novelraw Arc 5 - Sambhava - Chapter 28 - King Vyūṣitasva and Queen Bhadrā
Arc 5 - Sambhava - Chapter 28 - King Vyūṣitasva and Queen Bhadrā
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Thus, King Pāṇḍu, possessed of great energy and steady resolve, devoted himself wholly to a life of asceticism. In that sacred wilderness where gods, siddhas, and cāraṇas moved unseen, he practiced austerities with undistracted mind and pure intent.
It was not long before he earned their favor. The siddhas—those perfected beings—and the cāraṇas, celestial wanderers and singers of sacred lore, came to admire him. He had no pride in his birth, no vanity in his wisdom. With his mind under full control and his passions subdued, he served his spiritual guides with humility and unwavering discipline.
In bark he lived, in truth he breathed,
with steady vow his soul was sheathed.
In fire and fast, in dawn and night—
he shone with inner, sacred light.
So pure was his conduct, so radiant his penance, that he became worthy of the heavens by his own merit alone. Though born a warrior of the Kuru line, he grew in stature through tapas, until even the sages looked upon him as their own.
Some called him brother, seeing his strength and kinship in spirit. Others named him friend, for he walked among them as one of their own. Still others cherished him as a son, for his humility was matched only by his devotion.
Though born of kings, he shed the sword,
and sought not crown, nor throne, nor hoard.
The path of dharma he embraced—
and in the ranks of sages placed.
In time, through long and intense austerities, with a heart purified and focused on the eternal, Pāṇḍu became like a Brahmarṣi—a sage of the highest order—though he had entered life as a kṣatriya prince.
Vaiśampāyana continued:
It was on a sacred day, the dark night of the new moon, that the great ṛṣis—those of rigid vows and spotless hearts—gathered together in the forest where Pāṇḍu dwelt. The air was still with anticipation, for something rare was to occur. The sages, clad in bark and light, prepared to set out on a divine journey—one that even kings and gods would long for.
Seeing them about to depart, their faces radiant with purpose, Pāṇḍu approached them with reverence and humility. Folding his hands, he asked:
“O foremost of ascetics, so luminous and wise,
Whither do ye go, with such fire in your eyes?
Speak, if you will, and bless me too—
May I walk where dharma calls you to?”
The ṛṣis, pausing in their ascent, smiled gently and replied:
“Today, O Pāṇḍu, a rare event shall shine—
a great assembly in Brahmā’s shrine.
The Self-born shall be seen today,
where gods and Pitṛs make their way.
We go to the hall of the Unborn One,
where time dissolves and paths are done.
Come, if thou seekest the formless flame—
to witness that from which all came.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Hearing of this divine gathering in the abode of Brahmā, Pāṇḍu was seized with yearning. At once he rose, his spirit stirred by a desire to witness the heavenly realms. With Kuntī and Mādrī beside him, he prepared to follow the ṛṣis, heading northward from the mountain of a hundred peaks—Śataśṛṅga, the sacred gateway to the higher worlds.
But as the great ascetics turned their gaze upon the king and his queens, they spoke with compassion, tempered by truth:
“O scion of the Bharatas,” they said,
“we know thy will, thy path ahead.
But hear, before you walk with us—
the way is steep, miraculous.
The northern slopes, where heaven gleams,
are not like earth or mortal dreams.
We’ve seen the caves where devas dwell,
and mansions where sweet gandharvas swell
with notes of music in the air,
and apsarās with braided hair.
The gardens of Kubera shine—
on slopes divine, by fate’s design.
“There are regions of everlasting snow—barren, blinding, and fierce—where no trees grow and no animals stir. Torrents fall like rivers from the sky, so relentless that not even winged creatures can pass through. In such places, only the wind moves freely, and only siddhas and great ṛṣis tread.
No chariot flies, no bird can glide—
only the subtle breath may ride.
The peaks we climb are sharp and high—
where even thought is stretched to try.
“How then shall these noble princesses endure such hardship? They are unaccustomed to such pain, to biting winds and icy silence. Will they not faint with suffering? Their limbs, tender as lotus stems, are not meant for snow-clad trials.
Therefore, O bull among the Bharatas, come not with us. The path we take is not for kings, nor for those bound by earthly ties, however noble their intent.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Hearing the sages’ refusal, King Pāṇḍu did not grow silent, nor did he turn away. With a heart burdened by dharma, he spoke to them from the depths of his affliction, his voice carrying the sorrow of a man torn between renunciation and his duty to his ancestors.
“O blessed ṛṣis,” he cried,
“You walk the skies while I abide
in grief—for I am sonless still,
and that is sorrow none can fill.
The Vedas say, and sages know,
no heaven waits for one below
who leaves this world without a son—
his journey ends ere it’s begun.
“I speak not out of greed or longing, but from anguish. I am tormented because I have not discharged the sacred debt I owe my ancestors. It is said, and rightly so, that with the dissolution of my body, my pitṛs—those who came before me—shall perish as well. Without offspring, I break the chain that binds past to future.”
“Fourfold debt each soul must bear—
to gods above, to ṛṣis rare,
to men around, and sires who sleep—
these burdens must be paid, and deep.
Gods are pleased by yajñas bright,
the ṛṣis by a life of light.
Men by kindness, just and true—
but for the dead, what must we do?
The funeral cake, the sacred fire,
the living son—that is their pyre.
Without a child, their fate is sealed—
their hopes unmet, their passage repealed.”
“I have honored the gods with offerings, the sages through penance and study, and fellow men through righteous conduct. But my ancestors—how shall I redeem them if I pass from this world without a son? You know, O seers, that I too was begotten not by my father, but through the sacred will of a ṛṣi, born upon the queen, as a seed of righteousness.
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“So I ask—O knowers of truth divine,
Can this same path, too, now be mine?
Shall children rise from soil not mine—
yet still be bound by father’s line?”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Hearing Pāṇḍu’s heartfelt plea, the great ṛṣis, those seers of truth and destiny, gazed upon him with compassion and insight. Their ascetic eyes, sharpened by tapas and inward vision, saw clearly what lay hidden from ordinary mortals. They spoke in one voice, gentle yet firm, filled with the authority of the unseen.
“O king of virtue, cast off thy grief,
for fate shall bring its golden sheaf.
We see, through eyes of prophecy,
bright sons ordained for destiny.
Sinless shall they be, and great,
blest with wisdom, strength, and fate.
Like gods in form and heart and might—
thy line shall blaze with dharma’s light.
“Therefore, O tiger among men,” they continued, “do not wait idly upon the winds of fate. Let your actions now align with what destiny has already prepared. Wise men, acting with resolve and reflection, always reap the fruits that lie within reach.
Act, O king, with timely care—
for now the path lies shining there.
The fruit you seek is near, is known—
sons who will make your glory grown.
“We see it already, O Bharata—accomplished children, pleasing in conduct, radiant in form, born of fate yet won through will. Let your heart be steady and your judgment firm, for the gods shall soon fulfill what the soul of a king dares to desire.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Upon hearing the words of the great ascetics, King Pāṇḍu fell into deep thought. The memory of the curse that had robbed him of his power to beget children returned to his mind like a shadow on sunlight. Long he sat in silence, then called privately upon his wedded wife, Kuntī, the noble daughter of the Yādava house, gentle in manner and steadfast in virtue.
In hushed tones he spoke to her—words shaped by duty and sorrow.
“O Kuntī of sweet smiles,” he said,
“a storm of dharma stirs my head.
In this, our time of wretched need,
strive thou to plant the righteous seed.
For sages say in sacred lore,
that sons alone open heaven’s door.
By sonless men, though penance done,
no lasting merit shall be won.
Sacrifice, vow, and almsgiving pure,
without a son, bear fruits unsure.
In all three worlds, the wise acclaim—
a son secures undying name.
“O timid one, I speak this in sorrow. Because of the sin of my past—the unknowing cruelty I showed the sage disguised as a deer—I am cursed. My virility has vanished, and with it, the hope of continuing my line.”
“Wretch that I am,” he whispered low,
“struck down by fate, undone by woe.
Yet even in this twilight breath,
I long to conquer nameless death.”
He paused, then continued with ancient law upon his lips. His voice took on the tone of one reciting sacred injunctions:
“There are twelve kinds of sons, recognized by righteous tradition. Of these, six are heirs and kinsmen, six are kinsmen only. Listen, O Kuntī:
The son begotten by one’s own self upon a wedded wife.The son begotten upon the wife by an accomplished man, in kindness.The son born through a union arranged for reward.The son begotten after the husband’s death, upon the widow.The son born of a maiden, yet accepted as one’s own.The son born of an unchaste woman.The son given by another.The son purchased for a price.The self-offering son, who seeks refuge.The son accepted with a pregnant bride.The brother’s son, adopted.The son born of a wife of lower caste.“If sons of one kind may not be gained,
the next, by dharma, is ordained.
In times of trial, sages say—
a worthy path still lights the way.”
He looked into her eyes—clear, steady, yet veiled in thought.
“As I was born of holy seed,
by Vyāsa’s will, in time of need—
so may our sons be born, though I
am cursed, and cannot father nigh.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Thus reflecting on his curse and duty, Pāṇḍu spoke once more to Kuntī. His voice, though calm, bore the weight of lineage, dharma, and sacred tradition. No longer pleading, he now invoked the authority of a husband commanding his virtuous wife.
“O Kuntī,” he said, “since I am bereft
of power to beget, by fate's own theft,
I now command—by dharma’s right—
bring forth bright sons, in virtue's light.
Seek one of merit, great and wise,
whose soul is vast as boundless skies.
Let him be equal, or greater still,
in strength, in truth, in self-born will.
“Hear now of an ancient tale,” he continued, “a precedent rooted in the śāstra, not in sin. The daughter of Śaradandāyana—noble and chaste—was asked by her husband to bear children in a time of need. When her season came, she bathed according to rite and, at night, went to the crossroads where four paths met. There, she waited.”
“And soon,” said Pāṇḍu, “a Brāhmaṇa came—
crowned with tapas, free from shame.
She bowed to him and made her plea,
for sons to rise and set her free.”
“She performed the Puṁsavana yajña, pouring clarified butter into the sacred fire. From that noble union were born three mighty sons, all skilled in arms and chariot-fight. Among them, Durjaya shone brightest, a hero unmatched in battle.”
“O Kuntī,” he said, “do likewise now—
fulfill our debt, complete our vow.
Call forth a soul of Brahman flame,
and let our sons uphold our name.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Thus instructed by her noble lord, Pāṇḍu, the bull among the Kurus, the gentle and steadfast Kuntī did not accept his command without first offering her heartfelt reply. With eyes like lotus petals and a voice trembling with emotion, she spoke to her husband—her speech full of love, restraint, and righteousness.
“O lord of might, O lotus-eyed,
it ill becomes thee,” Kuntī cried,
“to speak such words, that break the way
of dharma’s path and marital stay.
I am thy wife, thy bond, thy flame,
and never shall I bear another’s name.
In mind and soul, in flesh and vow—
I am thine, and only thou.
What man on earth could equal thee—
in truth, in might, in royalty?
O son of Kuru’s noble line,
thy seed alone shall stir in mine.
Take me, my lord, in rightful fire,
and let our union lift thee higher.
That heaven which thou seek’st to find,
we both shall reach, by dharma aligned.”
Pausing for breath, she softened her tone, yet her resolve remained unshaken.
“But listen now, if thou art still inclined—
a tale from purāṇic days enshrined.
A sacred story I once heard,
now let its truth shape deed and word.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Then Kuntī, gentle in speech yet firm in virtue, began to narrate an ancient tale—a sacred story she had once heard, meant to illuminate a path where dharma and destiny intertwined.
“There was, in the noble lineage of Puru,” she said, “a king named Vyūṣitasva, righteous and powerful, devoted to truth, unwavering in virtue. His arms were mighty, his mind resolute, and his fame spread like sunlight across the earth.”
“Once, as he performed a yajña grand,
the gods and sages took their stand.
Indra came, with rṣis bright—
drawn by dharma’s blazing light.
The Soma flowed, the gifts were poured,
the chants arose, the fire roared.
So pleased were they, the gods took part—
and served the rite with hand and heart.
So shone the king in sacred fire,
like sun reborn from winter’s pyre.
His name rang high, his deeds renowned—
a blazing crown the heavens crowned.”
Emboldened by divine favor and charged with kṣatriya vigor, King Vyūṣitasva then performed the mighty horse-sacrifice. His conquests knew no bounds—he subdued the kings of every quarter: East, West, North, and South. All paid tribute at his feet.
“With strength of ten great tusked beasts,
he shattered kings and claimed their feasts.
Through yajña pure and conquest wide,
the Earth herself stood by his side.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Kuntī continued her tale, her voice steady, yet rich with the memory of what she had once heard from the ancient Purāṇikas—a story sung by those who remembered the virtuous deeds of kings and queens of old.
“O king,” she said to Pāṇḍu, “there is a sacred anecdote recited often by sages, glorifying the life and fate of that illustrious monarch, Vyūṣitasva—the foremost among men in the Puru lineage.”
After conquering the Earth up to its oceanic boundaries, Vyūṣitasva ruled with justice and compassion. He protected his subjects as a father shields his own sons—each caste, each people, nurtured under his care. His rule was marked by dharma and abundance.
He performed countless yajñas, and gave away untold wealth to Brāhmaṇas. He collected precious stones, jewels, and riches, only to dedicate them to further sacrifices. The Agniṣṭoma and other Vedic rites were carried out under his name, and from his altars the soma flowed in rivers of divine offering.
“With fire and gift, with hymn and song,
he ruled the Earth, both just and strong.
The gods rejoiced, the sages blessed,
and dharma dwelt at his behest.”
But above all, King Vyūṣitasva had a queen of unrivalled beauty and devotion—Bhadrā, the daughter of Kakṣivat. The two were bound in deep love, inseparable in life. Yet fate intervened.
Through excess in pleasure and the weakness of the body, the king was stricken with phthisis. His end came swiftly, like the sun vanishing at dusk—resplendent but fallen.
When Bhadrā beheld her lord lying lifeless, a void tore through her soul. She, the queen who had basked in love and honor, was now left without a child, without her king.
“O king,” said Kuntī, “she fell into grief,
as petals fall when torn from leaf.
Her tears fell fast, her heart did break,
and these are the words she came to speak—”
“O virtuous one,” Bhadrā cried,
“of what use now is life or pride?
A woman lives but through her lord—
without him, what is she restored?
Death is better than this breath,
this lingering echo near to death.
I seek no joy, no realm, no throne—
just take me where you now have gone.
In life, I lived within your light;
without it, day is but a night.
O king, be kind—do not depart,
but take with you my breaking heart.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Queen Bhadrā, abandoned by fate and torn from the embrace of her beloved, wept beside the body of her husband, King Vyūṣitasva. Her tears fell not only for her loss but for the unbearable weight of separation. In her anguish, she cried aloud to the departed king, her words echoing through the sacred groves where even the winds held their breath.
“O tiger among men,” she cried,
“I will follow thee, in life or death, beside.
Across even lands or forest deep,
I’ll walk thy path, I shall not sleep.
You’ve gone, my lord, to realms unseen—
I’ll trail thy steps, as shadows lean.
Thy slave am I, in love, in vow—
just speak once more, O tell me how!
Without thy gaze, thy voice, thy hand,
my soul shall burn like desert sand.
O lotus-eyed, my heart decays—
with every breath, in thousand ways.
Some loving pair, by me undone
in former life, now casts me one
more fate-bound birth of severed tie—
and thus I wail, and thus I die.
O king, without thee, even a day
is hell on earth—so sages say.
I’ll lay me down on Kuśa bed,
and from all joy be severed, dead.
Just once, O lord, appear to me—
thy voice, thy glance—set my soul free!
O mighty one, though I still live,
thy word alone can solace give!”
Queen Bhadrā, bereft of her lord, wept in the silence of her grief. Her voice rose in a sorrowful cry that pierced the stillness of the forest, and the gods, it is said, paused in their realms to hear the purity of her devotion. Her lament was as sacred as any prayer, her vow as powerful as any sacrifice.
“O tiger among men,” she cried in pain,
“through even path and rugged plain—
where’er thou goest, I shall tread,
though thou art gone, though thou art dead.
I am thy shadow, bound in grace,
I follow thee through time and space.
Thy slave in heart, in vow, in deed—
my only joy is in thy need.
O lotus-eyed, without thy gaze,
my soul shall rot in silent blaze.
Each thought of thee, a sword unseen—
my heart now bleeds in wounds between.
Some loving pair I must have torn
in lifetimes past, and now I mourn.
For that old sin, this curse I claim—
to burn apart from love’s own flame.
A woman left by her husband dear,
lives not in joy—she lives in fear.
Even a moment far from thee
is hell itself in life’s decree.
Upon Kuśa grass shall be my bed,
and all delights I now shall shed.
No gold, no food, no silken thread—
but ash and silence shall be spread.
O tiger of kings, appear again—
just once, relieve this searing pain.
One word, one glance, one final sigh—
command me now, or let me die!”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Kuntī, the daughter of Śūrasena and queen of King Pāṇḍu, concluded her tale with solemn conviction. Her voice carried both tenderness and power, for she was no ordinary woman—she was the bearer of a hidden boon, and a keeper of sacred knowledge.
“O Pāṇḍu,” she said, “so it was that Bhadrā, full of sorrow, wept over the still body of her beloved Vyūṣitasva. She clung to him with trembling arms, her heart shattering with grief. But then—within that silence—there came a voice, incorporeal, divine, and filled with compassion.”
“‘Rise, O Bhadrā,’ the voice proclaimed,
‘and sorrow not, thou pure and famed.
By power unseen, this gift I give—
from death itself, thy line shall live.
Take now thy bath, and on the night
of waxing or waning lunar light,
lie on the bed where once we lay—
and I shall come in spirit’s way.’”
Kuntī’s eyes glimmered—not with pride, but with faith in dharma.
“And Bhadrā obeyed. With chastity and care, she performed the sacred rites. That very night, by divine will, the spirit of her husband begot upon her seven sons—three of the Sālwa race and four of the Madras. Her womb was blessed by power beyond the flesh.”
She paused, then looked upon Pāṇḍu—her lord bound by a curse, but still a man of tapas and dharma.
“So now, O bull among men,” she said,
“as she conceived though her lord lay dead—
so may I bear sons through your might,
by power ascetic, pure and bright.
If she, in grief, gained such a grace,
then you, in life, can take your place.
O king, command—and I shall bear
children of light, divinely fair.”