The Birth of the Pandavas

Maharaj Dhritarashtra and Maharani Gandhari’s eldest son was born in a strange way—inside a pot filled with ghee. At his first cry, jackals and dogs began to howl around Hastinapur. The city shivered with bad omens.

Vidura, who never feared to speak the truth, stood with Bhishma and the royal scholars and astrologers. He bowed and said, “Maharaj, the signs of this child are not good. For the kingdom and for the Kuru line, this child will never be lucky. Abandon him at once, Maharaj.”

Dhritarashtra’s face tightened. “What are you saying, Vidura! He is my eldest son. After waiting so long, I have finally received a child; he will be my crown prince. Should I give up that child?”

Dhritarashtra knew the scriptures well, but when he heard his child cry, a father’s love rose in him like a flood. In that blind emotion, wisdom floated away like straw. He ignored the warnings of Vidura and the other scholars. He told himself, How can I abandon my own son just because the hour is unlucky?

But an ordinary householder and the king of a country are not the same. For a king, justice, duty, and a sage’s words must weigh more than private feelings. Dhritarashtra did not hold to this truth. He sat on the throne in Pandu’s shadow, not as a true king, and he took no duty of kingship upon himself.

So, even though an heir had come, Hastinapur could not rejoice freely. The unknown future stood before them like a fear.

Far away on Mount Shatasringa, Kunti gave birth by Indra’s grace to a third son. His name was Arjuna. Though Kunti now had three sons, Madri’s lap was still empty. One day, unable to bear it, she came to Pandu.

“Maharaj,” she said softly, “Kunti is my co‑wife; I do not have the courage to say anything to her. But three sons light up her lap, and my lap is empty—I cannot accept this at all, Maharaj.”

“Kunti has a blessing given by a sage; by that blessing she has three sons—you know that, Madri,” Pandu said.

“I know, Maharaj. I do not have that sacred mantra. But if you ask her once, she will not refuse you. She will give me a single chance to be a mother. I fall at your feet, Maharaj—please ask her once for me.”

Pandu forgot that the blessing Kunti had earned belonged to her alone. Madri’s beauty, youth, and tender age charmed him. Kunti supported Pandu’s vow of self‑control, but Madri did not. Kunti was calm, steady, and gentle; even as queen, there was the mark of a hermit in her nature. Madri was different; her desires were still strong. She filled much of her weak husband’s mind. Pandu drifted far from wisdom and carried Madri’s unfair request to Kunti.

For a devoted wife, the husband’s words are like holy scripture. Kunti bowed her head. “Very well, your command is on my head, Maharaj. I will teach the mantra to Madri. She may call one god of her choice and ask him for a child. But after that one call, the mantra will lose its power. She will have no more than one child, Maharaj—because Madri does not own that mantra.”

When Pandu agreed, Kunti gave Madri the mantra.

Madri, princess of the Middle Country, had a clever mind. Kunti had said to call only one god. In the world of the gods, the Ashwini Kumars are two, yet counted together as one. With careful thought, Madri called upon the Ashwini Kumars. Both came, and they blessed her with twin sons—Nakula and Sahadeva.

Even this did not satisfy her. Through Pandu, Madri asked Kunti again for more children. Kunti’s self‑respect was hurt. Madri had not kept her word; she had used trickery.

Kunti stood firm. “Please forgive me, Maharaj. I can no longer follow this order, because Madri has broken my trust; she has deceived me. Therefore she is guilty to me.”

Pandu asked, “What wrong has Madri done?”

“I told her to use the mantra for only one god,” Kunti said. “But Madri did not keep that word. She called the two Ashwini Kumars and deceived me. After this, I can no longer trust her, Maharaj.”

Kunti had three sons, and Madri had two—so Pandu had five sons: Yudhishthira, Bhima, Arjuna, Nakula, and Sahadeva. The sages’ words did not prove false. The five boys grew like gods—bright, strong, handsome, and virtuous. Because they were Pandu’s sons, they were called the Pandavas. Dhritarashtra’s one hundred and one sons were the Kauravas. Until then, the children of the Kuru house were all called Kuru. For the first time, two names—Pandava and Kaurava—split one family into two sides. When division begins at birth, even the names become separate. Time was already writing a clear line, but who can read Time’s script?

Not even Pandu, after so much penance and self‑control. Fate bound him. He forgot the curse of Rishi Kindama.

It was spring. The breeze was soft, flowers covered the fields, and the sky itself seemed to dress in beauty.

Pandu stood with Madri beneath the blue heavens. “Ah, what a wonderful spring,” he whispered. “I have never seen nature so beautiful. But why am I alone, so unhappy? I have two wives—and one of them is as lovely as you. How can a man with such fortune be so sad?”

Madri drew back. “Maharaj, I fear the curse. Have you forgotten Rishi Kindama’s words?”

“Madri,” Pandu said, “I have forgotten nothing. I know my bad fate. But I cannot close my eyes to such beauty. I am a man too; I have life, youth, wishes, and taste. I am still unsatisfied. If I leave with so much longing, will my soul find a good end? How long shall I deny myself? And how long shall I leave you unsatisfied? Do you think I do not see your sorrow in your doe‑like eyes?”

“Stop, Maharaj. You are very restless today,” she pleaded. “Not today. I should return to the hut. If I stay here, harm may come to you; I cannot bear that.”

“You love me, Madri,” he said gently. “How can your love harm me? Come closer. Look—because you have come close, nature looks so beautiful today. Even the clouds are clearing from my mind. We should not leave this joyful moment incomplete. Come near, Madri. Make this spring, and my longing, meaningful. In your embrace I am not afraid to die, Madri—not afraid to die.”

“Maharaj, what are you doing?” Madri cried. “Have you forgotten? Great harm will come to you. Let me go, I beg you!”

But desire, like spring itself, overpowered him. “Today it feels like rain has fallen inside my heart,” he said. “Do not hold yourself in chains anymore—ah! What has happened to me—ah!”

Madri’s cry tore the quiet air. “Maharaj! Maharaj! Try—what a disaster! What has happened, Maharaj!”

Pandu fell. The curse struck true. At the moment of union, life left him.

Madri knelt, shaking. “What have you done!” someone cried in grief. “Madri, what ruin has come! How did you forget the Maharaj’s curse? I warned him many times, but he never listened. I am truly unlucky—no, you gave the Maharaj one last joy; you saw him happy.”

Kunti’s voice was steady through her tears. “I am the Maharaj’s elder, lawful wife,” she said. “I will die with him. You raise our five sons.”

Madri bowed her head. “No, elder sister, no. I will go with the Maharaj. My hunger for love is not yet spent; I cannot live without him. Besides, my heart is not as generous as yours. I cannot think of your three sons as my own as you can; I would try, but I cannot make them equal to Nakula and Sahadeva. You are not like that. I truly believe that with my Nakula and Sahadeva you will make no difference with your Bhima and Arjuna. So do not stop me, elder sister; give me permission—I will die with the Maharaj.”

A shadow of grief fell over the Himalayas. Madri was young, and her cries were wild. Kunti, calm and steady, stood like a living statue of sorrow. Five boys gathered close to her. At this young age, the greatest shelter over their heads was gone. Thinking of the trials to come, Kunti grew silent. Alone before this danger, she kept her sons near and looked at Pandu’s still body.

The sages prepared the funeral pyre. Chanting mantras, Yudhishthira lit the fire for his father. The pyre blazed high. Dressed like a hermit, Madri placed herself upon it and died with her husband. All duty for the princes now fell upon Kunti.

Though Pandu had renounced the throne, his sons still had a right to it. But in that wild mountain place, to raise princes with training fit for a palace was hard. Kunti took the duty on herself. She began their lessons in duty and ethics. “Before you become kings,” she told them, “you must become true men.”

The five Pandavas were gifts of five gods, and their inner strength was bright. They grew in respect, humility, and kindness. Under Kunti’s watchful care, their manners blossomed. Still, sages from nearby hermitages came with advice.

“What great fortune,” Kunti said, bowing. “Dust from the feet of sages has fallen in my hut.”

“May you have long life; be victorious,” the sages blessed her. “Yudhishthira, Bhima, Arjuna, Nakula—come, bow down.”

“Our bow to you, O sages,” the boys said.

“We have not come to take service, good lady,” the sages said. “We have come to tell you—now return to Hastinapur. The goddess of the home belongs at home. You are the Lakshmi of Hastinapur. Take these princes and go back to the palace. Your Yudhishthira is Maharaj Pandu’s heir—do not keep him from his right to the throne.”

Kunti sighed. “O sages, this austere life is not for them. But will going be easy to do?”

“Why not?” they said. “In Hastinapur are Bhishma and Vidura, two living images of justice, duty, and law. While they are there, what is there to fear?”

“Not fear—doubt,” came a young voice. It was Bhima.

“What is this?” a sage asked. “Why, Bhima, why will you not go?”

“Duryodhana is very wicked,” Bhima said.

Kunti turned at once. “His father—ah, Bhima, what kind of words are these, ‘his father’? He is our elder father; do you not know? Does anyone speak like this about elders? Besides, Duryodhana is our brother. How can you speak like this before your mother and the revered sages!”

A sage nodded. “Yudhishthira is right. How do you know that Duryodhana is wicked?”

“I heard it from the people of the ashrams,” Bhima said. “His signs are said to be bad.”

“God will judge people,” Kunti said gently. “You are not God—you are only a human, and Duryodhana is your brother. Love all; honor your elders—then your birth will be worthy. Never let me hear such words again.”

“Forgive me, Mother; I have done wrong,” Bhima said, bowing.

“Prepare for the journey, Kunti—do not delay,” the sages said. “We will take you and bring you safely to Hastinapur.”

“Your command is on my head, O sages,” Kunti replied.

On an auspicious day, Kunti set out with her five sons. The sages went with them. Yudhishthira was sixteen, Bhima fifteen, Arjuna fourteen, and Nakula and Sahadeva were thirteen. The brothers enjoyed the sights along the way. Only Kunti walked quietly, her hand resting on Yudhishthira’s shoulder. Though still a boy, he was truly the son of Dharma. Kunti depended on his calm judgment.

He looked up at her. “Are you worried about something, Mother?”

“Not worry, son—just thinking,” she said. “To Hastinapur, you are almost strangers—perhaps even unwanted. When I left, those days were different. Then the Maharaj was with me, and today I am alone. Do not think about me; my thoughts are about your future.”

“Mother,” Yudhishthira said gently, “is it right to worry without first facing the situation? You taught me to trust wise judgment more than fear. Then why be anxious yourself? Wise people say—life is a struggle against crisis. What is there to fear? Trust in God—He is our only support. Kunti lives by remembering Him.”

The sages reached Hastinapur with Kunti and the children. Joy spread across the kingdom; few had hoped for this return. The princes had heard of Hastinapur but had not seen it. They walked on, wide‑eyed at their father’s land. Their clothes were simple, but their godlike glow amazed the townsfolk. Crowds gathered on both sides of the road.

News reached the palace. Bhishma and Vidura hurried to welcome them. The sages led Kunti and her sons to the gate.

“Lady Kunti, please accept Vidura’s bow,” Vidura said, folding his hands. “Hastinapur welcomes you and the princes from the heart.”

Bhishma turned to the sages. “Our bow to you, O sages. With your coming, good fortune will return to this kingdom. Please come to the court and take your seats. Tell us kindly how we may serve you.”

“Righteous Vidura,” the sages said, “we are pleased with your devotion. We do not have the time or desire to stay long. We have come to bring the Kuru queen and heirs back to Hastinapur. And we carry very sad news—Maharaj Pandu and his second queen Madri have both gone to the eternal abode. Let their proper last rites be done here in Hastinapur. Righteous Vidura, we wish that you yourself take that duty.”

Vidura staggered. “What news is this, O sages! It strikes my heart like a blow—Maharaj Pandu! Great Pandu—my younger brother! Has he left me like this! My weak eyes cannot bear it—this sudden news shatters me! Great‑souled Pandu—Pandu!”

Bhishma laid a hand on his shoulder. “Vidura, this is not the time for grief. Be calm, child—be calm. My heart too is in turmoil, but restrain yourself. Such unrest does not suit you. Begin the arrangements for the first rites. The Lakshmi of Hastinapur has come; Maharaj Pandu’s heirs have come. Think—what boundless grief they carry. Make arrangements for rest for Mother Lakshmi and the princes. Queen Kunti and the five Pandavas, please accept the full bow of your elder uncle. Blessings upon you. Go to the inner chambers; you are very tired from the road. O sages, please give us the chance to serve you.”

Thirteen days of mourning were arranged, and Pandu’s last rites were performed. Then the sages took leave of Hastinapur. With the love of Queen Mother Satyavati, Bhishma, and Vidura, much of Kunti and her sons’ grief grew lighter. The hundred sons of Dhritarashtra and the five Pandavas met and got to know each other.

Among all one hundred and five boys, Bhima was the strongest in body. During play he overpowered the rest, often with a simple heart. He would bump his cousins’ heads together or flatten them in games and laugh. Dhritarashtra’s sons could not match him at all.

But Duryodhana’s mind was deep and dark; there lay many stains. He began to look for a way to trap Bhima. The quarrels of the children had not yet spread to the palace. Under Yudhishthira’s scolding, Bhima would often grow quiet, and so news did not reach other ears.

Gandhari’s brother, Shakuni, was living in Hastinapur. He watched his sister and Duryodhana closely. Nothing about Duryodhana was unknown to him.

In time, a messenger came to Queen Mother Satyavati. “Victory to the Queen Mother,” he said. “A great rishi asks to see you.”

“Who is the great rishi? Bring him in,” she commanded.

Vyasa entered and bowed. “Please accept my bow, Mother—Vyasa stands before you.”

“Blessings upon you, child,” Satyavati said with joy. “After so long you remembered your mother?”

“You are in my heart, Mother,” Vyasa replied. “My day does not begin without remembering and bowing to you. I have come for a special reason.”

“What has happened, child? Is all well?”

“For now, all is well,” he said. “But with divine sight I can see—peace will not last long. The days of happiness are ending. Sin will grow in the world. Because of the Kauravas, unrest will thicken on all sides. Duty and virtue will fall; the decline of the Kuru line will begin.”

“What are you saying, my son!” she cried.

“This is the law of creation, Mother,” Vyasa answered. “Without decay, how can there be destruction? Your Kuru line is not outside creation.”

“But with two shields like Devavrata and Vidura present—how can there be decline?” she asked.

“Bhishma and Vidura are both bound by duty and the royal throne,” Vyasa said. “That is their greatest weakness. What they feel is right, they often cannot do; day by day those bonds will grow tighter. But you are not bound anywhere. You will not be able to bear the ruin of this Kuru line. So my request is this—do not stay here. Leave the palace and go to a hermitage to practice yoga. Your time is near; prepare to go, Mother.”

Satyavati’s eyes filled, but she bowed to truth. “Your words never prove false. I will do as you say. But I will not go alone; I will take my two daughters‑in‑law, Ambika and Ambalika. I am their shelter. Take us to a hermitage of your choice, child. But before I go I want to see Devavrata once.”

“As you wish, Mother,” Vyasa said. “I will send him word.”

Bhishma came at once and bowed. “Did you call me, Queen Mother?”

“Yes, child,” she said. “I called you to tell you something special.”

“Please command me, Queen Mother.”

“With Ambika and Ambalika I am going to a hermitage, Devavrata,” Satyavati said gently. “My work in this palace is done. Now I wish to take the path of yoga and leave life. The throne of Maharaj Shantanu, the blazing sun of the Kuru line—I give his heirs into your hands, Devavrata. Guard everything. See that your father is never dishonored. Protect his good name.”

“You too will leave me, Mother?” Bhishma’s voice trembled. “In this great duty, this great household—I will be left alone. Your shade of love will no longer be over my head. What are you saying!”

“Devavrata,” she said, smiling sadly, “why do you act like a child, though you are the wisest on earth? Where are you alone! My blessings will always be with you. But can anyone’s life stay forever? Life comes and goes—you know this better than anyone. My time has come—so I too am going. Krishna Dvaipayana Vyasa will always remain for you, for Hastinapur’s welfare. Remember him in trouble, follow his advice, and stand firm in your duty. Blessings upon you.”

Queen Mother Satyavati set out with Ambika and Ambalika to a quiet hermitage. There they began yoga. Gaining success in that practice, all three left their bodies by the power of yoga.

Here ended the family of Maharaj Bharata. And over the sky of Hastinapur, darkness began to gather.