As Vasusena and Yuyutsu set out on their Digvijaya, they commanded single chariots, each maneuvering like a storm across the land, a testament to their strength, strategic brilliance, and the united purpose driving them. Their campaigns were not just about conquest; they were swift, decisive strikes, minimizing unnecessary bloodshed and maximizing alliances with the kingdoms they sought to subjugate.

Each victory seemed like a prophecy fulfilled, as the name of Vasusena, the former King of Hastinapur, echoed across the land. The people of Aryavarta were stunned to see the eldest Pandava, once in exile, now returning as a mighty force. Alongside him rode his younger brother, Yuyutsu, the former Mahamahim of Hastinapur. Their combined prowess, strength, and diplomatic skill quickly became the talk of the realm.

Once strong and proud, the kingdoms of Himavat and Anga bent to their will. The Himavat rulers, renowned for their mountainous terrain and resilient forces, could not stand against Vasusena's strategic brilliance. Vasusena's army, led with precision and honour, secured the region in rapid confrontations. The people of Himavat, initially resistant, began to acknowledge the leadership and promise of a prosperous future under his reign. With Yuyutsu's careful diplomacy, alliances were formed that cemented their hold on the land.

In Anga, the chariot-bound warriors of Vasusena and Yuyutsu swept across the kingdom with an unwavering resolve. With trade routes and the fertile lands of the eastern river basins falling into their hands, the brothers' reputation grew. Their mastery over warfare, tempered with their commitment to building lasting alliances, made their rule appear not as tyranny but as the return of a just and honorable leadership.

As news of their victories spread, it reached the grand palace of Hastinapur. Dritarashtra and Gandhari could not hide their astonishment and deep pride in the royal chambers. The thought of Vasusena and Yuyutsu reclaiming their ancestral legacy was both a joy and a bittersweet reminder of the family's lost greatness.

Kanika, the ever-watchful minister, pondered on the developments in the realm. "Vasusena, the mighty Pandava, is on his conquest. With Yuyutsu at his side, they reclaim lost lands and bring stability to the fractured kingdom. But how will we secure lasting peace with the surrounding kingdoms? The answer lies in their strength and alliances," Kanika mused to Dritarashtra and Gandhari.

Suyodhana, ever threatened by Vasusena's rise, could not help but watch with concern. The idea of the Pandavas regaining power, especially with the united strength of Vasusena and Yuyutsu, was a looming threat to his throne. Yet, Suyodhan's eyes also observed, wondering how this confluence of brotherly strength might eventually shift the tides of power.

The people of Aryavarta, watching these developments unfold, could not help but feel the winds of change. Vasusena, once an outcast, now stood on the precipice of something greater. His strength, with the unyielding support of his brother, Yuyutsu, was bringing back power and stability. As they marched on, Aryavarta realized that this was no longer just a fight for dominance—it was the dawn of a new era under the eldest Pandava.

Their rise was now unchallenged, and the sound of their chariots, rolling across the lands of Aryavarta, became a symbol of hope for some and a warning for others.

A Glimmer of Hope

Five Pandavas, accompanied by Niyati, moved swiftly from one forest to another, hunting wild animals and traversing the expansive lands of Matsya, Trigarta, Panchala, and Kichaka. Along the way, they marveled at the enchanting beauty of the woods and serene lakes. Clad in ascetic attire of bark and deerskin, with their hair bound in matted locks, the great-souled ones, alongside their mother Kunti, assumed the guise of hermits.

Sometimes, they quickened their pace, carrying their mother when necessary, while at other times, they journeyed leisurely, exposed to the open skies. Amid their wanderings, they diligently studied the Brahman in the Vedas, delved into the Vedangas, and immersed themselves in the wisdom of nitishastra.

At that time, these wise and steadfast ones encountered their revered grandfather, Krishna Dwaipayana Vyasa. They saluted the great sage with deep respect and reverence, standing before him with joined palms, their mother by their side.

Vyasa, the island-born Rishi, addressed them with compassion and foresight: "Pandu Putro! I foresaw Gandhari's sons' path, deviating from dharma and unjustly banishing you from your rightful place. Knowing this, I have come for your welfare. Do not let sorrow cloud your hearts, for this adversity will pave the way for future happiness. Though I hold both you and them equally in my heart, my affection leans towards those who suffer misfortune or are young, and thus, my love for you is more significant now. Driven by this love, I wish to do good for you.

A beautiful town, a haven where you can safely dwell is not far from here. Go there, live in disguise, and await my return. Your trials will bear fruit, and the path ahead will lead you to triumph."

Vyasa then turned to Kunti, offering her words of reassurance: "Kunti, your eldest son, Suryaputr Vasusena, has already achieved victories over Himavat and Anga as part of his Digvijaya alongside Yuyutsu. He is steadfast on his quest and will soon return home, reuniting with you."

Hearing these words, the brothers were filled with joy and renewed hope. Vyasa's voice resonated with divine authority: "Your son Yudhishthira, ever devoted to truth and dharma, will rise to unparalleled glory. Guided by justice, will conquer the earth and rule over all its monarchs. Undoubtedly, with the strength of Bhima and the prowess of Arjuna, he will extend his reign over the vast expanse of Aryavarta, encircled by the seas.

Your sons and those of Madri, mighty warriors, will revel in their dominions, performing grand sacrifices like the Rajasuya and the Ashvamedha, where gifts to the Brahmanas will be abundant. They will rule their ancestral kingdom with righteousness, ensuring prosperity and happiness for their friends, relatives, and subjects. The lineage of the Kurus will thrive under their leadership, and their glory will echo across the ages."

With these words, Vyasa led the Pandavas to the humble dwelling of a Brahmana, providing them with refuge and guidance. As he prepared to leave, he addressed the eldest, Yudhishthira: "Wait here for me. I will return. By adapting to the land and the times, you will find happiness and success in ways you cannot yet foresee."

With joined hands, the Pandavas and Kunti bowed to Vyasa, their hearts filled with gratitude and reverence. "So be it," they said in unison, their voices firm with determination. The great sage, satisfied, departed for his abode, leaving the promise of hope and triumph for the Pandavas.

A Mother's Fears

Dwaipayana, while departing, cast a knowing glance at Niyati, his serene smile holding unspoken words. He left quietly, leaving behind an air of both assurance and mystery.

After his departure, Kunti, unable to shake off a growing unease, turned to Niyati with concern etched deeply on her face.

Her voice, though steady, carried a tremor of worry as she asked, "Why did Maharishi Vyasa speak only of my five sons' future? Why did he say Yudhishthira would rule the kingdom? Why not Vasusena? What about Yuyutsu?"

Her question struck like a bolt of lightning. The others, startled, exchanged glances, their faces clouding with confusion. A heavy silence enveloped them as the realization of Vyasa's omission sank in. It was as if time had frozen for a moment, leaving them all in a trance, unable to think clearly.

Unable to contain the storm of emotions within her, Kunti spoke again, her voice rising with desperation. "They are on their Digvijaya now. Is something going to happen to them? If that is so, I care not for kingdoms or power. I only want my sons alive—nothing more. Tell me, Putri, please, tell me they will return safely!"

Her words hung heavy in the air, and Arjuna stepped forward, his worry mirrored in his tone. "Niyati, is Jyeshta Vasusena safe? And what about Brata Yuyutsu? If there is danger, we must act! Let us go to their aid now if they need us!"

The rest of the brothers joined their voices in agreement, their collective concern like a rising tide. Niyati, her expression calm yet filled with empathy, moved to Kunti's side. She gently took her aunt in her arms, holding her as though to shield her from her fears. Wiping away Kunti's tears, she made her sit down and knelt before her, meeting her gaze directly.

"Listen to me, Bua," Niyati said softly but firmly, her words carrying an unshakable conviction. "Nothing will happen to Vasusena or Yuyutsu during this Digvijaya. They are strong and protected by fate itself. As for why Brata Yudhishthira is named king and not Jyeshta Vasusena—that truth will be revealed in time. Trust me when I say that you will meet again; it will be a moment of great joy. Do not let thoughts of death consume you when the future holds so much to look forward to."

Though still uneasy, Kunti clasped her hands in prayer, her lips murmuring a silent appeal to the gods. Taking solace in Niyati's words, she rose and walked with Bhima toward the dwelling Vyasa had shown them. The air between them was heavy with unspoken fears, but Kunti's steps were steadier now, as though her faith had been rekindled.

Left behind, Yudhishthira stood motionless, his brow furrowed in contemplation. Finally, he broke the silence, his voice calm but tinged with confusion. "Why will I be king, Niyati, when Jyeshta Vasusena is here?"

Niyati turned to him, her eyes steady and unreadable, her voice carrying an enigmatic finality. "Ask Jyeshta Vasusena when he returns," she replied. The weight of her words lingered, leaving Yudhishthira and his brothers with more questions than answers and a glimmer of hope.

A Cry for Help

After reaching Ekachakra, Pandavas resided briefly in the house of a Brahmana. They roamed the land, humbly begging for alms, their noble hearts untouched by hardship. As they wandered, they beheld enchanting woods, distant horizons, mighty rivers, and serene lakes. Their virtuous conduct and radiant qualities soon won the hearts of the townsfolk, making them beloved among the citizens.

They humbly placed their collected alms each night before Kunti, who divided the food among her sons. The scorchers of foes, the valorous Pandavas, and their mother shared half of the provisions. The other half, in its entirety, was consumed by Bhima, whose immense strength demanded sustenance far greater than the rest. Yet, amidst this ritual, a poignant moment arose.

One quiet evening, with a trace of concern, Bhima turned to Niyati and asked, "Why do you eat so little, unlike the rest of us? Is this meagre portion truly sufficient for you?"

Niyati's gentle smile shone like a soothing balm, her voice resonating with wisdom beyond her years. "Brata Bhima," she began, "the day one master's hunger and thirst are the day they transcend human desires. We mortals are bound by the trinity of needs—food, wealth, and shelter—desires that drive men to commit unimaginable deeds. This mastery is not achieved in a single day but is a journey we must undertake. I, like Brata Krishna, understand this truth.

I can survive on nothingness and thrive on little, for food is not merely for the body—it must also nourish the heart. When one eats for the heart, the energy transcends the physical and infuses the soul, spreading strength across every fiber of one's being. Food for the body is fleeting; it fuels strength that diminishes in moments. But food for the heart is eternal—it nourishes purpose, courage, and will. Remember, always eat for the heart, not just the body."

The profound wisdom in her words left the Pandavas spellbound. A newfound reverence blossomed within Arjuna and Yudhishthira, who vowed to embrace this philosophy and eat henceforth for the heart, not the body.

As the Pandavas ventured out begging one fateful day, Bhima stayed behind with Kunti. A piercing cry shattered the silence in the tranquillity of the Brahmana's home, the sound of anguish cutting through the air like a blade.

Trembling with compassion, Kunti turned to Bhima and said, "Son, we have been sheltered and cared for in this Brahmana's home, unknown to the sons of Dritarashtra. They have treated us with respect and kindness. Should we not repay their generosity? I have often pondered how we might aid them. Those living in another's home must consider their benefactor's welfare as their own. Such acts are never forgotten by fate."

His eyes burning with resolve, Bhima replied, "Let us uncover the source of their grief. Whatever it may be, no matter how formidable, I will not rest until it is alleviated."

As they spoke, the wails grew louder, filled with unbearable sorrow. Like a mother cow rushing to her calf, Kunti ran toward the inner quarters of the Brahmana's home. What she saw broke her heart—the Brahmana, his wife, son, and daughter sat together, their faces pale and twisted with despair.

The Brahmana's voice, heavy with anguish, filled the air. "Cursed be this mortal life, a fleeting ember in the fire of sorrow. Life is an endless stream of pain, bound by servitude to others and rooted in grief. To live is to bear the weight of countless miseries, to endure the fever of suffering. O gods! Why must this agony persist?

The soul is one, yet the endless demands of dharma, Artha, and kama shackle it. To pursue them all is a torment. Wealth is a fiery pit—its pursuit brings misery, its loss even greater despair. And those who attain it are tormented by the fear of losing it. There is no escape from this vicious cycle.

Though I dream of fleeing with my family to safety, such hope feels like an illusion. My wife refused when I suggested we leave this cursed place. She clung to the memories of her past, to her father's house, now long gone. I begged her to listen, but her heart was tethered to this land.

And now, here we are, drowning in sorrow. How can I abandon my loved ones to save myself? My wife, my companion in virtue, is my anchor, the light in my darkest days. How can I cast her aside? My daughter, still a child, brims with innocence and potential. How can I offer her as a sacrifice? She is the beacon of my lineage, the thread of my eternal continuity.

Even if I were to give my life, their suffering would not end. Without me, they would perish, and my soul would find no peace. What path remains for me, save one of despair? O gods, what cruel fate binds us so? Perhaps we should perish together, for I cannot bear the burden of choosing one life over another."

The Brahmana's words echoed in the silence, heavy with despair. His family wept, clinging to one another, a tableau of pure, unfiltered agony. Kunti, her heart weighed with empathy, listened intently, and her resolve deepened to aid these suffering souls.

The Brahmani said, "Do not grieve like an ordinary man, for one as learned as you must rise above such sorrow. Death is certain for all; grieving over the inevitable serves no purpose. I shall go in your stead, for it is a woman's supreme duty to sacrifice herself for her husband's welfare. My act will bring you happiness and eternal fame for me. You have given me a daughter, a son, and protection. It is now my turn to repay this debt.

You can guide and support our children, something I cannot do. If you are lost, how can I, a widow with two young children, survive? Who will protect our daughter from unworthy suitors or teach our son the virtues he must uphold? Without you, these children and I will perish like fish in a dry pond. Sacrifice me and save yourself, our lineage, and our children.

Those learned in dharma say a woman's salvation lies in following her husband, even unto death. I have lived a fulfilling life, walked the path of virtue, and borne beloved children. I am ready to give up everything for you. My lord, this is not your sacrifice to make—it is mine. You can remarry and continue the path of dharma. Let me go, for I have made my peace."

Hearing this, their young daughter, overwhelmed with grief, spoke, "Why do you despair as if unprotected? Hear me now and act righteously. Sacrifice me instead. This is why parents desire children—to save them in need. Use me as a boat to cross this storm.

If I am sacrificed, I save you, my mother, and my brother, ensuring our lineage survives. Without you, my brother will perish, and our ancestors' offerings will cease, displeasing them. You can protect my brother and preserve our family's name if you are safe. Set me on the path of dharma, Father. Sacrifice me and save everyone."

Kunti noticed a Brahmana and his family steeped in sorrow. Concerned, she approached him and said, "Tell me the reason for your grief. If it can be resolved, I shall do everything I can to help."

The Brahmana sighed and explained, "O noble lady, your compassion is admirable, but this sorrow is beyond human intervention. Near this town lives a powerful and cruel rakshasa, Baka. He rules over this land and protects us from external enemies, but in return, he demands a gruesome tribute—food, livestock, and a human sacrifice. Each family must take its turn to deliver the offering, and those who refuse to meet a terrible fate at his hands."

He continued, "The king of this land, though living in luxury, does nothing to free us from this plight. It is now my family's turn, and I am consumed with grief. I lack the means to buy a substitute and cannot bear to send a loved one to certain death. Today, I plan to take my entire family to the rakshasa so that we may perish together."

Moved by his plight, Kunti assured him, "Do not despair. I have a way to save your family. You have a young son and a daughter engaged in austerities. It would be wrong for any of you to go. At the moment, I have five sons, and one will deliver the offerings to the rakshasa on your behalf."

The Brahmana protested, "How can I let someone else's son face such danger to save my life? Even at the cost of my life, I cannot bring harm to a Brahmana or a guest. Such a deed would be unforgivable."

But Kunti remained firm, her voice steady and resolved. "Protecting a Brahmana is my dharma. I would not value any of them less if I had a hundred sons. But this rakshasa will not be able to harm my son. He is brave, skilled in mantras, and has defeated mighty rakshasas. Trust me, he will deliver the offering and return unharmed. However, speak of this to no one, for knowledge of his power would invite trouble."

Hearing Kunti's words, the Brahmana and his family felt a glimmer of hope and agreed. Kunti then approached her son Bhima and told him of the task. Without hesitation, Bhima replied, "So shall it be," ready to face the rakshasa and fulfil his mother's wish.

The Triumph of Bhima

Bhima had declared that he would complete the task alone, even before his brothers returned with their alms. Observing his brother's determined demeanor, Yudhishthira, approached their mother, Kunti, privately.

With a tone of concern, he asked, "Mata, what is this great challenge that Bhima, in his boundless strength, seeks to undertake? Is it something he has decided for himself, or is it at your behest?"

Steady in her wisdom, Kunti replied, "It is upon my instruction that Bhima will accomplish this formidable task. He does this not only to protect the helpless Brahmana, who has provided us refuge but also to save the people of this town from the scourge of the Rakshasa."

Yudhishthira's voice trembled with worry. "Mata, what have you done? This is a task fraught with peril. How could you, in your compassion for others, think of risking Bhima's life? Have you forgotten that his strength has carried us through countless dangers? Because of him, Duryodhana, Shakuni, and their allies tremble in fear, and it is with his valour that we hope to reclaim our rightful kingdom. He saved us from the fiery house of Lac, slaying Purochana, and has been our unshakable shield. What could compel you to place him in such danger?"

Kunti's eyes softened, but her resolve remained unbroken. "Yudhishthira, do not fear for Vrikodara. I did not act rashly or out of folly. We have enjoyed the hospitality of this Brahmana's house, and it is our dharma to repay him. His gratitude measures a man's greatness, and Bhima's strength is unmatched, gifted by the gods. Remember how he carried us, like a herd of elephants, from Varanāvata. Even as a new-born, he shattered rocks with his fall. I have unwavering faith in his strength. This act is not born of delusion or desire for gain; it is what dharma demands.

A Kshatriya gains merit and blessings by helping others: assisting a Brahmana ensures heavenly worlds, saving another Kshatriya brings fame in this life and the next, supporting a Vaishya earns love from the people, and protecting a Shudra ensures rebirth in a wealthy, respected lineage. Lord Vyasa, the wise, once shared this wisdom with me. By helping this Brahmana, we honour our duties as Kshatriyas and accumulate divine merit."

Moved by her words, Yudhishthira relented, albeit reluctantly. "Mata, your reasoning is sound, and your compassion admirable. Bhima will undoubtedly triumph and return safely. But let us ensure that the Brahmana keeps this act discreet so the people of this town remain unaware."

At dawn, with unyielding determination, Bhima set out for the forest where the rakshasa dwelled. He carried the food intended as the rakshasa's offering and walked confidently into the beast's lair. Upon reaching the clearing, Bhima, unperturbed by the ominous surroundings, sat down and began eating the food himself. His booming voice echoed through the forest as he called out to the rakshasa, mocking him.

The rakshasa, Baka, was enraged by the intruder's audacity. With thunderous footsteps, he emerged from the shadows. His immense frame seemed to blot out the sun, his fiery eyes glowing with malice. His voice was a deep growl as he bellowed, "Who dares to touch my offerings, that too in my presence? Foolish mortal, you invite your death!"

Bhima, undeterred, merely laughed and continued eating, ignoring the rakshasa's threats. Enraged beyond reason, Baka charged at Bhima, roaring like a storm. He struck Bhima with both arms, his blows powerful enough to fall trees. Yet, Kunti's son did not flinch, calmly finishing his meal as though the attack were nothing more than a gentle breeze.

Infuriated, Baka uprooted a massive tree and hurled it at Bhima with all his might. But Bhima, still seated, caught the tree effortlessly with one hand and laid it aside. His laughter grew louder, taunting the beast. Now fully prepared for battle, Bhima rose to his feet, his towering frame exuding unshakable confidence.

The forest trembled as the two mighty beings clashed. Trees were uprooted and hurled as weapons, the ground quaked beneath their feet, and the air was filled with the sounds of their roars and blows. With all his monstrous strength, Baka grappled with Bhima, but the Pandava proved more decisive. The rakshasa soon began to tire under the relentless might of Bhima.

Finally, as Baka's strength waned, Bhima seized the opportunity to end the fight. Grasping the rakshasa with one hand by the neck and the other by the loincloth, Bhima lifted him effortlessly. With a roar that echoed across the heavens, Bhima slammed Baka to the ground and tore the rakshasa's massive body in two with a tremendous power surge.

The forest fell silent. Bhima stood victorious, his strength unparalleled, his courage unmatched. Baka's menace was no more, and the town was freed from the shadow of terror.