novelraw Arc 5 - Sambhava - Chapter 31 - Pandu’s Death
Arc 5 - Sambhava - Chapter 31 - Pandu’s Death
Vaiśampāyana said:
In the secluded majesty of that Himalayan forest, Pāṇḍu, son of Ambālikā and scion of the Kuru race, beheld with joy the blossoming strength of his five sons. Born of divine grace and raised in ascetic stillness, they were radiant like the five elements in harmony. Watching them run, laugh, and wrestle upon the mountain slopes, the once-powerful monarch felt the old strength of his warrior limbs stir again. The pulse of youth throbbed within his aging body, and his heart, long restrained by penance, was touched by a hidden ember of longing.
It was spring—vasanta, that ancient magician who stirs the blood of gods and beasts alike. The season of unreason had come.
One day, moved by the forest’s music, Pāṇḍu wandered into the woods with his queen Mādri—she of the shining limbs and lotus gaze. The earth itself seemed to breathe desire, for every tree had burst into blossom, and every breeze was scented with unseen caresses.
Palāśa and tilaka trees stretched their arms to the sky; mangoes hung like golden bells, while champakas dropped petals like rain. The asoka burned with crimson fire. Kuruvakas and kesaras, parihadrakas and karnikāras, all trembled under the weight of their flowers.
The bees were drunk on scent and sun,
The cuckoos sang what must be done.
The lotuses opened like yearning hearts—
Nature’s breath played a thousand parts.
Mādri walked beside him, clad in garments light as mist, her form gleaming through the folds like moonlight through cloud. She moved with the grace of a celestial nymph—unaware, or perhaps helpless, before the storm rising in her husband’s soul.
Seeing her thus—young, radiant, unguarded—desire surged in Pāṇḍu like a forest fire leaping from tree to tree. He, who had for years borne the burden of restraint, felt his senses unravel like threads of ghee in the sacrificial flame.
One glance—his vows lay scorched and broken,
The curse of the ṛṣi long forgotten.
His mind, once clear as stillest spring,
Was drowned beneath a darker thing.
Driven by lust and destiny’s hand, the king seized Mādri in sudden passion. She, trembling with dread, resisted as she could, her voice crying out in fear, her hands pushing back against fate. But the king, consumed by desire and blinded by the intoxication of spring, no longer saw her as his beloved companion—but as the doorway to his undoing.
And in that fatal embrace, Time completed its work. The curse of the great ṛṣi Kindama, long dormant, now awakened like a coiled serpent. Death, once held at bay by renunciation, struck in silence.
The Destroyer smiled behind the bloom,
And kāma led him to his doom.
Embraced by love, he fell to night—
A flame consumed by its own light.
Thus did Pāṇḍu, the noble and virtuous king, fall—not by sword nor sickness, but by the hands of fate, while locked in the arms of the woman he loved. Even virtue, when unguarded by memory, is not proof against the power of destiny.
And so passed the son of Ambālikā—
In pleasure he died, and in dharma he fell.
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Then Mādrī, the princess of Madra, cast herself weeping upon the lifeless body of her lord, Pāṇḍu. Her cries rose through the still forest like the wail of a she-elephant robbed of her mate. Hearing her anguished voice, Kuntī came running with Yudhiṣṭhira, Bhīma, Arjuna, and the twins Nakula and Sahadeva following close behind.
But Mādrī, grief-stricken and trembling, called out to her co-wife, “Come alone, O Kuntī. Let the children stay behind.”
Kuntī, her heart pierced with sudden dread, cried, “Alas, alas, woe unto me!” and rushed ahead, bidding the sons to remain.
When she beheld the silent form of Pāṇḍu lying beneath the forest canopy—his limbs stilled, his eyes closed in peace—and Mādrī clutching him like a vine wrapped around a fallen tree, she sank beside them and lamented:
“O Mādrī, this noble one, who held his desires in check for so long, was watched by me in constant care. How could he forget the curse of the Ṛṣi and seek union in desire? You, who knew his vow, should have protected him. Why did you let him stray into solitude and awaken that fatal flame? Ah, I am bereft even of his final smile! But you, O daughter of the king of Madra, more fortunate than I, have seen our lord adorned in joy and gladness at the very end!”
Mādrī, with tears glistening like dew on her cheeks, replied with trembling voice:
“O revered sister, I did resist him, I did plead. But the flame of longing burned too fierce within him. The curse, like a snake coiled in shadow, struck when passion rose. He would not be turned back. Alas, it was his desire that drew him to his end.”
Then Kuntī said, her voice heavy with the weight of dharma:
“I am the elder wife, O Mādrī. It is my sacred right to ascend the pyre. The merit of following one’s husband to the beyond must be mine. Let me take his body, for I shall go with him to the abode of the ancestors. You must live, and raise all these children, for that is now your task and duty.”
But Mādrī clasped Pāṇḍu’s body tighter and wept:
“He came to me in longing, his thirst unquenched,
And now he rests in death’s still embrace.
Shall I not follow where my lord has gone,
To soothe his soul in Yama’s place?
O noble Kuntī, thou art my elder, and wiser in dharma. Grant me this boon—let me follow him, for my heart cannot bear this separation. You are stronger. You shall raise all five sons with even hand and steady soul. But I—I could never love your sons as I love mine. That failure would stain my soul. If you grant me leave, my heart will go to rest.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Hearing those words, full of sorrow yet steeped in dharma, Kuntī bowed her head and gave her silent assent. Then Mādrī, serene in resolve, rose with grace and mounted the funeral pyre beside her fallen lord. And thus, like a faithful flame joining the dying embers, the princess of Madra embraced death in love and sacrifice.
The forest wept, the winds fell still,
As Mādrī lay upon the hill.
With Pāṇḍu she passed to the realm unseen—
A wife in life, in death a queen.
Vaiśampāyana said:
When the wise ṛṣis—resplendent like gods, accomplished in tapas and pure in heart—beheld the body of Pāṇḍu lying lifeless in the forest, they gathered together in solemn counsel beneath the sheltering trees of the Himavat.
They spoke among themselves, their voices grave like wind through holy groves:
“O sages, behold this noble king—
He who renounced crown, chariot, and ring,
Who came to us with truth and fire,
To walk the path of pure desire.
Now he lies still, his breath withdrawn,
His soul released, his body gone.
Yet he entrusted to our care
His sons, his queens, this weight so fair.”
“Let us not linger,” said they, “for dharma calls. Pāṇḍu, though fallen from the body, has ascended to the worlds of the righteous, his merits unbroken despite his end. But his sons—born of gods, destined for greatness—and his wives, bearers of royal virtue, remain our sacred charge. Let us now return to Hastināpura, the city of the Kurus, and deliver these children into the hands of Bhīṣma, guardian of the throne, and Dhṛtarāṣṭra, king in name.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Thus resolved, the sages—those knower-seers, clad in bark and silence—gathered Kuntī, the sorrow-stricken queen, and her five god-born sons. With them they also bore the lifeless bodies of Pāṇḍu and the beautiful Mādri, who had surrendered her own life to join her husband in death, as you shall soon hear.
The long road to Kurujāṅgala lay before them, yet Kuntī, though unaccustomed to toil, journeyed without complaint. Grief had made her strong. Her every step was lit by memory, and her arms cradled not only children, but fate itself.
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Through forests vast and valleys deep,
They walked as though in solemn sleep.
The wind bore hymns, the leaves made way—
For dharma walked with them that day.
At last they reached the city of elephants—Hastināpura, heart of the Bhārata race—where dharma and destiny entwined like twin vines. Kuntī and the ascetics halted at the great northern gate. The guards, awestruck by the presence of so many ṛṣis—glowing with penance like suns veiled in bark—rushed to carry word to the king’s court.
Soon the city stirred.
From every street and rooftop came voices of wonder. “The forest-saints have come! Thousands of them, their eyes ablaze with fire and peace!” The news spread like the dawn wind, swift and golden.
The people, curious and devout, poured into the avenues—Brahmanas, Kṣatriyas, Vaiśyas, and Śūdras, together with their wives and children. All caste and pride dissolved in the tide of reverence.
The chariots rolled, the banners waved,
The streets with lotus garlands paved.
The very air with mantras filled—
As if the gods themselves had willed.
Then came the elders of the royal house: Bhīṣma, son of Śāntanu, lion-hearted and white-haired; Somadatta of the Bālhika line, regal and serene; and Dhṛtarāṣṭra, the blind yet inward-seeing king, led by his faithful brother Vidura, wise in dharma. They were followed by the venerable Satyavatī, matriarch of the Kuru line, now cloaked in grief and silence; the princess of Kosala, noble and austere; and Queen Gāndhārī, her eyes veiled even in sorrow, accompanied by the other women of the royal palace.
Even the hundred sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, adorned in gleaming ornaments and silken robes, came forth in solemn curiosity, their hearts unknowing of the winds of change that now approached.
The gates of Hastināpura stood wide,
And destiny entered with humble stride.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then the Kauravas, led by their royal priest and adorned in ceremonial dignity, came forward and bowed their heads low before the ṛṣis—those seers of sacred flame and truth. The citizens too, from every varṇa and walk of life, touched the earth with reverent palms and seated themselves in orderly rows, their hearts subdued by awe.
In that solemn assembly, Bhīṣma, son of Śāntanu—elder of the house of Kuru and ocean of wisdom—arose. With folded hands and bowed head, he moved with grace to honor the ascetics who had come bearing grief and destiny. He offered the customary arghya and the foot-washing water drawn from golden vessels, as prescribed in śāstra. When the rites of welcome were complete, and the court had fallen into stillness like a windless lake, Bhīṣma gently inquired of the sages:
“O revered ones, what brings you to this royal hall with such solemn presence? Speak, that we may serve dharma.”
Then from amidst the gathered ṛṣis, one among them arose—eldest in years, clothed in deer-skin, his matted locks radiant with tapas. With the silent consent of the other ascetics, he spoke in deep and measured tones that echoed like thunder within the marble court:
“O sons of Kuru, hear our word—
A tale of duty, love, and sword.
For the king ye once did know and serve
Has crossed the path that all must curve.”
“You know well of King Pāṇḍu—born of royal line, he who renounced the pleasures of kingship and the weight of a throne to dwell with sages upon the mountain of a hundred peaks. There he embraced the life of brahmacarya, wearing bark and silence as his only ornaments. But for reasons known only to the gods, sons were born to him—gifts of the celestials, children destined to rekindle the fading fire of the Kuru race.
Behold Yudhiṣṭhira, the eldest, born of Dharma himself—steadfast, truthful, destined to rule through righteousness. And Bhīma, mighty of limb, sprung from Vāyu, whose roar will one day shake the earth in battle. And Dhanañjaya, born of Indra, wielder of bow and lightning, whose fame shall eclipse the might of all archers in this world.
And see these two—Nakula and Sahadeva—twin-born of the twin Aśvins, divine physicians of the gods. Swift in thought and fair in form, they are lions in the guise of youth.
Thus from forest, not from throne,
The fire of Kuru blood has grown.
In humble huts, not courts of pride,
Was dharma’s legacy kept alive.
Pāṇḍu, though dwelling in vanavāsa, upheld the flame of his forebears. Through him the line of Bharata did not perish. Seventeen days ago, he departed this world, having succumbed to fate amidst the snares of desire. His queen Mādri, devoted and chaste, seeing him laid upon the funeral pyre, could not bear the sundering. With her own hands she lit the flame and ascended it, thus joining her husband on the journey to the worlds beyond. She has attained that loka reserved for pativratās, women of one soul and one love.
Here lie the remains of their sacred bodies, untouched by fire—preserved so that you may render final honor. Here also stand their children—these tiger-hearted princes—and the queen Kuntī, burdened but unbroken.
Now let all rites be performed—let sacred fire rise to heaven. Let Pāṇḍu, the silent sustainer of the Kuru line, be united with the Pitṛs through the śrāddha, that rite of ancestral joining, sapīndīkaraṇa. It is time.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Thus did the sage speak—his words heavy with truth, lifted on the wings of dharma. And even as he ended, before any reply could be shaped, the entire host of ṛṣis, Siddhas, and celestial beings vanished like vapor under morning light. One moment they stood visible—glowing, grave, eternal—and the next, the space they occupied was empty.
Like stars that fade with rising sun,
Or dreams dissolved when night is done,
They vanished into heaven’s breath—
Seers untouched by sleep or death.
And the people of Hastināpura, marveling at the sight, whispered among themselves of gods and omens, and returned slowly to their homes, hearts filled with wonder and a strange peace.
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Then Dhṛtarāṣṭra, lord of the Kuru throne—aged, wise, and weighed by sorrow—turned to Vidura, his brother in blood and dharma, and said:
“O Vidura, dutiful and wise,
Let not delay or doubt arise.
Perform the rites for Pāṇḍu’s soul—
That lion-king, now rendered whole.
Let the ceremonies befit a monarch of his stature. Let Mādri too be honored as one who ascended the pyre in faith and love. Distribute freely—cattle, robes, and gems. Let wealth pour like rivers, that merit may follow the departed into the other world. Let Kuntī perform the last rites of her co-wife as pleases her spirit. And see that Mādri’s body is wrapped with such care that neither Sūrya, the all-seeing, nor Vāyu, the all-moving, may gaze upon her."
He paused, then added in solemn tones, “Lament not overmuch for Pāṇḍu. He was righteous and just, the protector of his people. And he has left behind five sons—heroes born of gods, shining like stars, destined to carry forth the banner of the Bhāratas.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Vidura bowed with folded hands. “So be it,” he replied, and together with Bhīṣma, he chose a sacred site for the royal funeral rites—an auspicious grove beyond the city, touched by holy winds, and not far from the banks of the Gangā.
The family priests, bearing sacred fire already sanctified with ghee and mantras, departed the palace at once. From every household and street, the citizens gathered, their voices hushed, their hearts full.
The body of the king, washed and anointed with celestial unguents, was wrapped in fine cloth and adorned with garlands of spring. Perfumed oils and sandalwood paste had been gently rubbed upon his limbs. The queen Mādri too was laid beside him—her form serene, as though in sleep.
Draped in silks and hung with pearls,
The bier shone bright with silken swirls.
Flowers rained, and incense rose—
A path of honor, sweet repose.
They laid the bodies on an ornate palanquin, adorned with gold-threaded banners, yak-tail whisks, and the white parasol of sovereignty—the emblem of royal dignity. Music swelled in the air: conches and flutes, drums and veṇu-pipes, weaving a lament that rose like a prayer to the skies.
And from every side, nobles and commoners alike distributed gems and ornaments among the people—acts of charity for the departed soul. Priests robed in white led the procession, chanting Vedic hymns and offering ghee into the blazing sacrificial fire they carried in a golden vessel.
“O lord! O lion among kings!”
They wept aloud, their voices stung.
“Where goest thou, leaving behind
A kingdom, sons, and hearts resigned?”
Bhīṣma wept, though his face was as stone. Vidura wept, the wise heart undone. The Pāṇḍavas wept, their young shoulders trembling under the weight of fate.
The long procession passed through the city and journeyed to a quiet grove by the banks of the sacred Gangā. There, beneath the canopy of whispering trees, they set the bier down upon the grass.
Golden vessels were brought, filled with pure water drawn from the holy river. With reverence, they washed the body once more, removing the sacred pastes of perfume and laying fresh sandalwood and white raiments upon the king. When he was clothed thus, in robes of untouched fabric and crowned with flowers, he seemed not dead but merely asleep—like a warrior resting after battle, or a sage lost in dreamless trance.
There he lay, in death serene,
Clothed in white and calm of mien.
As if to rise, with word or breath—
But time had sealed the gate of death.
Vaiśampāyana continued:
When the final rituals were completed—piṇḍa-dāna, tarpana, and oblations to the sacred fire, all performed as per the guidance of the Brāhmaṇas—the time came for the cremation of the departed.
The Kauravas, with tearful eyes and steady hearts, prepared the funeral pyres upon the banks of the sacred Gangā. They brought fine white lotuses, sandalwood paste, fragrant resins, and incense from the Himālayan slopes. These they placed around the bodies of Pāṇḍu and Mādri, who now lay in repose as if awaiting the fire’s release.
The flames rose slow, the wind stood still,
The wood did crack, the smoke did fill.
And into light the king did pass—
His deeds now burned in time’s own glass.
But as the fire kindled and the garlanded pyre began to burn, a terrible cry rang out—a cry that pierced the hearts of all assembled. It was Queen Kausalyā, mother of Pāṇḍu, who fell to the earth with arms outstretched, wailing:
“O my son! O light of my womb!
Why do you leave us, bound to gloom?”
She fell senseless to the ground, overwhelmed by grief. Seeing her collapse, the citizens and the people of the surrounding provinces burst into sobs. Their lamentations rose in unison, carried by wind and echoed by forest.
The sky wept mist, the wind stood hushed,
The Gangā’s waves flowed dark and rushed.
Even birds fell mute upon the trees,
And beasts stood still in sympathy.
The sorrow of Kuntī—wounded but unshaken—moved even the trees. Her voice trembled like a veena-string plucked by fate. The air itself seemed laden with her pain.
Bhīṣma, that pillar of the Kuru house, bowed his head in silence; his eyes, long dry, now brimmed with tears. Vidura, wise and serene, wept like a child denied his guiding light. Dhṛtarāṣṭra, blind in eyes but stricken deeper in heart, sat motionless as stone.
Together with the Pāṇḍavas, with the ladies of the court and the gathered citizens, they performed the jalakarma—the water-libation that sends the soul forward upon the celestial stream.
With water poured from golden urn,
They prayed for souls that would not return.
May they ascend to righteous planes,
Freed now from sorrow, birth, and chains.
When the rites were complete, the air remained heavy with mourning. The people—noble and humble alike—approached the sons of Pāṇḍu to offer solace. They whispered words of comfort, but even their compassion rang hollow against the weight of loss.
The five sons of Pāṇḍu, who had once played like princes in forest halls, now slept upon the bare earth, their heads resting on arms, their hearts stunned by the finality of death.
And seeing this, the Brāhmaṇas and elders of Hastināpura made a solemn vow:
“If sons of gods lie upon clay,
Shall we in comfort turn away?
Let none sleep soft while they grieve thus—
Their sorrow, now, belongs to us.”
So they too renounced their beds. From palace to cottage, no man or woman touched silk or cushion. For twelve days and nights, the city mourned with one breath, and the name of Pāṇḍu echoed through temples and courtyards alike.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then Bhīṣma, venerable patriarch of the Kuru line, and Kuntī, resolute though grief-stricken, joined by Vidura and the elders, performed the sacred śrāddha for the departed monarch Pāṇḍu. They offered piṇḍa—the sacred rice-balls shaped with love and memory—at the appointed hour, beneath the shadow of ancestral trees.
With hands washed clean and hearts made still,
They offered gifts by Vedic will.
For him who ruled with truth and flame,
They fed the fire and spoke his name.
Thousands of Brāhmaṇas were gathered—clad in white, pure of conduct, bearers of mantra and lore. They were feasted with rich food, honored with fine garments, and given gifts of gems, cattle, and land, in merit of the soul that had departed.
The Kauravas too were honored with hospitality, as befitting kin united in dharma and grief.
Then, when the rites were complete and the sacred fire had cooled, the sons of Pāṇḍu—cleansed of their ritual impurity—were brought back to Hastināpura. The city gates opened before them like arms of a mother receiving her lost children. The people came forth once more, not now in pageant, but in mourning.
They had lit the flames, they had poured the oil,
They had marked the days of grief and toil.
Yet as they walked the streets once more,
They wept as kin on death's own shore.
Though the rites had ended, the sorrow had not. For in Pāṇḍu they had not merely lost a sovereign—they had lost a protector, a guide, a man whose justice had filled the land with peace.
And so it was that all of Hastināpura, young and old, noble and humble, grieved together—as if each heart had lost a father.