Pandu perched on a mossy rock beside a forest stream, his lean frame slumped, his pale tunic clinging damply to his chest from a morning spent chasing rabbits through the undergrowth. He stared at the water, watching it ripple under a gray sky, his gray eyes clouded as the faint croak of frogs mingled with the rustle of leaves overhead. His fingers dug into the rock, knuckles whitening, and his breath puffed out in little clouds, chilling the air. Kunti knelt nearby, grinding herbs on a flat stone with a steady, practiced rhythm, her crimson sari streaked with dirt from days in the wild. Her dark hair hung loose, tangled by the wind, but her hands moved with quiet purpose, hiding the ache that tugged at her shoulders. Madri stood a little way off, near a cluster of saplings, her green sari fluttering as she twisted bark into thread. Her eyes flicked between Pandu and Kunti, quick and nervous, her restless hands fumbling the bark as tension thickened the air around them.
Pandu shifted, his voice rough and low, barely rising above the stream's gurgle. "I can't shake it, you know. That day. It's always there, clawing at me. The deer, the arrow, the sage's face when he cursed me." He swallowed hard, his fists clenching tighter. "Said I'd die if I ever touched a woman again. Shot him mid-mating, I did, and now I'm useless. A king with no sons, no legacy."
Kunti's pestle slowed for a moment, then pressed on, her gaze fixed on the herbs as she crushed them into a fine green paste. She didn't look up, but her voice came out steady, soft as a breeze through the trees. "You're not useless, Pandu. You're still a king. Still my husband. We've built something here, haven't we? Even in this forest?"
He let out a bitter laugh, sharp enough to make Madri flinch where she stood. "Built something? A few traps and a fire pit? We're hiding, Kunti, while Hastinapura forgets me. Dhritarashtra's probably grinning ear to ear, sitting on my throne with Gandhari growing rounder every day. And me? I've got nothing to show for it. No son, no name worth remembering." His fingers scraped at the moss, tearing off a chunk, and he flicked it into the stream with a twitch of his wrist.
Madri stepped closer, her bare feet silent on the grass, her green sari snagging on a twig. She tugged it free with a quick jerk, her voice sharp with an edge she couldn't quite mask. "Gandhari hasn't had her child yet, Pandu. Two years, they say, and still waiting. You're not the only one stuck like this." Her hands twisted the bark faster, her eyes darting to Kunti, then away, as if she regretted speaking up.
Pandu's head swung toward her, his gray eyes narrowing. "Stuck? Waiting's all I've got left, Madri. Waiting while I rot. A man needs a son, something to carry him on when he's dust. And I can't even…" He trailed off, his jaw tightening, and he turned back to the water, his shoulders hunching further, like a bowstring pulled too tight.
Kunti set the pestle down, her hands resting on the stone, steady despite the faint tremble in her fingertips. She took a slow breath, then spoke, her voice low and clear, cutting through the quiet like a knife through silk. "There's something I've kept from you. Both of you." She lifted her head, her dark eyes meeting Pandu's, then sliding to Madri's, and the air seemed to grow heavy, the leaves shivering as a distant rumble of thunder rolled across the sky.
Pandu turned slowly, his brows knitting together, his voice rough with suspicion. "What's that mean, Kunti? You've got a secret now? After all this time?"
Madri let the bark slip from her fingers, and it thudded softly to the ground. She took another step forward, her voice sharper, laced with a flicker of doubt. "A secret? You've been quiet lately, Kunti, more than usual. I thought it was just this forest wearing you thin. What haven't you told us?"
Kunti's lips pressed into a thin line, her hands curling slightly as she straightened up. "It's not the forest. It's from before, long before this. When I was still with my father, before you and I married, Pandu. A sage came to our house. Durvasa. You know him, don't you? Fierce as a storm, quick to curse if you crossed him."
Pandu nodded, his frown deepening as he leaned forward. "Aye, I know Durvasa. Madri, you've heard of him too, haven't you? The sort who'd curse a man for looking at him wrong. What's he got to do with anything?"
Madri tilted her head, her fingers brushing her sari as she spoke, her tone curious but tight. "My father used to talk about him. Said he'd rather wrestle a bear than face Durvasa's temper. Did he curse you, Kunti? Is that what this is?"
"No," Kunti said, shaking her head, her voice steady despite the shadow that flickered in her eyes. "Not a curse. A boon. I was young, just a girl, and he stayed with us for weeks. I looked after him. Cooked his meals, fetched his water, kept his fire burning through the night. He was pleased with me, in the end. Said I'd done better than most ever had. So before he left, he gave me something."
Pandu's hands unclenched, his gray eyes widening with a spark of desperate hope. "Something? What, Kunti? Don't keep me guessing, spit it out."
Kunti met his gaze, her hands trembling now, just a little, as she folded them in her lap. "A mantra. Sacred words he taught me, ones that can call any god I name. He said if I spoke them, that god would come. And he'd give me a son." Her voice dropped, almost a whisper, heavy with awe. "A son born of divine seed."
The stream seemed to gurgle louder, the sky darkening as clouds rolled in fast, and a low rumble of thunder shook the air. Pandu stared at her, his mouth falling open, his breath catching like he'd been struck. Madri's hands froze mid-air, her green sari swaying as she stepped back, her eyes darting between Kunti and Pandu, wide with shock.
"You're not joking," Pandu said, his voice cracking, rough with disbelief. "You're telling me you can call a god? Right here, right now? And we'd have a son?"
Kunti nodded, slow and deliberate, her dark eyes locked on his. "Five times, he said. I can use it five times. I've kept it hidden all these years, Pandu. I wasn't sure I'd ever need it. But now…" She trailed off, her fingers tightening in her lap, the thunder rumbling closer, a deep growl in the distance.
Madri's breath hitched, her voice spilling out sharp and quick. "Five times? How does it work, Kunti? You just say these words, and a god shows up? What happens after that? Tell me everything, I need to understand this."
Kunti turned to her, her expression softening just a touch, though her hands stayed tense. "I speak the mantra, and the god comes. That's what Durvasa promised me. He didn't say much more, only that the child would be born of that god's power. Divine, not mortal. I'd have to call, and we'd see what happens."
Pandu lurched to his feet, his boots scuffing the moss as he crossed to her in two quick strides. He grabbed her shoulders, his grip tight but shaky, his gray eyes blazing with something wild and raw. "Kunti, you've got to do it. Now. Right now. If this is real, if you can give us a son, we can't wait another minute. Please, I'm begging you, do it."
Madri nodded, stepping up beside him, her voice quieter now, though her lips were tight with something unspoken. "He's right, Kunti. If it works, if it really works… we'd have something. A child. I'd want that too." Her hands twisted her sari, her shadow stretching long across the stone as the sky grew darker, the air thick with the promise of rain.
Kunti looked between them, her breath steadying, her dark eyes glinting with resolve and a flicker of fear she couldn't quite hide. "All right. I'll do it. Not here, though. Somewhere higher, where the sky's open. The hill above the stream, maybe. Tomorrow, when the light's clear. We'll need to be ready for it."
Pandu's grip loosened, his hands sliding down her arms, his voice thick with relief as he stepped back. "Tomorrow, then. That's good. We'll be ready. Madri, come on, let's get some wood for tonight. We'll need a decent fire, something to keep us going." He turned, beckoning Madri with a quick tilt of his head, his steps uneven as he headed for the trees, his shoulders straighter than they'd been all day.
Madri hesitated, her green sari catching the wind again as she glanced at Kunti. "You're sure about this, aren't you? It's not some tale you're spinning?" Her tone was sharp, but there was a crack of hope in it, a softness breaking through her usual guarded bite.
Kunti met her gaze, her voice firm, though her hands shook slightly as she picked up the pestle again. "I'm sure, Madri. I've carried it too long to doubt it now. Go with him. I'll finish these herbs and join you."
Madri gave a short, quick nod, then followed Pandu, her green sari fading into the trees as his voice drifted back, calling for her to keep up. Kunti watched them go, the stream's gurgle filling the silence, the thunder rolling closer now, a heavy pulse that vibrated through the ground. She set the pestle down once more, her hands gripping the stone, her breath catching as she stared at the water's surface. Her mind slipped, unbidden, to a memory she'd buried deep, a secret that clawed at her chest, begging to be let out but locked tight behind her lips.
Years ago, she stood on a riverbank in her father's kingdom, a girl of sixteen, her yellow sari glowing under a sun so fierce it burned the air itself. She'd chanted the mantra then, her voice trembling with reckless curiosity, her bare feet sinking into the muddy shore as she tested Durvasa's words alone. The sky had roared to life, clouds splitting apart as flames licked the heavens, and Surya had descended in a chariot of molten gold, its wheels spinning fire, its heat searing her skin. He towered over her, his golden form blazing, his eyes like twin suns, and his voice boomed, shaking the earth beneath her. "You've summoned me, maiden. Speak your wish, and it is yours."
She'd stumbled back, her heart hammering, her hands clutching her sari as she stammered, "I… I only wanted to see if it worked. I didn't mean…" Her voice faltered, her breath stolen by the god's presence, but Surya's laugh rolled like thunder, deep and unyielding.
"You've called, and I answer," he said, his golden hand outstretched, flames dancing at his fingertips. "A son I grant you, born of my light. A warrior to rival the sun itself." The sky erupted, a pillar of fire spiraling downward, and Karna was born—golden-skinned, clad in armor that shimmered like liquid sunlight, earrings glinting at his tiny ears, his cry swallowed by a wind that howled like a thousand storms. The river surged, waves crashing against the bank, and a celestial voice rang out, vast and triumphant: "Behold the child of radiance, unconquered and fierce!" The ground trembled, birds fled the trees, and Kunti fell to her knees, her eyes wide with terror and awe, her hands shaking as she reached for the child.
He was perfect, too perfect—his golden skin glowed, his tiny fists clenched with a strength she couldn't fathom, and the weight of him in her arms felt like destiny itself. But she was young, unwed, alone, and the shame burned hotter than Surya's fire. "I can't keep you," she whispered, her voice breaking as tears streamed down her face, her fingers tracing his armored chest. "Not now. Not like this." She wove a basket from reeds, her hands fumbling with panic, her sobs choking her as she lined it with her own sari, the yellow fabric stark against his golden glow. She set him in it, his tiny hands clutching at the air, his eyes—already sharp—looking up at her as if he knew. The river took him, swift and merciless, his basket bobbing on the waves, his golden form drifting away as the flames in the sky died, the wind stilled, and the sun sank into dusk. She'd collapsed on the bank, her hands digging into the mud, her cries echoing over the water, the weight of what she'd done sinking into her bones.
Kunti gasped, the forest stream snapping back into focus, her hands gripping the stone so hard her knuckles paled. The thunder overhead crashed, loud and sharp, echoing the roar of that fiery day, and her breath came fast, ragged in her throat. She pressed her lips together, her secret locked tight, a burning coal in her chest she'd never let spill. She'd used the mantra once, and it had worked—too well, too terribly. Now Pandu wanted her to use it again, and Madri too, and the thought twisted in her gut like a knife. Could she do it? Could she call another god, knowing what she'd lost, knowing what she'd hidden? Her hands shook as she wiped them on her crimson sari, the dirt smearing into streaks, her resolve hardening like steel despite the ache in her heart. Pandu's voice called from the trees, faint but insistent, breaking through her thoughts. "Kunti, you coming? We've got the wood stacked already!"
She stood, brushing more dirt from her sari, her steps firm even as her chest tightened with the memory of Karna's golden glow. "I'm coming," she called back, her voice steady now, the stream gurgling behind her as the sky darkened further, the air thick with the promise of what tomorrow might hold—and the shadow of what she'd left behind.