Interestingly, in this folklore version, Kunti is treated like any poor mother struggling to feed her five sons. Potter Gundaiah, a Sivasarana from the 12th century, is transplanted into the mythical past to host the Pandavas.
After leaving Hidimaba’s forest, the Pandava brothers, along with their mother Konthamma, arrived in Ekachakrapura. They decided not to reveal who they were and took shelter in potter Gundaiah’s compound, where they felt they wouldn’t be recognised. When Gundaiah asked them who they were, Konthamma said, ‘We are from Varanavathi. We used to work in the Pandavas’ palace. Having lost our home and livelihood when they got burnt in the house of lac, we turned wanderers.’ Gundaiah offered them shelter without charging any rent and gave them fruits and milk to satisfy their hunger.
Pandavas brought Gundaiah good luck. His business prospered. He touched Dharma’s feet and said, ‘You don’t appear to be human beings. What divine beings are you?’ Then Krishna Paramatma, through his magic, made him forget the topic and get back to work.
One day Dharmaraja told his brothers: ‘If we sit around idly like this, we have no means of filling our bellies. We have to look for work’. Just then, Muddegowda, the chief of the village, came to Gundaiah’s door and asked him, ‘If anyone among your people wants to come and work on my land, I’ll pay him a kolaga of ragi and a coin.’ Bhimanna went up to him and said ‘We were waiting for someone to hire us. What will you pay us if we work till evening?’
‘I am no two-tongued person. I like the way you look and speak. I have some uncultivated land with boulders, trees, tubers and thorns on it. I need a hundred men to remove them and level the land. For a day’s work, I shall pay every man a kolaga of ragi and a coin.’ ‘I can do all this alone, and in no time at all, on one condition. You must give me as much ragi as I can carry’.
Gowda agreed and hired him. Bhimanna laid aside the axe, pickaxe, hoe and sickle, and pulled out trees like they were herbs. He played ball with boulders, blew away weeds and plants in a breath, levelled ditches and mounds and threw all the rubble into a pile. ‘Having done the job of a 100 men, I shall get food meant for a hundred,’ he thought.
Gowda arrived with the ragi balls, rice and curry, cooked for a hundred men, loaded into a bullock cart. At the sight of what Bhima had accomplished, he stood like one struck by a planet. ‘The fellow has finished three months’ work in a single day! He can’t be human!’ he thought. Spreading a hundred leaves together, Gowda told his wife to serve him food, which she refused to do, being too frightened to approach Bhima. He then ordered his men to serve the food. The ragi balls disappeared in a jiffy and the rice finished in three morsels.
After he had washed his hands and mouth, Bhimanna asked for his wages. Gowda paid him the wages of a hundred men. Bhima hurried home carrying a huge earthen pot filled with ragi. ‘Mother! I’ve brought ragi. I got all this as wages for working on Gowda’s land.’
When Dharma heard his brother, he came and had a look. ‘No brother! This is not right! For a day’s work, you ought to take just one kolaga of ragi and a single coin. If we keep the remaining ragi and coins, we would be committing a wrong. Return the ragi and coins to Gowda at once. These are immoral earnings.’ Bhimanna carried the ragi back. Thinking he had come to return the empty pot, Gowda said ‘You can leave it there and go,’ he said. ‘I want neither your ragi nor coins. You can keep them,’ said Bhimanna. ‘Why? You’ve laboured from morning till evening. Siva won’t be pleased if I don’t pay you for it.’ ‘If you insist on paying, give me what you pay a man for a day’s work — just one kolaga of ragi and a coin.’
So Bhima came home with one kolaga of ragi and a coin. Konthamma ground the kolaga of ragi and made gruel with the flour. She got salt and pickles for a coin and served the children their meal before she had hers.
The author, a retired professor of English, is a well-known theatre and television artiste and an award-winning translator.
Folktales from the Mahabharata is a monthly column that features lesser-known episodes from ‘Janapada Mahabharata’ sung by eminent folk-artiste Bettada Beedu Siddhashetty and published by Dr P K Rajashekara.