Princess Pritha, known to the world as Kunti after her adoption, had learned to move as if floating on air. It wasn't the arrogance of a princess; it was the simple rule of survival in the palace. Every stone in Kuntibhoja's fortress had to be navigated without the slightest scrape or rustle, lest it disturb the meditation or sleep of the palace guest.
That guest was the famed, venerated, and thoroughly terrifying sage Durvasa.
The Rishi was an explosive mixture of asceticism and fury. He could grant the earth's greatest boons, yet a shortage of salt in a lentil dish or water that was slightly too cool for a foot wash could ignite a temper capable of incinerating an entire kingdom. For the past year, Kunti had been tasked with his complete service, an endeavor that had aged the seventeen-year-old princess beyond her years.
"He requires the milk of the white yak, heated to the precise temperature of a northern plain's mid-summer afternoon," the head cook would whisper, sweat beading on his brow.
"And mangoes must be plucked before dawn, but their skin only peeled after the second prayer of the evening," Kunti would reply in an equally controlled voice. Her real thought, however, was a tired, internal scream: Is the sole purpose of virtue merely to suffer the impossible demands of holy men?
Nevertheless, she performed her service flawlessly. Kunti was defined by her duty, a sharp, unyielding perfection bordering on obsession. She anticipated his moods, preempted his needs, and never once invited his legendary wrath. This victory was measured not in applause, but in Durvasa's silence.
When it was time for Durvasa to depart, he looked upon Kunti not with his usual fiery impatience, but with deep respect.
"Daughter," he thundered in a heavy voice, "you have served me with a heart purer than Ganga's ice. You have seen my wrath and given me patience, not fear. I cannot repay you with mere gold."
He stepped closer, his voice dropping into a low, powerful chant that felt older than the mountains.
"I grant you a boon, Pritha. It is a Mantra, a divine invocation. Should you speak this charm with purity of heart and intent, any deity you call upon is compelled to appear before you and grant you a son equal to his own glory."
Kunti's heart pounded. This was not a reward; it was raw, terrifying power.
Durvasa smiled, a chilling contraction across his mouth. "Use it wisely, for power is a difficult coin to spend. And remember, a word spoken cannot be unheard."
He vanished as quickly as a gust of wind snuffing a candle flame.
Kunti spent the next few days in a state of semi-disbelief. She memorized the sacred words, silently repeating them like a beautiful, dangerous poem. A son equal to the deity's glory. It was an intoxicating thing to possess. A dreadful secret.
One morning, long before the palace stirred, she walked to the rooftop facing the eastern horizon. The air was cold, smelling of damp earth and the coming heat. Surya, the Sun God, was just beginning to draw his vast, fearful glory out from the world's edge.
A restless, adolescent curiosity gripped her. She did not need a son. But the pure mechanism of the boon fascinated her. Could it truly compel the Sun God, the Eternal Witness, the source of life, to attend?
I will just whisper it, she thought, her internal logic childishly flawed. I will see if a glow, a sign, manifests to confirm the Rishi was not jesting. I will merely test the boon.
She faced the rising orb of fire, took a deep breath, and let the first word of the Mantra fall from her lips, soft as a dewdrop.
The rooftop did not merely brighten; it seemed to dissolve.
A force, hot and overwhelming, descended with the speed of a comet. The air turned to gold—not light, but a substance. Kunti gasped, trying to hold back the remaining syllables, but the Mantra had taken root, running through her veins like liquid fire.
Surya Dev stood before her. His form radiated an unbearable, combustive energy.
"Pritha," His voice resonated, filling her mind and soul. "You have invoked me. I am here to fulfill my duty."
Kunti recoiled, shaking her head violently. "No! My Lord, I did not mean to complete the chant! I am unmarried. I cannot..."
The Sun God's eyes, ancient and sorrowful, fixed upon her.
"The Rishi's law is immutable, Pritha. It binds us both."
He reached towards Kunti's being, not with a physical touch, but with an act of cosmic will. Kunti felt a shock—a sudden, deep, internal heat, as a massive, burning Ansh (essence) was established within her. The act was swift, overwhelming, and irreversible.
Then, Surya Dev's voice softened slightly, a brief whisper of mercy in the crushing fulfillment of duty.
"Have no fear of public shame, Pritha. Your maidenhood will remain intact. This is my guarantee. You may still go on to marry and live your destiny."
And then, His golden form instantly faded. He was gone as utterly as the morning mist, leaving Kunti alone with the unbearable truth.
She sank to her knees. Within her, a new, volatile warmth resided. A terrible, exhilarating truth.
She was pregnant.
The price of her youthful curiosity was immense. Shame. Fear. And above all, a question burning inside her: How do I conceal this magnificent and terrifying secret?