As Pandu roamed the forest, his keen eyes caught sight of a stag and a doe moving together. Without hesitation, he swiftly drew his bow and released five sharp arrows, their golden feathers glinting as they pierced both animals. Unbeknownst to Pandu, these were no ordinary deer: they were, in truth, a sage’s son—an ascetic of great austerity—and his wife, who had taken the forms of stag and doe. At that very moment, the sage, united with his wife, was struck down. As he fell to the ground, he cried out in human speech, his voice filled with agony and sorrow. Even as he suffered, he spoke words of wisdom, lamenting how even those who know better can be overcome by desire and anger, and thus refrain from cruel deeds, though they may find pleasure in sin. He continued, reflecting on the nature of righteousness and wisdom, saying that while law and wisdom may sometimes oppose or support each other, the wise discern the misfortunes that arise from violating the law. Then, turning his words to Pandu, he questioned how such a lapse could occur in one born of a noble and righteous family, asking how Pandu’s mind could have wavered, overcome by desire and greed. The sage explained that the rules for killing enemies are the same as those for killing animals, and urged Pandu not to reproach him as if he were a mere beast. He reminded the king that killing animals is acceptable only when done openly and without deceit, and the same standard applies to kings. He cited the example of the great sage Agastya, who, while performing sacrifices, hunted animals in the forest, sanctifying them according to prescribed rituals. By these standards, the sage asked why Pandu reproached him, when Agastya’s own actions set a precedent. He noted that men do not attack enemies without cause, and that vulnerability at the right moment is often considered just cause for killing. Whether an enemy is attentive or inattentive, exposed or hidden, they are struck down—so why, he asked, was Pandu reproaching him? Yet, the sage’s tone shifted. He said he did not resent Pandu for hunting animals for his own needs, but insisted that the king should have waited until the act of mating was complete; in this, Pandu had acted with cruelty. He questioned what wise person would kill an animal in the midst of mating, at a time when all beings seek their own welfare and fulfillment. The sage lamented that, while he was joyfully united with his beloved, seeking the fruit of human purpose, Pandu had rendered his efforts fruitless. He reminded Pandu of his noble lineage, the blameless Pauravas, and declared that such an act was unworthy of him. It was a cruel deed, condemned by all, bringing infamy and unrighteousness, unfit for heaven. He reminded Pandu that, as one versed in the distinctions of enjoyment, and knowledgeable in the truths of dharma, wealth, and desire, he should not have committed such an unworthy act. It was the king’s duty to restrain those who commit cruel and sinful deeds, not to become one himself. The sage, now revealed as Kindama, questioned what wrong he had done to deserve death while living innocently in the forest, subsisting on roots and fruits in the form of a deer. Devoted to peace, he had been harmed by Pandu, and, though innocent, declared that he would now bring harm in return. He pronounced a curse: that one who, overcome by desire and delusion, inflicts cruelty upon another, will himself meet his end while engaged in union with his beloved. Revealing his true identity as Kindama, purified by austerity, he explained that, out of shame among humans, he had taken the form of a deer to be with his wife. He assured Pandu that killing him was not the sin of slaying a Brahmin, for Pandu had not known his true nature. Yet, having slain Kindama while he was overcome by desire in the form of a deer, Pandu would, in turn, reap the same fruit. When Pandu, deluded by desire, united with his beloved, he too would meet his end and journey to the realm of the departed. At the end of his life, as he departed with his beloved, he would reach the city of Yama, difficult for all beings to cross—but his wife, out of devotion, would follow him. As Pandu had brought Kindama from happiness into suffering, so too would Pandu find suffering at the moment of his own happiness. Having spoken these words, the sage, overwhelmed by sorrow, released his life. Pandu, stricken with grief and horror at what had transpired, felt as if he too was destroyed in that instant. Approaching the fallen sage as one would a departed kinsman, Pandu, with his wife, was overwhelmed by grief and lamentation. He reflected on how even those born in noble families can fall into misfortune when their minds are unprepared and ensnared by desire. He recalled that his own father, ever devoted to righteousness since childhood, had met his end due to the snares of desire. He remembered how, after his father’s death, the sage Krishna Dvaipayana Vyasa, the master of self-restraint, had begotten him in the line of kings whose minds had been ruled by desire. Now, faced with this calamity, Pandu felt his mind had become base, abandoned by the gods, as he chased after the deer. He resolved to seek liberation, recognizing bondage as a great affliction, and determined to follow the imperishable path of his father’s virtuous conduct. Pandu vowed to engage in intense austerity, staying for one day under each tree. He would wander as a sage, shaven-headed, covered in dust, begging for alms among the forest hermitages, dwelling in empty huts. He resolved to live at the root of a tree, abandoning all that was dear or not dear, neither grieving nor rejoicing, remaining equal in blame and praise. Without hope or possessions, free from dualities, he would neither mock nor frown upon anyone. With a serene face, devoted to the welfare of all beings, Pandu resolved never to harm any creature, moving or unmoving, of any kind. Thus, the forest echoed with sorrow and resolve, as Pandu, transformed by grief and the weight of Kindama’s curse, turned his heart toward a life of renunciation and nonviolence.