As the tragic events unfolded, Kuntī, her heart heavy with sorrow, turned to Mādrī and spoke with anguish, “Mādrī, it was your duty to protect the king. How could you, left alone with him, be tempted and lead him astray in solitude?” She wondered how Pandu, so often afflicted by the curse, could find joy in Mādrī’s company, even as the doom hung over him. With a sigh, Kuntī lamented, “Blessed are you, O daughter of Bāhlīka, and more fortunate than I, for you beheld the face of the delighted king.” She recalled how, despite her repeated efforts to restrain him in his lamentations, Pandu could not be held back, for fate’s will was irresistible. Overcome by grief and the fire of sorrow, Kuntī suddenly collapsed to the ground, like a tree whose roots have been severed. She lay motionless, her senses overwhelmed. At that moment, Mādrī, having bathed and adorned herself in splendid garments, turned to Pandu, who rested upon a magnificent bed. With gentle care, Mādrī raised Kuntī from her faintness and called to her, “Noble lady, come.” Kuntī, gathering herself, approached and fell at the king’s feet. Pandu lay there, his limbs anointed with red sandal paste, clad in fine yellow garments, his face radiant with a smile as if he were still speaking. In her confusion and delusion, Kuntī embraced him, her senses bewildered, and lamented aloud. Mādrī, too, embraced the king and wept bitterly. The Pandava sons, accompanied by sages and celestial singers, gathered around Pandu’s bed. All were overwhelmed by grief, and tears flowed freely. The sages, seeing Pandu—the tiger among men—lying lifeless, felt as though the sun had set and the ocean had dried up. Their hearts were heavy with sorrow. The sages and the Pandavas shared the same deep grief. Though comforted by the wise, they mourned the blameless ones. They cried out, “Alas, O king, for whose sake do you leave us and go to the abode of the gods? Alas, O king, how, meeting Mādrī, did you…” Kuntī lamented that Pandu had reached his end due to the exhaustion of her good fortune, leaving behind Yudhishthira, Bhimasena, Arjuna, and the twin sons. She continued, “For whose sake, O 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 recalled Pandu’s severe austerities in the assembly of Brahman, assuring him that together they would attain the blessed heavens. They remembered the path attained by the Ajamīḍhas through their deeds, which Pandu had promised he would take with them. Kuntī, her heart breaking, pleaded, “O best of the Kurus, when I came to the forest, you promised that you would go together with us, O lord of the people. Grant me a moment, O King, so I may see your face.” Lamenting greatly, she again fell unconscious to the ground, like a hunted deer struck in the forest. The Pandavas, led by Yudhishthira and devoted to the Vedas, came to their father’s side and, overcome by grief, also fell unconscious to the ground. Embracing Pandu’s feet, they cried, “Alas, we are destroyed, father! Alas, we are left without protection!” They mourned, “Deprived of you, O great and wise one, how shall we children live? Though we are sons of the lord of the world, we are now without a protector.” They lamented the strangeness of their fate, “In a single moment, O great king, see the strangeness of the world: there are no princes as unfortunate as us, O descendant of Bharata.” The Pandavas grieved the loss of their father and the kingdom, feeling they had fallen into great misfortune. “What shall we do, O king? What is to be done? Please show us your favor.” They remembered his great austerity, “By your great austerity, O king, you obtained us; giving up pride, you went to the forest and yourself gathered food for us.” They recalled how he sustained them with wild vegetables, roots, and fruits, and how fathers who desire greatness wish for sons like him. “Desiring the fruit of the three goals of life, now that time has come; O king, you should not depart, O descendant of Bharata, without enjoying that fruit.” After these words, Bhima too lamented. He recalled how the Bharata dynasty, once destroyed, was restored by Pandu; but when Pandu went to the forest, the kingdom was lost and left without a ruler. He noted that the kshatriya order was expelled, but restored again by Pandu’s five sons. “Hearing and approving this, you should now depart, O Shankara.” Bhima spoke of the arduous austerities that had led them to Pandu, the best of the Bharatas. Yet, he mourned that the fruit of great attainment—such as service and the like—had not been gained by Pandu, nor had it ever been gained before, as in the case of Dasharatha. Having spoken thus, the two Yamas, afflicted, began to lament. Kuntī, asserting her place, declared, “I am the eldest lawful wife; the highest fruit of righteousness is mine; what is destined must surely come to pass—O Madri, do not restrain me. I will seek my husband here, who has gone under the sway of the departed; arise, abandon this, and protect these children. Having obtained sons and fulfilled my purpose, I now seek the state of a hero’s wife.” Mādrī, however, insisted, “I alone will follow my husband, who has departed; I am not satisfied with desires—O elder, let me be permitted. Having approached me, this best of the Bharatas is exhausted by desire; how then shall I sever that desire in the abode of Yama?” Thus, amidst profound grief and lamentation, the wives, sons, and sages mourned Pandu’s passing, each expressing their sorrow and longing, their hearts torn by fate and the loss of their beloved king.