novelraw Arc 5 - Sambhava - Chapter 27 - Pandu’s Folly and Vow
Arc 5 - Sambhava - Chapter 27 - Pandu’s Folly and Vow
Janamejaya, his eyes bright with longing for sacred history, spoke thus to Vaiśampāyana:
“O utterer of Brahma,” he said, “you have narrated to me the wondrous origin of Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s sons—born through the boon of a great ṛṣi, named in the order of their birth. I have heard all this from you with deep regard.
“But now,” he added, “speak to me of the sons of Pāṇḍu, those shining ones whom you said were incarnate portions of the gods themselves.”
“They were not born as common men,
But fell like stars to earth again.
With Indra’s might and Dharma’s flame,
Each bore the mark of heaven’s name.
“Begin their tale, O sage revered, from the moment of their sacred birth. Tell me of their trials, their triumphs, and their deeds of dharma. Let the story of the divine-born Pāṇḍavas be recited in full.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
O King, once while roaming the southern slopes of Himavat, the noble Pāṇḍu wandered through forests teeming with wild beasts—deer, boars, and animals fierce in nature. With bow in hand and arrows tipped with golden feathers, he moved as one born to the hunt.
In the shadows of tall trees, he beheld a majestic stag amidst a herd. It stood out by its bearing—its poise, its silence—as if it were the leader, the one all others followed. At that moment, the stag was locked in union with its mate. Unaware of its true nature, and moved by a hunter’s instinct, Pāṇḍu loosed five arrows in swift succession.
Swift as thought and sure as flame,
His arrows flew with deadly aim.
But what he struck was not a beast—
It was a sage, in forest feast.
The “deer” cried out as no animal should—its voice broke into human wails, shrill with pain and betrayal. It fell, mortally wounded, beside its companion. For what Pāṇḍu had struck was no ordinary creature, but a ṛṣi’s son of great ascetic power, who had taken the form of a deer to revel with his beloved.
In human cries the forest rang,
From fallen sage in pain he sang:
“O king, thy arrow’s fateful flight
Has torn my joy and cursed thy right.”
Then, weeping bitterly, the sage—still half-bound in the mortal coil of desire—raised his voice in sorrow and fury. The mountain wind carried his words like a curse across the silent woods.
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Then the deer, pierced and stricken, turned to Pāṇḍu and spoke—not in the voice of a beast, but as a sage wronged in soul and flesh. His words rang with pain, with reason, and with righteous anger.
“O king,” he said, “even men who are enslaved
by lust and wrath, and void of mind,
would shrink from such a deed as this—
this cruel act, this strike unkind.
The śāstra stands above all will,
not personal whim nor passion's thrill.
What law forbids, the wise forsake—
for dharma’s sake, no vow they break.
“You are born, O Bharata, in a line famed for virtue and self-restraint. How could you, even you, be so overcome by impulse and fury, as to strike down one lost in the joy of love, without discerning his true form? Reason has left you in this act. This is not the way of the righteous.”
Pāṇḍu, stung by the reproach but firm in his reply, answered the dying sage in the deer’s form:
“O deer, know that kings are trained to treat wild creatures as they would their foes. Animals such as yourself are slain—openly or by stealth—as is the custom of kṣatriyas. This is no hidden sin.
The forest law, the bowman's path,
permits the hunt, permits the wrath.
By weapon, trap, or silent tread—
the deer is struck, the quarry dead.
“Did not Agastya, the great ṛṣi, chase deer during his sacred yajña? He offered their flesh to the gods and fed his sacrificial fire with their fat. The precedent is old, and sacred. Why then do you rebuke me for an act allowed by the ancient ways?”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then, though stricken with pain, the deer-formed sage lifted his voice again, his words heavy with sorrow and the sharp edge of dharma.
“O king,” said he, “even in war,
men wait till foes are armed and stand.
The arrow should not seek the heart
of one who bears no sword in hand.
Hostility must be declared—
then let the bowstring hum with might.
But striking one in peace and love—
such is not a warrior’s right.”
Pāṇḍu, resolute and firm in his kṣatriya code, responded without wavering:
“O deer, thy words are grave and wise,
but miss the truth the hunter sees.
We strike the beasts by any path—
by stealth, by chase, beneath the trees.
With careful aim or careless chance,
the king may slay what he must feed.
The forest holds no rules of war—
this is our way, this is our deed.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
The wounded sage, still bound in the body of a deer, spoke again—his voice no longer reproachful, but solemn with the weight of fate. Though in pain, he spoke with clarity, and each word fell upon Pāṇḍu like thunder in a quiet sky.
“O king,” said he, “I do not curse thee
for slaying deer or harming me.
But for the time, the sacred tide—
when joy and union coincide.
Who strikes a creature at such a time,
when life itself sings nature’s rhyme?
That act, though masked as hunter’s law,
is steeped in sin, and stained with flaw.
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“I was joined with my mate in love—seeking joy in seclusion, as even sages sometimes must. You, born of the noble Paurava line, should have paused until that act was complete. Instead, you have shattered the sanctity of that moment. The act of union, O king, is sacred to all beings. It brings life, it binds hearts, and it flows from the same divine impulse that created the worlds.
“You, who know dharma, who understand both scripture and pleasure—how could you, like an unthinking man, act in such haste and cruelty?”
“From one like you, such sin strikes deep—
as if the sun forgot to keep
its course, or fire refused to burn,
and night came forth at day’s return.
“I am Kindama, a muni of great austerity. For the sake of modesty, I took the form of a deer, and in these woods I lived—feeding on fruits and roots, harming none. Yet you, knowing me not, have cut down my joy with your golden-feathered arrows.
“And so, O king, hear now my curse, the law of cause and consequence that none escape.”
“As joy you struck while cloaked in wrath,
so joy shall bring your final path.
When passion swells and love you seek,
death shall find you at its peak.
The one whose touch shall stir your breath—
shall be the herald of your death.
And she, in love, shall follow thee—
to Yama’s gate, in loyalty.”
The forest fell still, as if the wind itself dared not stir. The sage, having spoken, slowly breathed his last. And with that utterance, Pāṇḍu’s fate was sealed—not by a sword or enemy’s hand, but by the law of dharma, set in motion by his own untimely deed.
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Saying these words, the deer—who was in truth the ascetic Kindama, burdened with sorrow and the final weight of his curse—released his last breath. His life departed with the wind, and silence spread across the forest like a veil.
Pāṇḍu stood still, his bow forgotten in his hand. The weight of his act struck him all at once—not as a hunter, but as a man of dharma who had broken the invisible law that binds all life.
The leaves were still, the sky turned pale,
as if the woods themselves did wail.
The king stood mute, his heart undone—
grief rising with the setting sun.
Vaiśampāyana said:
After the cursed sage Kindama had breathed his last, Pāṇḍu stood in stunned silence. The forest seemed to grieve with him, and all around, the trees and wind fell still. With his wives Kuntī and Mādrī by his side, the king of the Kurus broke down. Deeply afflicted, he wept bitterly, the arrows fallen from his hand, the curse now etched into his heart.
In that moment of despair, Pāṇḍu lifted his voice and cried out—not merely in sorrow, but in revelation.
“The wicked fall, though nobly born—
by passion's flame, they are forlorn.
Though sons of dharma, heirs of light,
they stumble into endless night.
“My father, born of Śāntanu—wise and pure—perished in youth, bound by his desire. It was from the womb of his lust that the sage Kṛṣṇa-Dvaipāyana was born, he who then gave me life. And yet, though I spring from wisdom, my own heart is steeped in vice.
“What am I now but a wanderer in the wilderness, slayer of deer, hunted by fate? The very gods have turned their gaze from me.”
Then, with trembling breath but rising resolve, Pāṇḍu declared his new path.
“I will renounce all earthly chains—
the wish for sons, the worldly gains.
I’ll walk the path my father trod,
the forest way, the way to God.
“I shall embrace brahmacarya, the vow of celibacy and austerity. No longer shall I be bound by the desires that tie man to the world. I will shave my head, cast off all ties, and roam the earth alone. I shall eat only what is begged from the trees, and shelter in hollow trunks or deserted ruins.
“With dust I’ll cover this mortal shell,
forsaking joy, forsaking hell.
Praise and blame shall weigh the same—
I shall not seek reward or name.
“I will cause no harm to any being—not to birds, beasts, worms, nor trees. All living things I shall regard with equal eyes, as if they were my own children. I shall not mock, nor scorn, nor covet. I shall be ever cheerful, devoted to the good of all.”
“Thus shall I strive, alone and free,
from passion’s grasp, from destiny.
If not by birth, then by my deed—
I’ll be a sage in thought and creed.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Thus resolved, King Pāṇḍu spoke further, outlining the austerities he would follow with the precision of a man determined to free himself from all worldly bonds. His words, though quiet, carried the force of an oath.
“Once a day shall I go to beg,
no more than five or ten doors wide.
And if no alms are granted me,
I shall not turn nor stretch with pride.
“If hunger gnaws and food is none,
still I shall not seek more than done.
No greed shall stir my path anew—
my vow shall stand, my needs be few.
“To one who lops my arm with hate,
and one who offers sandal-paste—
I shall respond with equal calm,
no anger borne, no blessing graced.
Life shall not charm me, death not scare,
I’ll walk untouched by hope or care.
Neither gain nor loss shall bind—
a wind, I’ll pass, unchained in mind.”
“I shall wash my heart clean of all sin, forsaking even sacred rites done at auspicious times—rites meant for happiness or fruit. I shall abandon acts of religion, pleasure, or worldly profit. I shall live untouched by the thirst for gain or the delusion of joy. Like the free wind, I shall move without attachment, following only the path of fearlessness.
“No child I seek, no house, no name—
no fire for fame, no claim or shame.
Respected not, nor full of pride,
I shall not cast a begging eye.
For one who craves from greed alone,
is like a dog that’s thrown a bone.
Such is not the path I’ll tread—
but walk where all desires are dead.”
Thus did Pāṇḍu, destitute of the power to beget children and grieved by the curse upon him, declare his unwavering devotion to the life of renunciation, vowing never to stray toward worldly paths again.
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Having spoken his vows and shed his tears, King Pāṇḍu heaved a long, burdened sigh. Then he turned toward his two wives, Kuntī and Mādrī, and spoke with solemn resolution.
“O noble ones, let the princess of Kosala—my mother—and the wise Vidura, and the king himself, along with our faithful friends, be gently informed. Let venerable Satyavatī, grandsire Bhīṣma, our family priests, and the learned Brāhmaṇas who partake of soma and keep their vows—let all the elders who depend upon us—be told that Pāṇḍu has left the palace and withdrawn into the forest to live the life of an ascetic.”
Hearing their lord’s declaration, the hearts of Kuntī and Mādrī trembled—not with fear, but with fierce devotion. They spoke together, their words born of love and resolve.
“O bull among the Bharatas,” they said,
“other paths may yet be tread.
Great penance too the house may hold—
with fire and vow and silence bold.
Let us, your wives, walk by your side,
where passions fall and pride has died.
With body worn and senses stilled,
we too shall climb the sacred hill.
“O king of dharma, O knower of righteousness, how can you abandon us now? If you cast us aside to walk alone, then know this: we shall not remain in the world a day longer. For what is life to a wife when her lord walks beyond her reach? Our vow is not to pleasure, but to your path.”
“Luxuries we cast away,
our ornaments to earth we lay.
For you, O king, we give up all—
and follow where ascetics call.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Hearing the unwavering devotion of his wives, the king was moved. No longer torn by sorrow, Pāṇḍu’s heart steadied with purpose. He looked upon Kuntī and Mādrī and replied with deep conviction, choosing the path of his ancestors—the life of forest penance and restraint.
“If your resolve be truly pure,
and rooted deep in dharma’s core,
then let us walk, O noble two,
the path our sires have walked before.
No more the palace, soft and grand—
from bark and roots shall rise our stand.
On forest floor, in ashen hue,
our vows shall shine, our souls renew.
“I shall abandon the pleasures of cities and the pride of kingship. Clad in bark and garments of skin, with matted locks upon my head, I will walk the dense and silent woods. Each morning and evening I shall bathe in sacred waters and offer the homa with faith. I will eat sparingly—only what fruits I find, ripe or raw. I shall accept no cooked meals, no spices, no grains.
“With silence sharp, with hunger pale,
I’ll bear the cold, the heat, the gale.
In solitude I’ll hold my breath,
and meet each day as near to death.
“I shall make offerings to the Pitṛs and the gods with my speech, water, and whatever the forest grants me. I will live without harming any creature, nor will I seek out men—whether they be of kin, of city, or of caste. I will remain apart, unseen, untouched.
“Until this body turns to dust,
I’ll serve the scriptures’ sacred trust.
And seek, beyond what rites contain,
a penance deeper than the plain.”
Thus resolved, the king prepared to cast off the bonds of the world—not in despair, but in dignity, as a seeker who knew that redemption lay not in action, but in renunciation.
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Having spoken his resolve, the Kuru king Pāṇḍu acted with the dignity of one truly prepared for renunciation. He removed the great jewel from his diadem, unclasped the golden necklace from his chest, and took off the shining bracelets and large ear-rings that once adorned his regal frame. He stripped away the symbols of power and pride. Then, turning to his wives, he collected their ornaments and fine robes—each glittering piece once a mark of royal status—and gave them all away to learned Brāhmaṇas in charity.
Summoning his attendants one last time, he spoke in a voice softened by farewell:
“Return to Hastināpura,” he said,
“and let it be known in every stead:
that Pāṇḍu, lord of earth and sky,
has gone to the woods, his crown laid by.
Tell them I leave behind all gold,
all joy, all pleasure sweet and bold.
From wealth and desire I walk apart—
into the forest, with steady heart.”
The attendants, hearing these words—gentle yet final—were overcome with grief. Their cries rose like the wailing wind through the trees, and they cried out together:
“Oh, we are undone! Our lord departs—
and leaves us here with shattered hearts!”
Tears flowed freely down their cheeks, hot and heavy with the pain of parting. Bearing the king’s gifts and the wealth meant for charity, they turned their steps toward Hastināpura with heavy feet and mournful hearts.
When Dhṛtarāṣṭra, the blind monarch and elder brother, heard from them all that had happened, his heart was shaken with sorrow. He mourned deeply for Pāṇḍu—his younger brother, now lost to the life of the world.
He touched no comfort, sweet nor bright—
no bed of rest, no feast’s delight.
His soul, entangled in despair,
brooded alone in silent prayer.
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Meanwhile, having sent away all his attendants, King Pāṇḍu set forth in earnest upon the path of renunciation. Accompanied only by his two faithful wives, Kuntī and Mādrī, he sustained himself on roots and forest fruits. The royal wanderers left behind the world of men and entered the sacred wilderness where gods and sages dwell unseen.
Their journey took them first to the mountains of Nāgasāta, serene and remote. From there they passed into the enchanting groves of Caitraratha, where the air was scented with celestial fragrance. Crossing the rugged pass of Kālakūṭa, they then approached the great snowy expanse of Himavat. At last, they reached the sacred heights of Gandhamādana.
Where mountain winds in silence move,
and trees are thick with sacred grove,
where rṣis chant and siddhas shine—
there dwelt the king in peace divine.
In those highlands, sometimes upon level ground, sometimes along steep mountain slopes, Pāṇḍu made his dwelling. He was protected not by armies, but by Mahābhūtas—the great elemental spirits, by siddhas perfected in yoga, and by mighty ṛṣis who watched over him like guardians of dharma.
From Gandhamādana, the royal ascetic journeyed further. He reached the lake of Indradyumna, still and luminous like a mirror of the heavens. Then crossing the mighty range of Haṁsakūṭa—named for the divine swans—he arrived at the mountain known as Śataśṛṅga, the “Hundred Peaks.”
There he made his forest throne,
in sacred shade, he stood alone.
With bark for robe and heart made still,
he walked the path of ancient will.
There Pāṇḍu dwelt in steadfast penance, his senses restrained, his body tempered, and his mind turned toward liberation.