The arrival of the Pandavas in Hastinapura was like the introduction of five brilliant, untamed flames into a sealed chamber filled with dry tinder. The palace, which had settled into the grim, predictable rhythm of a blind king's court, was suddenly alive with a new and volatile energy. The hundred sons of Dhritarashtra, who had roamed the halls and grounds as an undisputed pack, were now confronted by five cousins who were their equals in lineage and their superiors in almost every other way.
The rivalry was immediate and visceral, a clash of temperaments as much as a clash of claims. The Kauravas, led by the proud and brooding Duryodhana, were children of the palace. They were accustomed to privilege, their power derived from their father's throne and their sheer numbers. The Pandavas, raised in the purity of the wilderness, were children of nature and the gods. They possessed an innate confidence and a natural grace that could not be taught in a court. This difference was the source of all the friction that was to follow.
At the heart of this friction was Bhima. The second son of Pandu, blessed by the wind god Vayu, was a force of joyous, untamed nature. He was a boy with the strength of a giant and the guileless heart of a child. He did not understand the silent, venomous currents of courtly jealousy that swirled around him. He saw his one hundred cousins not as political rivals, but as a vast, new group of playmates. And he played as he knew how: with all the overwhelming, thoughtless force of his divine strength.
When they played games of chase, Bhima would catch all one hundred Kauravas before any of them could even reach the finish line. When they climbed trees, Bhima would remain on the ground, and with a single, mighty shake of the trunk, he would send his cousins tumbling down like ripe mangoes, laughing all the while. When they swam in the royal ponds, Bhima, who could hold his breath for an astonishingly long time, would playfully grab several of his cousins, drag them to the bottom, and hold them there until they sputtered in terror, only to release them and surface with a booming laugh.
To Bhima, these were just games. He meant no real harm. He was like a young elephant playing with a pack of wolves, unaware that his innocent strength was perceived as a brutal assertion of dominance.
To Duryodhana, however, every laugh from Bhima was a peal of thunder announcing his own inferiority. Every game was a humiliating defeat. He, the eldest son of the reigning king, was consistently bested, mocked, and overpowered by this forest-dwelling upstart. His jealousy, already a smoldering coal, was fanned by Bhima's effortless superiority into a raging inferno. He saw the admiration in the eyes of the palace guards, the quiet smiles on the faces of the ministers, and the grudging respect even among his own brothers for the Pandavas' prowess. He saw his own claim to the throne, which he believed to be absolute, being eroded with every passing day.
His hatred began to focus, with laser-like intensity, on Bhima. Bhima was the muscle of the Pandavas, their physical protector. If Bhima could be removed, Duryodhana reasoned in his dark, cunning mind, the other four would be vulnerable, leaderless, and easy to control or destroy. The childish rivalry was about to curdle into something far more sinister.
Duryodhana began to conspire. He gathered his closest brothers, particularly the cruel and sycophantic Dushasana, and his uncle Shakuni, the cunning prince of Gandhara who had come to live at court with his sister Gandhari. Shakuni, a master of deceit with a heart as twisted as his dice, saw the young prince's jealousy as a powerful tool to be sharpened and aimed. He nurtured Duryodhana's hatred, whispering poison into his ear, validating his sense of victimhood, and encouraging his darkest impulses.
"He is a beast, not a man," Shakuni would hiss, his voice like the slithering of a snake. "A beast must be put down before it grows strong enough to devour you and your kingdom. Your father is the king. This palace is yours. Do not let these forest dwellers steal it from you."
The first attempt on Bhima's life was planned with a chilling, calculated cruelty. Duryodhana announced a grand picnic, a day of sport and games for all the princes on the banks of the river Ganga, at a place called Pramanakoti. He presented it as an olive branch, a day of reconciliation and fun. Kunti, ever hopeful for peace, encouraged her sons to go, and Yudhishthira, in his righteousness, agreed that they should not refuse an offer of friendship.
The day was filled with feasting and games. Duryodhana was a perfect host, his manner friendly, his laughter loud. He personally served his cousins, heaping their plates with the most delicious foods. To Bhima, whose appetite was as legendary as his strength, he paid special attention. He brought him a plate of exquisite sweetmeats, a delicacy known as kheer, specially prepared.
"For you, my mighty cousin," Duryodhana said with a smile that did not reach his eyes. "A small token of my admiration for your strength."
Bhima, suspecting nothing, devoured the sweets with his usual gusto. He did not know that they had been laced with a powerful and fast-acting poison known as kalakuta, a venom so potent it was said to have emerged from the churning of the cosmic ocean.
Soon after the meal, as the princes played, Bhima began to feel a strange lethargy. The world grew hazy, his immense strength draining away from his limbs. He stumbled away from the games, attributing his weariness to the large meal, and found a quiet spot under a tree to lie down. Within moments, he fell into a deep, unnatural stupor, the poison coursing through his veins, shutting down his senses.
As dusk fell, Duryodhana and Dushasana crept over to where Bhima lay unconscious. Seeing him helpless, a cruel, triumphant smile spread across Duryodhana's face. Using strong vines of creeper, they bound their cousin's hands and feet, tying him up like an animal for slaughter. Then, under the cover of darkness, they dragged his inert, heavy body to the edge of the river.
With a final, hateful grunt, they heaved him into the deep, swift-flowing waters of the Ganga.
"That is the end of the beast," Duryodhana whispered, watching the ripples disappear. "He will sink to the bottom and never rise again. Now, the rest will be easy."
They returned to the palace, feigning ignorance. When the Pandavas returned without Bhima, a frantic search was organized. Yudhishthira, his heart cold with a terrible suspicion, questioned Duryodhana, who swore he had last seen Bhima sleeping under a tree and assumed he had already gone home. Vidura, however, saw the flicker of triumph in Duryodhana's eyes and knew that a terrible crime had been committed.
But Bhima did not die.
His heavy body sank deep into the river, down, down into the cold, dark depths. The current carried him far, eventually depositing him in the subterranean realm of the Nagas, the serpent people. The venomous snakes of that realm, attracted to the human flesh, swarmed his body and began to bite him. But a strange thing happened. The potent venom of the Nagas, instead of killing him, acted as an antidote to the kalakuta poison in his system. The two powerful venoms warred within him, and in their cataclysmic struggle, they neutralized each other.
The commotion attracted the attention of the Naga king, Vasuki. He came to see the giant of a boy who had fallen into his realm and who was being bitten by his most venomous subjects without effect. He recognized the royal insignia of the Kurus on Bhima's armlet. It was then that one of Vasuki's kinsmen, a Naga named Aryaka, came forward. He was the great-grandfather of Kunti's mother. He recognized his own descendant.
Overjoyed to find his great-grandson, Aryaka embraced Bhima, who had by now regained consciousness. Vasuki, pleased to host a kinsman, offered Bhima a gift. He led him to a sacred fountain, a pool filled with a divine elixir, a celestial rasa that was said to grant the strength of a thousand elephants in every single drop.
"Drink, my son," Vasuki said. "Drink as much as you can."
Bhima, his body still weak but his spirit undaunted, drank deeply. He drank the entire contents of eight large pools of the divine nectar. The elixir surged through him, not just restoring his strength but multiplying it tenfold. He felt a power coursing through his veins that was beyond anything he had ever known. He slept for eight days in the Naga palace, his body absorbing and integrating this new, immense power.
On the ninth day, he awoke, a new being. The Nagas held a great feast in his honor and then escorted him back to the surface, returning him to the very spot from which he had been thrown.
When Bhima walked back into the palace of Hastinapura, alive, well, and radiating a power that was almost frightening, the court was thrown into turmoil. Kunti and his brothers wept with joy, embracing him as one returned from the dead. Vidura smiled, his faith in dharma reaffirmed.
Duryodhana, however, looked upon his cousin, and his face turned ashen with terror and disbelief. His perfect crime had failed. The beast had not only survived; it had returned stronger than ever. His hatred, now mixed with a healthy dose of fear, solidified into an obsession that would consume his life.
Bhima recounted his entire story to his mother and brothers in private—the poisoned sweets, the binding, the river, and the Nagas. Kunti's blood ran cold. She finally understood the true nature of the threat they faced. This was not childish rivalry. This was a cold, murderous hatred that would stop at nothing.
She gathered her five sons around her. "Listen to me," she said, her voice low and urgent, her eyes filled with a new, fierce wisdom. "From this day forward, you must be on your guard. Protect one another always. The smiles of your cousins are masks that hide daggers. This palace is not a home; it is a battlefield. Trust no one but yourselves and your guardians, Bhishma and Vidura. Your innocence died today in the waters of the Ganga. Now, you must learn to be survivors."
Yudhishthira looked at his mother, at the fear and resolve in her eyes, and he understood. The games were over. A war had been declared, not with trumpets and armies, but with a poisoned sweetmeat in the dark.