The Himalayan foothills, once a place of solitary penance for Pandu, had become a nursery for demigods. The birth of Yudhishthira, the righteous son of Dharma, and Bhima, the mighty son of Vayu, had filled the forest hermitage with a joy that Pandu had never thought to experience again. He had heirs. He had sons who were strong and virtuous. The curse of the sage Kindama, while still a death sentence upon his own desires, no longer seemed like the end of his lineage.
But the taste of this divine fatherhood was intoxicating. Two sons were a blessing, but Pandu's ambition, the same ambition that had driven him to conquer the world, was rekindled. He looked upon his growing family and saw not completion, but potential.
"Kunti," he said one evening, as they watched their two young sons play, Bhima effortlessly lifting rocks that grown men could not move, and Yudhishthira wisely mediating a dispute between two squirrels. "You have given me a son of perfect dharma and a son of perfect strength. But the scriptures say that the king of the gods, Indra, is the greatest of all warriors, the protector of the celestial realm. A king on earth needs a son who is a peerless archer, a master of all celestial weapons, a hero whose glory will shine like the sun. I desire such a son, Kunti. A son who can protect his brothers and champion the cause of righteousness in the world."
Kunti, who had felt a deep sense of peace with her two children, felt a familiar tremor of apprehension. The mantra was a sacred and terrifying power, not a tool to be used lightly. "My lord, are two sons not enough? To call upon the gods so frequently feels like an act of presumption."
"It is not presumption, my love, it is prudence," Pandu insisted, his eyes alight with a feverish desire. "My brother Dhritarashtra has one hundred sons being raised in the palace. They are born of human ambition and jealousy. Our sons are born of divine grace. We must ensure that their light is strong enough to withstand the coming darkness. I feel it, Kunti. A rivalry is being born, even now, between my sons and his. We must have a champion. Please. Use your mantra one more time. Call upon Indra, the Lord of Heaven."
His plea was irresistible. Kunti, ever devoted, saw the wisdom in his words, even as she feared the consequences of meddling so often with divine forces. She agreed. After performing the necessary rites of purification, she uttered the sacred invocation for a third time, her mind focused on the glorious, thunderbolt-wielding King of the Gods.
Indra descended from his celestial capital of Amravati, his form radiating power and light. He blessed Kunti, and from their union, a third son was conceived.
The birth of this child was accompanied by the most spectacular omens yet. The sky filled with the sound of celestial drums, and the gods themselves, led by Indra, appeared in the heavens to celebrate. A divine voice, louder and clearer than before, echoed through the mountains: "This child will be invincible in battle, the equal of the great god Shiva in prowess. He will be known as Arjuna, and his fame will spread to the ends of the earth. He will bring glory to his father and restore the righteousness of the Kuru clan."
Pandu was ecstatic. He now had his triumvirate of heirs: Yudhishthira, the righteous king; Bhima, the unstoppable warrior; and Arjuna, the divine hero. He felt his family was complete.
But it was not.
His younger wife, the beautiful Madri, watched this growing family with a heart full of aching jealousy. She loved Pandu deeply, and she loved her co-wife Kunti and the three divine boys. But she was a woman, and a queen, and she was barren. While Kunti was celebrated as the mother of heroes, Madri was a childless co-wife, her purpose unfulfilled. The sight of Kunti with her three radiant sons was a daily reminder of her own emptiness.
One day, she approached Pandu in private, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "My lord," she said, her voice a fragile whisper. "You are my husband as much as you are Kunti's. I too have a duty to our ancestors. I too ache to know the joy of motherhood. Kunti has been blessed with three divine sons, while I remain barren. It is not just. Am I to live out my days as a mere servant to her children? I beg you, find a way for me to have a son as well."
Pandu's heart was moved by her plea. He went to Kunti, his heart full of compassion for his younger wife. "Kunti, my dearest," he said gently. "Madri suffers greatly. Her desire for a child is just. You have been blessed three times. Would you consider sharing your great gift? Could you teach her the mantra, just once, so that she too may know the joy of being a mother?"
Kunti's first instinct was one of possessive pride. The mantra was her secret, her power. To share it felt like giving away a part of herself. But she looked at Madri's tear-streaked, hopeful face, and her inherent generosity and compassion won out. She was the senior queen, and it was her duty to care for her co-wife.
"I will do it," Kunti said. "But I will not teach her the mantra itself, for its power is too great to be passed on lightly. Instead, I will allow her to use it. Let her think of the god she desires, and I will utter the invocation on her behalf."
Madri was overjoyed. She thought carefully. Kunti had already summoned the gods of dharma, wind, and the heavens. Madri, in a moment of brilliant insight, chose not one god, but two. She focused her mind on the Ashvins, the handsome twin gods of medicine and health, known for their beauty and their kind nature.
Kunti, true to her word, uttered the mantra while Madri meditated upon the divine twins. The Ashvins appeared together, and together they blessed the younger queen. In time, Madri gave birth not to one son, but to two beautiful twin boys. They were named Nakula, who was famed for his unparalleled beauty, and Sahadeva, who was known for his wisdom and skill with animals.
Pandu's joy now knew no bounds. He had five sons, each one a demigod, each one blessed with unique and powerful gifts. The five Pandava brothers grew up in the idyllic sanctuary of the forest hermitage. They played together, learned together, and were utterly devoted to one another. The sages who lived nearby became their teachers, instructing them in the Vedas, the laws of dharma, and the arts of war. Yudhishthira absorbed the principles of justice, Bhima learned to channel his immense strength, Arjuna displayed a prodigious, almost innate talent for archery, and the twins, Nakula and Sahadeva, learned the secrets of healing and the languages of the natural world. It was a perfect childhood, a golden age of innocence and learning, far from the intrigues of the court.
Years passed. The boys grew into strong, handsome youths. One day, in the full bloom of spring, the forest was alive with a beauty that was almost intoxicating. The trees were heavy with fragrant blossoms, the air was filled with the drowsy hum of bees, and a warm, gentle breeze carried the scent of new life.
Pandu was wandering through this paradise with Madri by his side. She was dressed in a simple, translucent garment, and the spring sunlight filtering through the canopy of leaves dappled her skin. She had never looked more beautiful. As he looked at her, a wave of desire, powerful and overwhelming, washed over Pandu. It was a feeling he had suppressed for years, a ghost he had thought long since banished. But the beauty of the day, the scent of the flowers, and the loveliness of his wife conspired against him.
He forgot the sage. He forgot the deer. He forgot the curse. He saw only the woman he loved, and he was consumed by a desperate, human need.
He reached for her.
Madri cried out, a gasp of pure terror. "My lord, no! Remember the curse! The Rishi Kindama! You must not!"
She tried to pull away, her eyes wide with panic. But Pandu was no longer the master of his senses. He was lost in the grip of a passion that had been denied for over a decade. He did not listen to her pleas. He seized her, his mind clouded, his only thought to possess the wife he had been forbidden to touch.
The moment his body joined with hers in the act of love, the curse struck.
A violent tremor wracked Pandu's body. His eyes went wide with a sudden, horrified recognition. The face of the dying sage flashed before his mind's eye. A great pallor, far deeper than his natural complexion, spread across his face. He gasped, clutching his chest, and then, in the arms of the wife he had desired, he collapsed. The great King Pandu, Emperor of the World, was dead.
Madri's screams echoed through the silent forest. Kunti and the five boys came running, only to find their father and husband lying lifeless on a bed of spring flowers.
The grief was absolute, a howling storm that shattered the peace of their hermitage. After the initial wave of sorrow had passed, a terrible calm settled. Kunti, her face a mask of tragedy, prepared for the funeral rites. It was then that Madri, her eyes red and swollen but her voice filled with a terrible, quiet resolve, came to her.
"Kunti," she said. "He is gone because of me. It was my beauty that tempted him. It was my presence that caused him to forget his vow. I was the instrument of his death. I cannot live with this guilt."
"Do not say that, sister," Kunti wept. "It was his desire, not your fault. The curse was old. It was fated to be."
"No," Madri insisted, shaking her head. "His desire for me was not fully satisfied. He has passed into the next world with that unfulfilled longing. As his wife, it is my duty to follow him, to satisfy his desire in the realm of the dead. I will ascend his funeral pyre. I will perform sati."
"Madri, you cannot!" Kunti cried, grabbing her arm. "What of your sons? What of Nakula and Sahadeva? They are just boys! They need their mother!"
Madri looked at Kunti, her gaze filled with a mother's ultimate, heartbreaking love and trust. "They have a mother," she said softly. "They have you. You are the senior queen, the mother of the three eldest. You will love my sons as you love your own. I know you will. I could never treat your sons with the same perfect impartiality that you will show to mine. It is better this way. I entrust them to you."
She gently kissed the foreheads of her weeping twin boys. Then, with a final, sorrowful look at the family she was leaving behind, she walked to the funeral pyre that had been prepared for her husband. As the flames were lit, she ascended it, her face serene, and joined her beloved Pandu in death.
Kunti was left alone. The world had been ripped away from her. Her husband was dead. Her co-wife and sister was dead. She stood in the wilderness, surrounded by the ashes of her life, with five young, fatherless boys looking to her for answers. The idyllic chapter in the forest was over. Now, she faced a new and terrifying reality: she had to lead her five divine sons out of the sanctuary of the wilderness and back to the heart of the kingdom they were born to rule, back to the palace of Hastinapura, and to the court of the blind king who had one hundred sons of his own.