While Kuntī was wholly absorbed in serving food to the brāhmaṇas alongside the family priest, her attention to vigilance slipped away. In this time, King Pāṇḍu, confident in his own strength, gazed upon his five handsome sons amid the enchanting mountain forest. It was the blossoming season of Madhu and Mādhava, when nature was at its loveliest, and the king wandered joyfully with his wife in a place that captivated the hearts of all beings. The forest was resplendent, adorned with palāśa, tilaka, mango, campaka, pāribhadra, and many other trees heavy with fruit and flowers. Pools dotted the landscape, their surfaces bright with blooming lotuses, and the beauty of this forest stirred deep love in Pāṇḍu’s heart. In this divine setting, Pāṇḍu wandered like a celestial being, and Mādrī, alone with him, followed in splendid attire. The sight of Mādrī—youthful, lightly clad, and alone in that secluded spot—kindled desire in Pāṇḍu, as suddenly as fire springs to life. Overcome by passion, the king, his eyes like lotuses, could not restrain himself. Thus, in the eighteenth year, during the proper season, Pāṇḍu, seized by desire, summoned the illustrious Mādrī, adorned for union. In that lonely place, he took her by force, though Mādrī struggled and resisted as best she could. Overwhelmed by longing, Pāṇḍu forgot the curse that shadowed his life and united with Mādrī, as if compelled by fate itself. Blinded by passion and disregarding the terrible warning of the curse, Pāṇḍu moved toward the end of his days. His mind, deluded and overpowered, lost all discernment; his senses and awareness were swept away. Thus, even this most righteous of men, uniting with his wife Mādrī, was seized by the inescapable law of time. In the aftermath, Mādrī embraced the lifeless body of the king, her heart shattered, and cried out again and again in deep sorrow. Soon, Kuntī arrived with her sons, as did the two sons of Mādrī, and together they came upon the fallen king. Distraught, Mādrī turned to Kuntī and spoke: “You alone should go from here; let the children remain.” Hearing these words, Kuntī left the children behind, cried out, “I am lost!” and departed in anguish. When Kuntī saw both Pāṇḍu and Mādrī lying upon the ground, grief overcame her body and she lamented deeply: “Though I always protected you, steadfast hero, how did you, knowing the curse, transgress it while dwelling in the forest? Surely, Mādrī, it was your duty to guard the king—how, in solitude, were you tempted and led him astray? How could he, always afflicted, find joy in you, forgetting the curse?” She continued, “O daughter of Bāhlīka, you are blessed and more fortunate than I, for you beheld the delighted face of the king. Yet I tried again and again to restrain him as he lamented, but truly, his self was not restrained, for fate willed otherwise.” With these words, Kuntī, consumed by the fire of grief, suddenly collapsed to the ground like a tree felled at its root. There she lay, motionless and faint, until Mādrī, after bathing and dressing the king in splendid garments, raised Kuntī from her swoon. Mādrī gently called, “Noble lady, come,” and showed Kuntī the king. Rising again, Kuntī fell at Pāṇḍu’s feet. He lay there, his limbs anointed with red sandalwood, clad in fine yellow robes, his face bearing a gentle smile as if he might speak. Deluded by sorrow, Kuntī embraced him, her senses bewildered, and wept bitterly. Mādrī, too, embraced the king and wept. The sons, accompanied by sages and celestial singers, gathered around the king’s body, all shedding tears, overwhelmed by grief. The great sages mourned for Pāṇḍu, tiger among men, as if the sun had set or the ocean had dried up. Together with the Pāṇḍavas, they shared this sorrow, and though comforted by the wise, they lamented for the blameless ones. “Alas, O king, for whom do you leave us and go to the abode of the gods?” they cried. “How, meeting Mādrī, did you—?” Kuntī lamented, “O King, having reached his end as my good fortune wanes, Pāṇḍu has departed, leaving behind Yudhishthira, Bhīmasena, Arjuna, and the twin sons. For whose sake, lord of the people, have you abandoned your beloved sons and departed? Surely, the gods are now welcoming you, O descendant of Bharata.” The sages added, “Because you performed severe austerities in the assembly of Brahman, O King, together with us you will attain blessed heavens. The path attained by the Ajamīḍhas through their deeds—you promised to go there with us.” Kuntī recalled, “O best of the Kurus, when I came to the forest, you promised we would go together, O lord of the people. Grant me a moment, O King, so I may see your face.” Lamenting greatly, Kuntī collapsed to the ground in a swoon, like a hunted deer falling in the forest, struck down by sorrow.