King Pandu's return from his digvijaya was the triumphant zenith of his reign. He entered Hastinapura not merely as its king, but as its emperor, his banners flying over a procession of chariots laden with the tribute of conquered nations. The people thronged the streets, showering him with flowers and praise. He had proven himself a worthy successor to the legends of old, a king who had brought glory and immense wealth back to the Kuru clan. In the royal assembly hall, he laid the mountains of gold and jewels at the feet of his elder brother, Dhritarashtra, an act of profound respect that was also, unintentionally, a display of his own supreme capability.
Dhritarashtra accepted the tribute, his hands running over the smooth, cool surfaces of the gold coins and the sharp facets of the diamonds. He could feel their value, their weight, but he could not see their glitter. He offered words of praise for his younger brother's victory, but within the darkness of his mind, each word of praise was a drop of poison. Pandu's success was a constant, shining reminder of his own inadequacy. He was the elder, yet he was a pensioner in his own palace, living off the glory earned by the brother who had taken his throne.
With the kingdom secure and the treasury overflowing, the focus of the court, guided by Bhishma and Vidura, turned to the next, most crucial duty of a king: securing the succession. Pandu, for all his imperial glory, was without an heir.
Bhishma, the great patriarch, took the matter into his own hands. His gaze fell upon the kingdom of the Yadavas, a powerful clan whose leader, Shurasena, had a daughter of renowned virtue and beauty. Her name was Pritha, but she was better known as Kunti, for she had been given in adoption to her childless uncle, King Kuntibhoja.
Kunti was no ordinary princess. As a young girl serving in her adoptive father's palace, she had been assigned the duty of attending to the notoriously irascible and powerful sage, Durvasa, during one of his year-long visits. For an entire year, she had served the sage with unwavering patience, devotion, and perfect care, anticipating his every need and enduring his fearsome temper without complaint. Durvasa, a man rarely pleased, was so impressed by her selfless service that he decided to grant her a magnificent boon.
He taught her a secret mantra, a divine invocation of immense power. "Daughter," the sage had told her, "with this mantra, you may summon any Deva—any god from the heavens—that you desire. And he will be compelled to grant you a son, a child who will share his own divine nature and power. Use this gift wisely, for it is potent beyond measure."
Bhishma, aware of Kunti's noble lineage and sterling reputation, arranged her marriage to King Pandu. She became the senior queen of Hastinapura, a woman of grace, intelligence, and a secret, divine power she kept locked in her heart.
Soon after, Bhishma, ever the strategist, sought to forge another powerful alliance. He traveled to the kingdom of Madra and secured the hand of their beautiful princess, Madri, for Pandu. Thus, King Pandu had two queens, Kunti and Madri, and the future of the Kuru line seemed doubly secure.
With his kingdom stable and his family life settled, Pandu's restless spirit yearned for the wilderness. He was, at his core, a man of action, and the gilded confines of the palace felt constricting. He announced his desire to spend a season in the forests at the foothills of the great Himalayas, to indulge his passion for hunting and to spend time with his two new wives away from the pressures of the court. Bhishma and Vidura readily agreed, taking up the governance of the kingdom in his absence. Dhritarashtra remained in the palace, the de facto head of the royal household, a silent, brooding figure of authority.
The Himalayan foothills were a paradise. The air was crisp and clean, the forests teemed with game, and the snow-capped peaks stood like silent, white-robed gods against the blue sky. For a time, Pandu was happy. He spent his days tracking deer and wild boar, his skill as an archer providing thrilling sport and ample food for their camp. He spent his evenings with his beautiful queens, Kunti and Madri, their laughter echoing through the tranquil forest. It was an idyllic retreat, a moment of peace before the coming storm.
One afternoon, while deep in the forest, Pandu spotted a magnificent stag, larger than any he had ever seen, in the process of mating with a doe in a sun-dappled clearing. For a hunter, the sight of such a prime specimen was an irresistible challenge. For a king, all creatures in his domain were his to hunt. In a moment of pure, unthinking instinct, the thrill of the chase overwhelming all other thoughts, Pandu raised his bow. He fired five swift, sharp arrows. They flew true, striking the deer in their moment of intimacy.
As the animals fell, writhing in agony, a human voice, filled with pain and disbelief, cried out from the stag. "Oh, Pandu! How could you? Even the cruelest and most base-born hunter would not strike down a creature in the act of love! You are a king, born of the noble Bharata line, a man who is supposed to know the scriptures and the laws of dharma. Yet you have committed an act of such thoughtless cruelty. For this sin, you will pay a terrible price!"
Pandu stared in horror as the forms of the deer dissolved, revealing a man and a woman, their bodies pierced by his arrows. The man was a sage, his face contorted in pain, his eyes burning with a righteous fury. It was the Rishi Kindama and his wife, who had used their yogic powers to take the form of deer so they could enjoy their love in the freedom of the wilderness.
The king fell to his knees, his bow clattering to the ground. The enormity of his sin washed over him. He had not just killed two deer; he had murdered a sage and his wife, and he had done so at the most sacred and private of moments. It was a crime of monstrous proportions.
"Forgive me, great sage!" Pandu cried, his voice choked with remorse. "I did not know! I saw only a stag and a doe. My hunter's pride blinded me. I will accept any penance. I will give you my kingdom, my life! Please, forgive my ignorant sin!"
But the dying sage was beyond forgiveness. His life force was ebbing away, and he would use his final breath to deliver his curse. "Your ignorance is no excuse for your cruelty, O King," Kindama gasped, his voice growing weak. "You speak of penance, but your true penance will be to live with the consequences of your desire. Because you have brought death to me in my moment of pleasure, I lay this curse upon you: The next time you approach either of your wives with the touch of desire, the moment you attempt to join with them in love, that very instant, you shall die."
With those final, terrible words, the sage Kindama and his wife expired.
The curse fell upon Pandu like a mountain, crushing his spirit, his future, and his very identity. He stood frozen in the clearing, the silence of the forest now a deafening roar in his ears. He was a king, and the primary duty of a king was to produce an heir. He was a husband, and the foundation of marriage was love and intimacy. The curse had severed him from both. He was a dead man walking, his life now a barren wasteland.
He stumbled back to his camp, his face a mask of such profound despair that his wives ran to him in alarm. He told them what had happened—the thoughtless act, the dying sage, the terrible curse. Kunti and Madri listened in horror, their own futures dissolving along with their husband's.
"There is no point in returning to Hastinapura," Pandu said, his voice hollow, his eyes staring at a future only he could see. "I can no longer be a king. I cannot fulfill my most basic duty. I am a sinner, a man cursed by his own passions. My life as a ruler, as a husband, is over. I will renounce the world. I will live out the rest of my days here, in this forest, as a penniless ascetic, and I will atone for my sin."
He turned to his queens. "You must return to Hastinapura. Go back to the palace, to the protection of Bhishma and Vidura. Tell them what has happened. Tell them that Pandu is no more."
But Kunti, her heart breaking for her husband's despair, refused. "My lord," she said, her voice firm with loyalty. "A wife's place is with her husband. Your joys were my joys, and so your penance shall be my penance. We will not leave you. We will renounce the world with you. We will serve you in your asceticism and share in your fate." Madri, weeping, echoed her senior's vow.
And so, the great Emperor Pandu, conqueror of the world, stripped himself of his royal robes and jewels. He donned the rough bark clothing of a forest hermit. His two beautiful queens did the same, abandoning their silks and ornaments. The three of them began a new life, a life of harsh penance and quiet desperation in the Himalayan wilderness.
Word of the king's decision was sent back to Hastinapura, where it was met with shock and dismay. Pandu, the victorious king, had renounced his throne. The crown he had won through valor and virtue was now abandoned because of a curse.
For Dhritarashtra, the news was a bolt of lightning that illuminated the darkness of his soul. His brother, his rival, the man who had taken his birthright, was gone. The throne was empty again. And this time, there was no one else. The law that had barred him was now superseded by the necessity of the state. The kingdom could not be without a ruler.
Bhishma, his heart heavy with the endless tragedies of his family, had no choice. He convened the council once more. With Pandu having renounced the world, the duties of the king now fell, by default, to the only remaining heir in the palace.
Dhritarashtra was crowned King of Hastinapura. It was not a coronation born of law or merit, but of absence and necessity. As the royal crown was placed upon his head, he did not smile. But deep within him, a cold, triumphant satisfaction took root. He could not see the crown, but he could feel its weight. He could not see the scepter, but he could feel its power in his hand. Fate, which had been so cruel to him, had finally relented. He was king.
His wife, the virtuous princess Gandhari, performed an act of staggering devotion. When she learned that her husband, the man she was bound to for life, was to be king, she made a solemn vow. If her husband was to live in a world of perpetual darkness, then she would share that darkness with him. She took a long scarf of thick silk and tied it firmly around her eyes. From that day forward, she would never again look upon the light of the sun. She would live as a blind woman, in perfect, unwavering solidarity with her husband.
And so, the stage was set for the next chapter of the tragedy. In the forest, a childless and cursed king lived with his two wives, their future seemingly barren. And in the palace of Hastinapura, a blind king and a blindfolded queen sat upon the throne of the world, their hearts