Kunti and her sons kept much to themselves and lived by begging for alms. The people of Ekachakra took readily to the quiet youths and their mother; but those town-folk were not fools. They met together and said, "These are no itinerant rishis, but high-born kshatriyas. Perhaps they are in flight from some danger."
"Yet they are not arrogant, nor do they condescend to us."
"Their devotion to their mother is wonderful to see. Let them remain among us for as long as they want."
Though the people of Ekachakra accepted them warmly, anxiety was never far from the Pandavas' minds. They would go out for alms in the morning. How alien to their royal natures this begging was, it made them humble and taught them about the world. As soon as their begging-bowls were full, they would not delay a moment but hurry back to Kunti, lest any of Duryodhana's agents wan- dered into the little town.
Often with tears in her eyes, Kunti would divide the food her sons had begged. Bheema would always get half of everything the brothers brought and the rest was shared equally among the others. And they were not unhappy, though for Bheema the food was never enough and he grew rather lean.
Nearby there lived a potter who became friendly with them. He grew especially fond of Bheema, who helped him carry loads of hay; he was sad to see the young giant waning from not getting enough to eat. This potter was an intelligent man and something of a comic. One day he arrived at the Pan- davas' door with a begging-bowl he had made for Bheema, three times the size of an ordinary one.
The next day, Bheema went begging for alms with his outsized bowl. Giggling to see him with the huge thing, the women of the town filled it to the brim, some of them with amorous looks at the strapping brahmana. Then on, those women began to cook a little more food and the big brahmana would oblige them by splitting firewood or doing heavy work around their houses. He was careful not to become otherwise involved, despite all the subtle and flagrant invitations he had almost daily. Some mild flirtation was harmless enough and Bheema did not deny himself that pleasure.
One morning, just Bheema and Kunti were at home in the brahmana's house, when they heard loud sobs from the next room, where their host lived with his family. Kunti raised a finger to her lips: the brahmana and his wife were crying.
Kunti had grown very fond of the man, his wife and their two children: an older daughter and a young boy. She came to listen at the closed door that divided the brahmana's house.
She heard him say, "Curse this treacherous world! Curse this life, its roots are only torment and misery. Woman, years ago I said to you let us leave this accursed town. You answered that you were born here and here you would live. And now...oh, now death is upon us and there is no escape."
His wife said, "Death is certain for all that are born. Don't grieve, I will go in your place."
Her husband gave a louder cry still. "How can I sacrifice your life for mine?"
"The rishis of old have said that women should never be killed. If the devil won't hesitate to kill a
man, he may not kill a woman. I have borne your children and my nature's deepest needs have been satisfied. Death holds no terror for me, I will go to the rakshasa."
Hearing the word rakshasa, Bheema sat up in the next room. Now the daughter of the house, a girl of twelve, ran to her parents, hugged them and wiped their tears. "My brother is just four. He will die if either of you leaves him at this tender age. The son of a family is its soul and the soul must be nur- tured.
Let me go to the rakshasa. You are more precious to me than my own life and I will feel no fear or pain."
All three clung together and sobbed. Then the little boy stopped his thoughtful game in the yard. He was a tousle-haired, beautiful young fellow. He ran in and lisped, "Don't cry."
