Hidimbi led the Pandavas to a sylvan lake called Salivahana. With amazing speed, skill and some magic, as well, she built a cozy, wide-windowed cottage for them on its banks. Then, she said to Kunti, "Let me take Bheema away with me for a while. But every night, I will bring him back to you."
Kunti blessed them. Hidimbi took Bheema by the hand and flew up into the sky.
The lovers had not so much as touched, since Hidimba interrupted their first embrace. Now, as she flew through the air with him, their lips sought each other. They kissed until Hidimbi, wild for more than kissing, flew down into a forest that was hardly a place on earth.
The trees and flowers that grew here were softly radiant and the air was full of quiet wonder. Pale mountains rose steeply all around them. Bheema saw they had alighted in a valley that had surely nes- tled here, pristine and undiscovered, since the world began.
Beside a pool covered with lotuses the Pandava warrior and his beautiful rakshasi lay together on a bed of satin-soft grass and were lost in sweet delirium. Hidimbi's cries echoed from the encircling mountains.
When they did not make love or sleep, Hidimbi bore her husband through the air to many mar- velous, unsullied places; and the earth conspired to make their ardor more climactic. Under thou- sand-year-old nyagrodha trees, which all but spoke, they lay together; and upon eagle's eyries on the dizziest peaks, their naked bodies bathed in the gold and vermilion of sunrise and sunset, or the silver light of the moon that gazed down on their delicious exertions.
Every night, Hidimbi faithfully brought Bheema back to his mother and brothers. For an hour or two, they returned to the cottage on the banks of the Salivahana, where they would eat with the oth- ers: wild game that Arjuna and the twins hunted, or fish from the lake. As the days and months flashed by, a shadow of sorrow fell over the love of Bheema and Hidimbi and they could find no rea- son for it. One day Bheema said to her, "I fear our time together will soon be over."
Lying upon him in languor, she nodded and her eyes were tear-laden. Softly, she said, "Our desti- nies lead away from each other because there is much that you still have to do in the world of men. But I am with your child and we mustn't part until he is born."
Bheema's roar shook the sky. He lifted her in his arms and danced about, naked as he was. Then moved by sharp desire, that now she was his own flesh, he laid her down again tenderly. Later that night, they returned to the cottage. They saw another visitor had come to meet Kunti and her sons: a grandsire and mentor, Vyasa Dwaipayana.
He had heard how the house of lac in Varanasi had burned. With a seer's insight, he knew the sons of Pandu had not died. Asking their whereabouts from wild beasts and birds, he found their sanctu- ary. As the moon rose over the hills, Vyasa shared their evening meal. When they had eaten, they sat on the cottage steps watching Soma Deva ride on the still mirror of the lake.
Vyasa said, "In seven months Hidimbi will bear Bheema a mighty son, a grandchild of the jungle and the wind." He paused and seemed to peer into the future. "The boy's valor will be a legend through the ages. Do not call Bheema's wife Hidimbi from now, for she is not a rakshasi any more. Call her Kamalamalini; she is as lovely and true as a lotus."
Bheema took her hand in the silvery night. Vyasa continued, "When Bheema's son is a year old, you must leave the forest. Kunti, my child, put away your anxiety. These troubled times are only passing clouds against the firmament of your sons' destiny. I, Vyasa, say to you, your princes are born to rule the world and Yudhishtira to be its emperor.
Evil appears to triumph just for a day and then dharma must prevail again. The darkest yaama of night is just before the dawn. Be calm, be brave: these trials are only to strengthen your spirits. Fear nothing, you are never alone. All the rishis of the world are with you and the Devas who are these princes' fathers have not abandoned you. There is deeper and more careful design behind your travail than you imagine."
Seven months went by after Vyasa's visit: months of love for Bheema and Hidimbi and of beauty, but poor peace, for Kunti and her sons. Though the green asrama reminded them of their early years with Pandu, anxiety never left their hearts.
Then Hidimbi delivered a large infant, dark as his parents. He did not cry when he was born, but gazed back at his mother and father, his uncles and his grandmother with grave eyes. He had not a hair on his head and with his enormous ears, it truly resembled a smooth water-pot. They named Bheema and Hidimbi's son Ghatotkacha.
Ghatotkacha was no ordinary child and at the end of the first month of his life, he was a full-grown youth. Time for him was another, extraordinary stream.
Just as the growth of his body was prodigious, so was his mind's. The weeks Ghatotkacha spent with his father, his uncles and grandmother were like years; and by their love for him, they were drawn into his fabulous time. Those were joyful days and full of sorrow as well: they all knew how few these days must be. What filled their hearts, more than Ghatotkacha's phenomenal gifts, was his loving nature.
He learnt wrestling from his father, archery from his uncle Arjuna and mastered them with swift- ness which, if anything, exceeded that of his growth. But Ghatotkacha had a favorite among his uncles in that asrama: Yudhishtira.
The half-human, half-rakshasa boy never tired of sitting at Yudhishtira's feet and learning the Shastras and the Vedas from him, imbibing them with astonishing speed and seldom an interruption. He would sit raptly with his big eyes fixed on the eldest Pandava's tranquil face and drink in every- thing he heard.
With his uncles for masters, Ghatotkacha quickly became a complete warrior and a youth of deep learning as well.
One day, when just a few months had flitted by, Vyasa returned to the asrama on the lake. Bheema and Hidimbi knew the hour of parting had arrived. Ghatotkacha knew it was time to leave his father, his uncles and grandmother. Hidimbi clung to Bheema. No words would come from her; she only wept, her heart breaking. Bheema clasped his woman and his son in his arms and sobbed like a child.
At last, tearing himself away, he said, "Wipe your tears, my love, you have our son with you. Whenever I want to see you, I will think of you and you must come to me at once. Don't cry any more or I shan't be able to go with my brothers, who have need of me still."
They both knew that he would not call her, for a long time. Not because he would not want to, but if he did, another parting would be unbearable.
Vyasa said gently, "Put on valkala and disguise yourselves as wandering hermits. Twist your hair into jata with the juice of the nyagrodha. There is a town called Ekachakra not far from here. That is where you must go for the present."
When they had disguised themselves to look like itinerant brahmanas, they bade farewell to Hidimbi and Ghatotkacha. Then, wrenching themselves away, following Vyasa through the forest, they made their way sadly toward Ekachakra.
They journeyed across clear, chatty streams and still, bright glades that seemed to have been painted on to the earth with a God's brush-strokes. They passed through numinous jungles, full of invisible presences, hidden kinnaras and vidyadharas and other wood spirits. At last, they saw before them a warm, picturesque valley and in it a fine little township. Ekachakra was a collection of perhaps two hundred dwellings. Smoke issued lazily through their chimneys and curled up into a vacant sky.
Vyasa led them to the house of a brahmana he knew where he had already arranged for them to live. When the brahmana had made them welcome and showed them a sunlit, airy room where they could stay, Vyasa said with a smile, "Ekachakra is a quiet town, but I think you may find some liveli- ness here before long. Live, meanwhile, by alms, as brahmanas should. And I will see you again in a few months."
Then he went away.
