As the great king Pandu departed from this world, the elders of the Kuru house gathered to honor his memory and ensure the well-being of those he left behind. It was decreed that Madri, like Kunti, should be honored with the highest respect and protected so carefully that not even the wind or the sun might glimpse her. Though Pandu was gone, there was no cause for lamentation, for he had been a man without sin, praiseworthy among men, and blessed with five heroic sons—each one equal in virtue and strength to the very sons of the gods. Vidura, ever wise and dutiful, responded, “So be it.” Together with Bhishma, he undertook the solemn task of performing Pandu’s last rites in a place worthy of such a noble king. From the city, the priests swiftly brought blazing funeral fires, fragrant with clarified butter, to sanctify the ceremony. The bier for Pandu was adorned with fresh spring flowers and rare perfumes, then covered completely in fine cloth. Garlands, splendid garments, and treasures were arrayed around him, as ministers, kinsmen, and friends gathered in mourning. Upon a splendid vehicle drawn by men, the lion-hearted Pandu, richly adorned and accompanied by Madri, was carried forth, her form respectfully veiled. A white parasol was held above him, a yak-tail fan waved gently, and the air was filled with the music of many instruments, all to honor the departed king. In his name, hundreds of jewels were distributed to those who sought funeral offerings. For the sake of the Kaurava house, pure white umbrellas, large yak-tail fans, and beautiful garments were brought forth. The sacrificial fires, invoked by priests dressed in white, blazed brightly at the head of the procession. Behind them, thousands from every varna—Brahmins, Kshatriyas, Vaishyas, and Shudras—followed, their hearts heavy with grief and sorrow, weeping openly for their king. Their voices rose in lament: “Having abandoned us and left us in perpetual sorrow, making us orphans, where will our king go now?” The Pandavas, Bhishma, Vidura, and other great elders like Bahlika, Somadatta, and Bhurishrava, could not contain their tears. Embracing one another, they all journeyed together to the beautiful, level, and auspicious bank of the Ganga, in a delightful forest setting. There, with hearts full of reverence, they placed the palanquin bearing Pandu and Madri upon the sacred ground. His body was anointed with fragrant oils, pure kalika, and divine sandalwood, then sprinkled with water from golden vessels and coated with white sandal paste. Next, they dressed him in local white garments, scented with black aloe and tung resin, so that the king shone as if still alive—like a young tiger, accustomed to luxury. Priests and officiants, guided by the purohitas, performed the rites prescribed by the Vedas for the horse-sacrifice fire, chanting the sacred mantras. When the funeral rites were complete, and the priests declared all was done according to tradition, Pandu and Madri were anointed with clarified butter. The funeral pyre was built with fragrant sandalwood, tall lotus, sarala pine, deodar, guggul resin, and lac, as well as green sandalwood, haribera, usira roots, and many other rare scents. The fire was lit, and the two bodies began their final journey. At the sight of the flames, Kausalya, overcome by grief and delusion, fell to the ground, crying out, “Alas, my son!” Her anguish moved the hearts of all present—townsfolk and country people alike wept in compassion and sorrow for the beloved king. Kunti’s anguished cry echoed through the crowd, causing all beings—humans and even the animals—to wail in sympathy. Bhishma, the wise son of Shantanu, Vidura, and all the Kauravas mourned deeply, their spirits weighed down by sorrow. Then Bhishma, Vidura, the king, the Pandavas, and all the women of the Kuru house performed the sacred water-rites for Pandu. The Pandavas, Bhishma, Vidura, and their kinsmen wept as they offered the water-oblations. When the rites were complete, the people, seeing the Pandavas so worn by grief, tried to comfort them in their mourning. As the Pandavas and their relatives lay upon the ground in sorrow, so too did the townsfolk, brahmins, and others, sharing in the collective grief. For twelve nights, the city and the Pandavas remained joyless and restless, as if bereft of their very prince. Then, Vidura, Bhishma, Vyasa, and the king, together with their kin, offered the funeral oblation for Pandu—a libation of nectar, fit for the ancestors. With the help of the family priest, they performed the rites as prescribed, feeding thousands of Kurus and honored brahmins, and giving away streams of jewels and choice villages to the foremost among the twice-born. When all the purificatory rites were complete, they brought the Pandavas—the best of the Bharatas—back, and together they entered the city of Varanavata. Yet, the townspeople and countryfolk continued to lament the loss of that bull among the Bharatas, grieving for him as for a lost relative. At the end of all the funeral rites, seeing the people so stricken with sorrow, bewildered and overwhelmed by grief, the sage Vyasa spoke to his mother. “The time of happiness has passed; now harsh days have come. With each passing day, greater hardships approach, and the earth has lost her youth. Soon, a dreadful age will dawn—an age filled with hardship and faults, where righteousness and ritual will be lost.” Thus, the house of Kuru mourned their noble king, and the world felt the shadow of sorrow and the coming of a troubled age.