Bhima and Bakasura - Feeding the Demon

The cart of food creaked up the hill. The demon's cave waited at the top. And Bhima, rather than trembling, was eating.

Bakasura: "This is supposed to be MY food, The tribute. The sacrifice."

Bhima: "It's delicious. You have good taste."

The demon emerged—massive, tusked, red-eyed with hunger and rage.

Bakasura: "Who are you? Where is the human sacrifice?"

Bhima: "I'm the sacrifice. Also the delivery boy. Also very hungry. I've been traveling. The walking builds an appetite."

Bakasura: "You're eating the food that's meant for ME."

Bhima: "I'm eating the food. Whether it's meant for you is debatable."

Bakasura charged. Bhima didn't move. The demon's claws found nothing but empty cart—Bhima had stepped aside at the last moment, still chewing.

Bakasura: "You're fast for a human."

Bhima: "You're slow for a demon. Also loud. The breathing is very heavy. You should exercise more."

Bakasura: "I'LL TEAR YOU APART."

Bhima: "Many have tried. I'm told I'm chewy."

They fought. The cart was destroyed. Trees were uprooted. The ground cracked and shifted.

Bakasura: "You're not a normal human,"

Bakasura gasped between attacks.

Bhima: "You're not a normal demon. Most demons I've met have better manners."

Bakasura: "You've met demons?"

Bhima: "My wife is a rakshasi. Well, my first wife. It's complicated. She's much prettier than you."

Bakasura: "Wife—rakshasi— What kind of human marries a demon?"

Bhima: "The kind who sees strength and respects it. The kind who doesn't care about species when he finds someone worthy. You, unfortunately, are not worthy. You eat villagers. You terrorize the helpless. You're not a demon—you're a bully."

Bakasura: "I am BAKASURA! I have ruled this forest for—"

Bhima: "You've bullied this forest. Ruling requires giving as well as taking. You only take."

The arm snapped. Bakasura screamed.

Bhima: "Let me explain what happens now, You die. The villagers live in peace. Your name becomes a story parents tell children to make them behave. 'Eat your vegetables or Bakasura will get you.' Except Bakasura is gone. And the children grow up safe."

Bakasura: "You can't kill me. I'm a demon. I'm—"

Bhima: "You're mortal. Everything is mortal. Even demons. Especially demons who've grown lazy and slow on easy prey."

The killing was quick. Bhima had stopped enjoying violence against the pathetic years ago. This was pest control, not combat.

When the villagers came up the hill—carefully, expecting to find bones—they found Bhima sitting on a rock, finishing the last of the rice.

Bakasura: "The demon is dead, You can go home."

Bhima: "Who are you?"

the village elder asked.

Bakasura: "Nobody. A traveler. A hungry man who doesn't like bullies. But if you want to repay me, make more of this rice. It's excellent."

He walked down the hill, toward the hut where his mother waited.

Behind him, the village learned that sometimes salvation comes in unexpected forms—a hungry stranger, a hidden prince, a man who saw demons as problems to solve rather than fates to accept.