have resolved, O son of Puru’s line.”
Hearing his mother’s words, Yudhishṭhira, filled with reverence, replied with calm acceptance:
“What thou hast done, O mother, moved by mercy for the afflicted Brāhmaṇa,
Is indeed a deed of righteousness, virtuous and pure.
Bhīma will return victorious, his life unscathed,
For thy heart, O mother, ever flows with compassion for the twice-born.
Yet, caution must guide this noble act.
Instruct the Brāhmaṇa, dear mother,
That he reveal nothing of this secret task,
Lest word spreads among the townsfolk and invites peril.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
When the night had passed into dawn, Bhīmasena, son of Pāṇḍu, prepared for the task. Taking with him the Rakṣasa’s portion of food, heavy as a mountain, the mighty one departed toward the dark forest where the man-eater dwelt.
Deep into the shadowed woods he strode, where the air grew heavy and ominous, and the trees whispered of lurking terror. Reaching the lair of the Rakṣasa, Bhīma sat calmly and began to devour the food himself, his voice resounding like thunder as he called out:
“Come forth, O man-eater!
Here is thy feast, waiting no longer—
But I claim it first, for the brave eat before the coward!”
Hearing these bold words, the Rakṣasa, his wrath inflamed, burst forth from the shadows and approached with ferocious hunger toward the place where Bhīma sat.
Emerging from the dark woods, the Rakṣasa came forth, a dreadful sight to behold. His massive form shook the earth with every step, and his terrible features inspired terror:
His eyes glowed red like smoldering coals,
His beard and matted hair flamed crimson wild;
His mouth stretched wide from ear to ear,
And his ears stood out like sharp, cruel arrows.
Deep furrows marked his brow in three harsh lines,
His countenance grim, a mask of wrath.
Biting hard his lower lip, his burning gaze fixed upon Bhīma,
As he advanced with fury, heavy as thunderclouds.
Seeing Bhīma calmly eating, the Rakṣasa roared:
“Who is this fool who dares my wrath?
Who, courting Yama’s embrace, devours my meal before my very eyes?”
But Bhīma, O Bhārata, smiled in contempt. Without turning, without haste, he continued eating, as though the Rakṣasa were but a breeze.
Enraged by such insolence, the man-eater let out a dreadful howl,
His arms raised high, his teeth gnashing with rage.
He charged upon Bhīma, desiring to slay him where he sat.
Yet Bhīma calmly took another mouthful,
Glancing once at his furious foe.
The Rakṣasa struck from behind with both mighty fists,
The blow crashing upon Bhīma’s broad back.
But Vṛkodara, unmoved, neither flinched nor faltered,
And continued his meal as though nothing had touched him.
Inflamed with growing wrath, the Rakṣasa seized a great tree,
Ripped from the earth with a roar,
And hurled it with force like Indra’s own bolt.
But Bhīma, having now finished his meal and washed his hands,
Stood upright, cheerful, ready for battle.
With mocking smile, Bhīma caught the flying tree in his left hand,
Stopping its deadly flight with ease.
The Rakṣasa, maddened further, tore up more trees,
Hurling them like thunderbolts.
But Bhīma, mighty as the wind, hurled them back.
Thus raged the battle, tree against tree,
Until the forest stood stripped and broken,
Its tall guards of wood reduced to splinters,
The earth littered with shattered trunks.
Then, roaring his name aloud, the Rakṣasa declared:
“I am Vaka! None can withstand my might!”
And with that, he leapt forward and seized Bhīma,
Wrapping his massive arms around the son of Pāṇḍu.
But Bhīma, the strong-armed, returned his grip,
Locking the Rakṣasa in a deadly embrace.
The earth trembled beneath their struggle,
Their breath roaring like twin storms,
Mighty trees still standing splintered and cracked
As they dragged and wrestled, locked in furious combat.
Gradually, the Rakṣasa's strength began to wane.
Fatigue overcame his monstrous might,
And seeing him falter, Bhīma pressed him down to the earth,
Driving his knee into Vaka's back with crushing force.
Seizing the Rakṣasa’s neck with his right hand
And clutching his waist with his left,
Bhīma bent him backwards, folding his monstrous form like a bow.
A dreadful roar escaped the Rakṣasa’s throat,
Blood gushed from his mouth in torrents,
And his cries echoed through the desolate forest,
As his spine cracked beneath Bhīma’s unyielding knee.
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Then Vaka, monstrous as a mountain peak, broken upon Bhīma’s knee, gave up his life, letting out dreadful cries that echoed through the desolate forest. Hearing these fearsome wails, the Rakṣasa’s kin rushed forth, accompanied by their attendants. But as they beheld the lifeless body of their mighty leader, terror seized their hearts; their courage melted like wax before the flame.
Bhīma, that foremost among smiters, saw their trembling forms and spoke to them with stern yet merciful voice:
“Cease this dreadful way of life.
Shed no more human blood.
If you return to slaughter men,
You too shall meet the fate of Vaka.”
The Rakṣasas, struck with fear at his power and moved by his words, bowed their heads and answered:
“So be it. We shall henceforth spare mankind.”
And from that day onward, O Bhārata, the Rakṣasas of that forest dwelt peacefully, no longer troubling the people of the region.
Then Bhīma, seizing the lifeless body of Vaka, dragged the colossal corpse to one of the gates of the town, leaving it there under the open sky, unnoticed by any soul. The terrified kinsmen of Vaka, seeing their mighty chief slain, fled in all directions, vanishing into the shadows of the forest.
Having thus fulfilled his task, Bhīma returned to the dwelling of the Brāhmaṇa. There, he narrated the entire tale in detail to Yudhishṭhira, who listened with admiration and relief.
When morning dawned, the townspeople emerged and came upon the Rakṣasa’s corpse, lying blood-smeared upon the ground. Like a fallen hill of flesh, monstrous and broken, the sight froze them in awe.
The hair upon their bodies bristled in fear and wonder. Swiftly they ran back to Ekacakra, spreading the news like wildfire. Soon, thousands of citizens—men and women, young and old—poured forth to witness the slain monster. The roads overflowed with eager crowds, their voices rising in amazement.
Beholding this mighty feat—beyond mortal power—they bowed to their gods in reverence, praying for continued protection.
And then, in whispers, they began to calculate:
“Whose turn had it been yesterday
To carry food unto the Rakṣasa?
Who among us was fated to die,
And by whose fortune were we spared?”
Thus the people marveled, unable to comprehend the power that had delivered them from dread.
Vaiśampāyana continued:
As the townsfolk calculated whose turn it had been to face death that day, their inquiries led them to the humble dwelling of the Brāhmaṇa who had been destined to deliver food to the Rakṣasa. They surrounded him, full of curiosity and wonder, pressing him with eager questions:
“Tell us, O revered one!
How were you spared from Vaka’s dreadful grasp?
Who among men has delivered us all
From this terror that haunted Ekacakra?”
Thus implored repeatedly by the citizens, that Brāhmaṇa, noble and wise, though wishing to conceal the Pāṇḍavas, spoke to the assembled crowd with careful words:
“Listen, O citizens, to what befell.
As I wept in grief with my family,
Knowing my fate was sealed by the Rakṣasa’s demand,
There came to me a high-souled Brāhmaṇa,
Well-versed in mantras and fearless in heart.
He asked the cause of my sorrow,
And learning of the town’s affliction,
He smiled gently and offered his word:
‘Do not fear, O Brāhmaṇa, for I shall take the food today.
Rest easy—you and your kin shall be safe.’
With calm assurance he bore the offering
Into the forest of Vaka.
It is he—none other—who has done this mighty deed,
Delivering us all from death’s cruel grip.”
Hearing this tale, the Brāhmaṇas and Kṣatriyas marveled greatly. The Vaiśyas and Śūdras too were filled with joy, their hearts lightened of a burden long endured. With gratitude swelling in every house, the citizens resolved to honor the unknown savior who had freed them from terror.
Thus, O King, the people of Ekacakra established a grand festival. The worship of Brāhmaṇas became its central rite,
In remembrance of the deliverance bestowed upon them—
For though his name was hidden,
The deed shone like the sun.