Pandu Renounces Kingship and Vows to Become an Ascetic

The deer lay dead, and with it died the king. Pandu stood over the body with his wives Kunti and Madri, and they wept as if for a family member. The curse the dying deer had uttered — that Pandu would die the moment he touched his wife with desire — still hung in the air, but a deeper realization was settling in Pandu’s mind. He spoke, and his words were a confession. “Even men born in righteous families,” he said, “when deluded by desire, confront calamity.” He thought of his own father, Vichitravirya, who died young, addicted to desire. He thought of his own birth, arranged by the sage Krishna Dvaipayana (Vyasa) in that lustful king’s field. “Despite that,” he said, “I have become evil-hearted. My lowly mind is spent on the evil chase of deer. I am tied down by a great vice, and I will now seek salvation.” His plan was not a retreat; it was an erasure. He would follow the “undecaying example” of his father not in life, but in renouncing life. He detailed the austerities he would undertake, one after another, building a portrait of a man dissolving into the world. He would live alone, spending each day under a single tree. He would shave his head, beg for food, cover himself with dust, be without home or refuge. The foot of a tree would be his home. He would renounce everything loved or hated. Grief and joy would be the same to him; praise and blame would be equal. He would not seek homage. He would be at peace and without possessions. With a smiling face, he would devote himself to the welfare of all creatures. He would treat all beings — the four orders, movable and immovable — equally, like his own children. He would beg food once a day from two or five families. If he got none, he would fast. He would eat only a little, never be greedy, never beg for more. Then he described the state of mind he sought: “I will think of the cutting off of one arm with an axe and the covering of the other with sandalwood the same way. I will not think of one as good and the other as evil, since both are equal. I will not act so as to live, nor act so as to die. Life and death are the same.” He would give up all rituals for prosperity, all that made the senses work. He would cleanse himself of all sin, and even give up acts done in the name of dharma. He would be free from all traps. “I will not be under anyone’s powers,” he vowed, “but will follow the dharma of being as free as the wind.” Having laid out this fearsome path, he turned to his wives. He told Kunti and Madri to inform everyone in Hastinapura — Queen Kousalya (Gandhari), the wise kshatta (minister) Vidura, King Dhritarashtra, the lady Satyavati, Bhishma, the priests, the citizens — that Pandu would leave for the forest. Kunti and Madri protested. They were his wives under dharma. There were other stages of life — like vanaprastha (forest-dwelling) — that he could observe with them and still perform great austerities. They vowed to control their senses, devote themselves to his world, give up all happiness and desire. “If you forsake us,” they said, “there is no doubt that we will give up our lives today.” Pandu relented. “If this decision of yours is in conformity with dharma,” he said, “I will follow the undecaying path shown by my father with both of you.” But his version of shared life was severe. They would give up village life. They would eat roots and fruit, wear tree bark, roam the great forest. He would bathe morning and evening, make fire offerings, make his body thin, wear skins, mat his hair. He would expose himself to hot and cold winds, hunger, thirst, exhaustion. “Through difficult austerities,” he said, “I will reduce my body.” Having spoken, the descendant of the Kuru lineage made the renunciation tangible. He gave away the jewel from his crown, his necklace, earrings, bracelets, and all the valuable garments and ornaments belonging to Kunti and Madri to the Brahmanas. The king was stripping himself bare.