The Mystery of Gandhari's Pregnancy

Bhishma could not find peace. He feared that the fire burning in the blind heart of Dhritarashtra would grow into a wildfire. To consult in private, he called Vidura to his room.

“Greetings, Elder Grandfather, did you call me?” Vidura asked.

“May you be blessed. Come, Vidura,” Bhishma said softly. “I need to consult with you in private.”

“Command me, Elder Grandfather,” Vidura replied. “For now the throne of Hastinapur has no danger. After many days this Kuru kingdom has found its king.”

“But, but Vidura,” Bhishma said, his brow furrowed, “the fate of this line is not very happy. What if a crisis for the throne comes again at any moment? No, no, Vidura, even on this joyful day I cannot feel at ease.”

“Elder Grandfather,” Vidura said, “in all the world your foresight and judgment have no equal. So you must have thought of something in this matter.”

“Yes, Vidura, you are right,” Bhishma replied. “I want to marry off the princes of Hastinapur as soon as possible.”

“Ah, that is an excellent proposal,” Vidura agreed.

“But we must find brides worthy of the Kuru line,” Bhishma went on. “From the wombs of those brides, the future kings will be born. The task is hard, Vidura, so your advice is very necessary. I am searching to see if any high-born princesses are holding a swayamvara.”

“Elder Grandfather,” Vidura said thoughtfully, “there will be no trouble for King Pandu’s marriage. Any princess will want to be Queen of Hastinapur. But…”

“Dhritarashtra?” Bhishma finished for him. “No one will ever accept a man born blind as a husband, Vidura. Leaving Dhritarashtra aside, Pandu’s marriage is possible.”

I am Krishna Dvaipayana Vyasa. I know what Bhishma’s true fear is. Dhritarashtra is blind, and he is not the king. Then why would any princess marry him? Vidura also knew this. But even after much thought, he could not find a simple way. Long ago, when a princess had been brought by force, Bhishma himself had been hurt. The story of Amba still burned like a wound in his mind. So he would not walk that road again. Only one path was left: if a small kingdom, tempted by power and honor, agreed to join hands with Hastinapur, the barrier would fall. On Vidura’s advice, Bhishma chose that diplomatic path.

Everyone knew of Gandhari, the daughter of King Subala of Gandhara. Compared to Hastinapur, Gandhara was not very strong. But the princess was famous from childhood for her gentle nature and sweetness. People honored her austerity and reverence. In every way, Gandhari was unmatched. Some also knew of a special blessing of Mahadeva upon that devotee of Shiva.

Seeing Bhishma’s thought, Vidura remembered this and spoke.

“I know of one maiden, Elder Grandfather. If you grant me safety, I will tell you about her now.”

“Speak, Vidura,” Bhishma said. “I want to hear it from you.”

“I was thinking of Princess Gandhari of the land of Gandhara,” Vidura said. “In beauty, virtue, and nature, I believe she can uphold the honor of this line in every way. It is heard that she has a special grace from Mahadeva. For the bride of the eldest son of the Kuru line, perhaps no one is more fitting.”

“Yes, you are right, Vidura,” Bhishma said with relief. “That is why people call you righteous. Your judgment delights me. I too have heard the talk about Gandhari’s vow—by Mahadeva’s blessing she will be the mother of a hundred sons. If such a maiden comes as a bride of Hastinapur, there will be no more crisis for the throne. There will be no more worry about the heirs of the Kuru line. Besides, the King of Gandhara should have no objection to forming ties with Hastinapur. I will soon bring Gandhari to Hastinapur and marry her here.”

Compared to Hastinapur, King Subala of Gandhara had little power. And the proposal to marry Gandhari to Dhritarashtra came from Bhishma himself. He did not come empty-handed. He gave many gifts. King Subala sent Gandhari to Hastinapur with his son Shakuni. The father’s order could not be disobeyed.

Shakuni loved his younger sister Gandhari more than his own life. A marriage to a prince born blind—this he could not accept in his heart. When Gandhari tied a black cloth over her own eyes to share her blind husband’s darkness, Shakuni could no longer bear the sight. The thought that such a flower-soft sister must suffer so much pain made him helpless inside. Though he came to Hastinapur with Gandhari for the wedding, he never held respect in his heart for the Kuru line. Yet any quarrel was impossible. Where Bhishma, a world-conquering hero, stood guard, what could a small kingdom like Gandhara do?

Shakuni was very shrewd. He knew he could never defeat Hastinapur by force. He trusted opportunity more than strength. He surely promised himself that he would repay Gandhari’s dishonor. But he hid his mind very cleverly. Bhishma did not sense it—or even if he did, perhaps he scorned it. What is Gandhara before Hastinapur! Rather than dwell on that, Bhishma turned his busy mind to sending King Pandu to the swayamvara of King Kuntivhoja’s daughter.

“Victory to the King! The great Bhishma has come to you,” the herald cried.

“Greetings, Elder Grandfather,” Pandu said. “Why did you come in person? Why did you not send for me?”

“I am a servant of the throne, and you are King Pandu of Hastinapur,” Bhishma replied. “How can I summon you? I have no such right.”

“Elder Grandfather,” Pandu said gently, “I am upholding royal duty, my child. Do not stop me. Come inside; I have words.”

“Come, come, Elder Grandfather,” Pandu added with respect.

“King Pandu,” Bhishma said, “very soon there will be a swayamvara for Princess Pritha of Kunti. In beauty and virtue, in every way, that maiden suits you. Be present at the swayamvara, my child. Bring Pritha as Queen of Hastinapur.”

“As you say,” Pandu agreed. “But the princess of the land of Kunti is Kunti. Then who is Pritha?”

“The one called Pritha is that Kunti,” Bhishma explained. “Pritha is the daughter of the Yadava king Surasena; she is the sister of Vasudeva. King Kuntivhoja is Surasena’s elder brother. To fulfill his childless brother’s wish for a child, Surasena gave his own daughter into his hands. From then on Pritha became the foster daughter of King Kuntivhoja.”

This Kunti was very honest, pure, and kind to guests. “If such a maiden comes to Hastinapur,” Bhishma said, “Lakshmi will never leave this kingdom. You, you bring this maiden soon and make her Queen of Hastinapur, my child.”

“As you command, Elder Grandfather,” Pandu said. “Tomorrow I will prepare to go to Princess Kunti’s swayamvara.”

“Be fortunate, my child,” Bhishma blessed him.

What Bhishma said about Princess Kunti was true. In beauty, virtue, reverence, and kindness, she had no equal. On top of that, by the blessing of the great sage Durvasa, Kunti also held a rare power. No one else knew of this power. Many princesses wished for the young king of Hastinapur as their husband. So when Kunti herself saw Pandu at her swayamvara, she placed the great garland on his neck.

Vidura married Sulabha, daughter of the Yadava king Devaka. Though she was a princess, Sulabha was never treated as one, because, like her father, Sulabha was the child of a Shudra maid. So she had no place in the royal palace.

But the wedding season did not end. Bhishma did not forget the past troubles over the throne of Hastinapur. To make sure of an heir for King Pandu, he now thought of giving him another marriage. That thought did not stay hidden from Pandu.

“Attention! The mighty emperor, King of men, King Pandu of great valor, is coming!” the guard called.

“Guard,” Pandu said, “I want to go to Elder Grandfather. Go inside and give him the news.”

“As you command, my king.”

“Come, my child, come inside,” Bhishma said. “Why do you look so anxious?”

“Greetings, Elder Grandfather,” Pandu answered. “I heard that you are arranging another marriage for me.”

“You heard right,” Bhishma said.

“Forgive me, Elder Grandfather,” Pandu said humbly. “By your blessing I brought Kunti as Queen and I am happy. Then what is the need for this second marriage?”

“A king should not have his own private joy or sorrow, my child,” Bhishma replied. “The people’s joy is the king’s joy; the people’s good is the king’s good. Do not hesitate to do what is needed for the good of the kingdom. Your second marriage will benefit Hastinapur, my child.”

“Do not be offended, Elder Grandfather,” Pandu pleaded. “I took an oath when I brought Queen Kunti. My heart does not agree to a second marriage.”

“King Pandu,” Bhishma said firmly, “now you are blind with love for your wife. So you have forgotten royal duty, diplomacy, and strategy. To secure Hastinapur, we must build ties with the Middle Country. The people of the Bahlika line of Madra are skilled in the art of war. Also, fine horses, skilled charioteers, and able fighters fit for battle—all are in their hands. So if we form a marriage tie with that kingdom’s princess, Hastinapur will gain in every way. I am going to ask King Shalya of Madra for Madri for you. Madri will be your second wife.”

Bhishma’s foresight about the Middle Country was praiseworthy. He himself went to Madra with the proposal of marriage between King Pandu and Madri. But he was right—Madra followed its own rule. That kingdom’s king, Shalya, very free and brave, honored Bhishma and said:

“O great Bhishma, I welcome you to the Middle Country. I also honor your proposal. But there is a custom in my line. Whether good or bad, I must follow it.”

“Following the custom of the line is indeed duty,” Bhishma replied. “Do not keep any doubt in this matter, King Shalya of Madra. You may speak freely with me.”

“Great Bhishma, the custom in our line is this—whoever marries a maiden of this line must pay bride-price. There will be no change in the case of Princess Madri.”

“For the Princess of Madra I have brought a fitting bride-price with me,” Bhishma said. “Accept that price and give leave for the marriage, King Shalya of Madra.”

Bhishma knew the customs of Madra. When he set out from Hastinapur, he took many great treasures, the finest cloth, rare elephants, high-bred horses, and more. As bride-price, he now gave those gifts to King Shalya of Madra. The king was pleased and handed Madri to Bhishma. With honor, Bhishma brought Madri back to Hastinapur, married her to King Pandu, and made the Middle Country kin to Hastinapur.

By then King Pandu’s fame had spread in all directions. Going out to conquer, he won one kingdom after another and brought back much wealth to Hastinapur. Then, with the consent of his elder brother Dhritarashtra, he shared that wealth between his two mothers, Ambika and Ambalika, and his younger brother Vidura. Peace and happiness returned to the Kuru land.

Seeing his kingdom safe, Pandu went hunting for some days with his two queens. Leaving the palace, he went to the forest in hope of peace and rest. In the calm of nature, with the welcome of sages and the sight of wild animals and birds, his days passed well. But a calm nature does not mean fate is kind.

Pandu loved to hunt deer. How would he know that this hobby would bring his doom! Roaming in the forest one day, he went quite far. He looked around.

“What a wonderful place,” he whispered. “A waterfall, a meadow, all so green! This is perfect for deer. I should stand behind that tree. Ah! What I wanted is right before me. A pair of deer—a stag and a doe—are mating. If I take aim at this moment of union, then with one arrow I can bring down both together. One for Kunti, and one for Madri—two deer for my two queens!”

He loosed the arrow. A cry rose up—not the cry of a beast, but of a man.

“What is this!” Pandu gasped. “A human voice from a deer’s body? God, O God, what have I done? What great sin have I committed? I must go at once and see.”

He rushed forward. A dying stag looked at him with human grief.

“What have you done, King Pandu!” the voice said. “Even a foolish man would not do such a thing. Who kills animals when they are mating!”

“Who are you?” Pandu cried. “Is this deer-shape a disguise?”

“I am Kimindhamani,” the voice answered. “For the sake of a child, I took a deer’s form and was joining with my wife. And you—you, even with your knowledge and wisdom—did this vile deed! You must bear the price of this sin.”

“O King,” the voice said again, growing faint, “you did not know I was a Brahmin. So the sin of killing a Brahmin will not fall on you. But, but just as you hunted us at the time of our union, by my curse you too—you too will die if you try to join with your wife.”

King Pandu’s life became empty. His arms and legs went numb. He could not stand under such a harsh curse. Shaking, he returned to his hut.

There his two queens were cheerfully talking with the sages’ wives. Seeing the king’s fearful face, both fell silent. When they heard the disaster from Pandu’s mouth, Madri trembled with worry and fear. But Kunti was steady. Even in danger she did not waver. She listened calmly and began to think how to save them from this danger.

Thinking of his misfortune, Pandu gave up the throne. In danger, it is said, the mind becomes foolish. Before taking such a big step, he did not even think to ask Bhishma once. But Bhishma is only a servant of the throne. If the king does not ask, he has no right to give advice. Only I, the great sage Vyasa, could have stopped Pandu. But I chose to sit as a seer. Fate moves on its own path.

Meanwhile, in Hastinapur, Dhritarashtra sat on the throne in Pandu’s place. At the foot of the Himalayas, in a hermitage, Pandu chose the life of a simple ascetic. He sent this news to Hastinapur and gave away all his precious things among the Brahmins. But why should his two queens bear this misfortune! He requested the queens to return to Hastinapur. Of course, neither queen accepted Pandu’s request.

“O King,” they said, “we are your lawful wives. You want to follow dharma—very well—why object to us staying with you? The scriptures give such a right to lawful wives. We will also restrain our senses and do penance with you. We cannot even think of leaving you, O King.”

Leaving all royal wealth and luxury, Pandu now set out with his two wives for Mount Shatasringa. Passing the mountains of Nagasata, Chaitraratha, Kalkuta, Gandhamadana, and the lake of Indradyumna, they moved on. On the way they met many sages. From them they learned much about strict practices and penance. With Kunti and Madri, in this way Pandu worked off the sin born from his deed.

Meanwhile, in Hastinapur, signs of pregnancy appeared in Gandhari. Dhritarashtra’s joy had no limit! But far more time passed than normal, yet the time of birth did not come. Two whole years went by. Gandhari stayed with that swollen womb. Still her child did not come out. Hastinapur was stunned. What misfortune was this—who could think! Such a thing had never happened.

At last one day, in anger, grief, and impatience, without telling Dhritarashtra, Gandhari caused a miscarriage. But where was the fetus? She delivered a hard lump of flesh like iron. Hearing this from a maid, Gandhari cried out in grief.

“What has happened to me! By Mahadeva’s boon I was to have a hundred sons! My penance, my sacrifices, the blessing of Shiva himself—all, all are wasted! After a year of pregnancy pain, was this my fate? Ah, alas, unlucky me, for what sin are you punishing me, O God! My child did not come, my child did not come! Listen, maid, take that lump and throw it into the forest. Let the wild beasts eat that lump. I have no use for it!”

“What are you doing, Gandhari!” I said, stepping forth. “Wait, do not throw away that lump. Mahadeva’s blessing will never be false.”

“Great sage Vyasadeva! Accept my salute,” Gandhari said, folding her hands.

“May you live long, lady,” I blessed her. “That lump of flesh is your womb’s fruit. Keep it safe—that lump will give you children. Lady, soak that lump in cold water. From there 101 embryos will form. Place each embryo in a jar filled with ghee. I tell you, lady, in those jars your 101 children will be made. Trust my words.”

“Salute, great sage,” Gandhari said, her voice steady now. “I will do all as you command.”

From the 101 jars filled with ghee, 100 sons and one daughter were born. But besides these hundred sons, Dhritarashtra had one more son. When Gandhari was weighed down by pregnancy, a maid served Dhritarashtra. From that maid’s womb, a son named Yuyutsu was born to Dhritarashtra, though a maid’s son can never inherit the throne.

Meanwhile, before Gandhari’s eldest son Duryodhana was born in Hastinapur, on Mount Shatasringa a son, Yudhishthira, was born in Kunti’s arms. Though born from Kunti’s womb, Yudhishthira was not the seed of Pandu, because Pandu was cursed. Then where did Yudhishthira come from?

At that time Gandhari was pregnant in Hastinapur, and on the other side Pandu, afraid for his line, was grieving like a fish out of water. He asked the sages of the forest for a way of rescue. The sages gave him a strange assurance.

“Why do you grieve without cause, King Pandu?” they said. “You will have god-like sons—we can see this with divine sight.”

“But, but my, my curse!” Pandu stammered.

“O King,” they answered, “our vision can never be false.”

“What are they saying!” Pandu thought. “My children will come? But, but how!”

“Yes, yes!” he cried at last. “They have spoken the truth. In danger a man’s wisdom is lost—I too had forgotten the words of the scriptures. Now, by the sages’ blessing I have seen light.”

“O King,” the hermit hostess said, “the day is going by. I will prepare your worship.”

“Kunti, Kunti!” Pandu called with joy. “I have found light. I will see a child’s face. I may be cursed, but you are not. In danger, a woman may seek a child from a Brahmin or another man of high birth, or from her husband’s brother—this is allowed by scripture.”

“Which scripture says this?” Kinti asked quietly.

“You must seek a child,” Pandu urged. “My own birth was like this—Vichitravirya is not my father. By the grace of Krishna Dvaipayana Vyasa I was born. You too can become a mother in the same way, Kunti. The child who comes into your womb will be a child of the Kuru line. I will be his father.”

Women of ancient India were once quite free. Kunti did not have to be bound only to her husband—they could join with the man they chose. That custom is not there today. But in danger Kunti wished to bring back that custom. Sanatana dharma, our ancient law, gave that right.

“If Sanatana dharma gave that right,” Kunti asked, “then why do women of ancient India no longer have that freedom today, O King?”

Pandu explained. “Once, by a sage’s curse, before the eyes of his father Uddalaka, a Brahmin pulled Shvetaketu’s mother by the hand and took her away. Shvetaketu’s mother did not resist. The sage Uddalaka explained that this was the custom. But Shvetaketu could not accept it. He cursed that if any chaste wife or lawful wife had a husband who took another woman, then it would be the sin of killing a fetus. From then that practice in society ended. But in emergency, to gain a child through another high-born man, there is no bar. I beg you with all I have, Kunti. O Queen, go to some ascetic Brahmin and ask for a worthy son.”

“O King,” Kunti said softly, “today I will submit one matter to you. Shall I speak in fear, or without fear?”

“Speak without fear, Kunti,” Pandu said.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I could not say this for so long,” she said. “Forgive me. I do not need a Brahmin or any other high-born man. I can gain a son from the very gods.”

“What are you saying!” Pandu cried. “This is impossible—”

“No, O King,” Kunti answered. “By the boon of the great sage Durvasa, this impossible can become possible. Once the great sage was a guest in our land of Kunti. By King Kuntivhoja’s order, I served the sage with my own hands. Pleased with my care, the sage taught me a mantra. With that mantra I can call any god and gain a child from him. By that mantra, even a sage can come, O King. But it will take time to gain a child from a man—by a god a child can come quickly, O King.”

“What are you saying!” Pandu said again, his eyes filling. “Hearing this, I am blessed. You can save my line. From today I am in your debt. Call upon a god. Among the gods, Dharma is the most complete. Speak the mantra for him.”

The course of time is strange. Once, because of this mantra of the great sage Durvasa, Kunti faced great danger. And today, to end danger, she would use this mantra again.

That day, long before, Kunti was a maiden. She wished to test the sage’s blessing. In a lonely room, in a playful mind, she remembered the Sun God and spoke the mantra. At once, with a glow that lit up all directions, the Sun God appeared. Maiden Kunti was full of fear and shame. She begged the Sun God again and again to go back. If a maiden bore a child, how could she face society! Her family’s honor would be dust!

Kunti folded her hands and pleaded much, but the Sun God did not listen. He could not deny that powerful mantra. He had to do what the mantra demanded. He gave her a son and then departed. That day the son of the Sun was born wearing a breastplate and earrings. To save her honor, the maiden mother was forced to set her true-born child afloat on the water. And today that mantra stood before her as her all-in-all.

By her husband’s word, Kunti called upon the god Dharma on Mount Shatasringa. By joining with him, her womb conceived and a child was born. At the time of the child’s birth, a divine voice said:

“This boy is no ordinary child. Among righteous men, this boy will be the best. His ornaments will be courage and truthfulness. One day he will be lord of the earth and be known as Yudhishthira.”

Long before Yudhishthira was born in Kunti’s womb on Mount Shatasringa, Gandhari had conceived in Hastinapur, but did not give birth. On the mountain, news came to Hastinapur that the eldest son of Pandu had been born in Kunti’s arms. Dhritarashtra burned with anger, jealousy, and despair. Under the shock of a fierce inner struggle, Gandhari caused a miscarriage. And by the time the first of those 101 jars yielded Duryodhana, another son had come into Kunti’s arms—he was Bhima, son of the Wind.

Full of sorrow, Dhritarashtra kept asking the courtiers and scholars of Hastinapur again and again, “I may not be the true king, but after me will my Duryodhana be a true king?”

No one could answer. For Duryodhana’s birth was full of bad omens. When Gandhari’s first child in the jar of ghee cried out, countless jackals and dogs howled all around. For the first time, under a heavy fear of evil omen, Hastinapur trembled. Such a thing had never happened. Then—was some real danger drawing near?