Having spoken harshly to his sister Hiḍimbā, the fierce rākṣasa Hiḍimba, his eyes blazing red with bloodlust, rushed at her with gnashing teeth, intent on killing her. His terrifying roar echoed through the wilderness, and Bhīmasena, the mighty slayer of enemy heroes, stood vigilant, guarding his still-slumbering brothers and mother from harm. As Hiḍimba charged forward, Bhīma, ever the foremost among fighters, rebuked him with powerful words, commanding, “Stop, stop!” Amused by the rākṣasa’s rage, Bhīmasena spoke with a half-smile to Hiḍimbā, who was herself agitated. “Hiḍimba,” he said, “what purpose would it serve you to attack these people, who sleep peacefully and have not wronged you? If you must fight, attack me with all your might, you wicked man-eater.” He continued, “Strike at me alone. There is no honor in harming a woman—especially one who is innocent—when the fault is another’s. This young woman acts not of her own will, nor does she desire me of her own accord. She is compelled by Kāma, who stirs within all beings. Your sister, O ill-behaved one, is a disgrace among rākṣasas; by your own command and upon seeing me, she now desires me. But her longing is born of fear of you, not of her own fault. The blame lies with Kāma, not with her. While I stand before you, wicked one, you shall not harm a woman. Come, face me alone, man-eater—let us settle this, one against one.” Bhīma’s eyes flashed with resolve. “I alone will accompany you today to Yama’s abode. Today, let your head be crushed by my power, rākṣasa, as an elephant’s is shattered under a mighty foot. Today, let crows, vultures, and jackals feast joyfully as they drag your limbs across the earth after I have slain you. In but a moment, I will purify this forest, long defiled by your devouring of men, and free it from your pollution. Your sister will see you, rākṣasa, dragged by me—mighty as a mountain—just as a lion drags a great elephant. Once you are slain, defiler of your race, men will again walk this forest unharmed.” Hiḍimba, hearing Bhīma’s fierce words, roared back, “Why do you boast in vain, human? Show your strength through action, not words. You think yourself strong and valiant, but today you will meet one stronger than yourself. I will not harm the others, for they sleep peacefully; but you, who speak such unpleasant words, I will slay today. After drinking your blood, I will also kill this woman who has wronged me.” With these words, the enraged man-eater seized his own arm and charged at Bhīmasena. But Bhīma, smiling, grasped Hiḍimba’s outstretched arm in his powerful grip. Overpowering the rākṣasa by sheer force, Bhīma dragged the struggling demon away, just as a lion drags a small animal from its den. Enraged and overpowered by Bhīma’s strength, Hiḍimba seized Bhīma in his arms and let out a terrifying roar. But Bhīma, ever mindful that his brothers slept nearby, dragged the rākṣasa further away, wishing not to disturb their rest. He bore Hiḍimba far into the forest, gripping him tightly, just as Garuḍa carries off a serpent in his beak. There, the two mighty foes faced each other and began a fierce wrestling match, each displaying supreme valor. In their fury, they broke trees and tore up creepers, clashing like two intoxicated elephants in their prime. With the force of their thighs, they uprooted trees, tore apart networks of vines, and trampled the undergrowth, each striving for dominance. Their wild shouts and bellows frightened all the beasts and birds in every direction. Both strong and intoxicated with might, they sought each other’s destruction. A terrible battle unfolded between Bhīma and the rākṣasa, like the legendary fight between Vṛtra and Indra among the gods and asuras. In their fury, they broke off great-branched trees—sāla, tāla, tamāla, mango, vaṭa, arjuna, and vibhītaka—and struck each other with them. They tore up banyan, plakṣa, date, jackfruit, aśmaka, and thorny trees, uprooting all that stood in their path. In mutual wrath, they hurled these at one another, until the once-dense forest was stripped bare. Their rage unspent, they hurled rocks, thickets, and thorny trees, and then even mountain peaks and crags that seemed to touch the clouds. Both enemies uprooted boulders and rocks and hurled them, each striving for victory. The forest, for five yojanas around, was left utterly treeless—devoid of creepers, bushes, rocks, or animals. By the battle of these two, the forest, in a moment, became as smooth and even as a child’s plaything. Straining their thighs and arms, they dragged and pulled each other, exerting themselves to the utmost. Amidst the silence, their roars and the sound of their blows rang out like the clash of stones. Locked in a fierce embrace, they wrestled mightily—like Bali and Indra of old—their battle cries and furious roars resounding through the devastated wilderness.