I am KUNTI (Part 3)

I am KUNTI (Part 3)

The Unspoken Sorrows of a Mother

There was no great celebration in the palace of Hastinapura at the arrival of Pandu’s sons. Dhritarashtra’s sons looked down upon my children, and a quiet hatred was slowly beginning to take root in their hearts. The affection I saw in the eyes of Grandfather Bhishma was nowhere to be found in anyone else.

Dhritarashtra’s indifference… his sons’ growing hostility towards mine… I understood it all, yet I was helpless. I had no choice but to remain silent, even as I watched these things unfold before me.

And then, amidst all this turmoil, I caught sight of the son I had once believed I might never see again.

It was astonishing. It was devastating.

The divine earrings… the protective armour… a radiance like that of the Sun God himself! And such valour! There could be no doubt.

He was my son.

The child born before my marriage, the son I had been forced to send away… Karna!

What a beautiful name it was. My heart overflowed with a mother's love. But I was sitting in the palace of Hastinapura. Could I reveal the truth?

My heart was tearing apart. I longed to run to him, embrace him tightly, and call out, “My son!”

But that was only a dream.

Everyone was mocking him as the son of a charioteer. They looked down upon his birth without acknowledging his courage or his prowess. I wanted to rise and proclaim, “He is the son of Surya, the Sun God!”

Yet, what would happen if I did?

The consequences would be beyond measure. All the years I had spent burying the truth deep within my heart would come to nothing. My Pandava sons could be left without the protection and security they needed. The secret I had guarded for so long might shatter their lives.

And so, once again, I was forced into silence.

But Duryodhana bestowed upon my Karna a kingdom. He proclaimed him the ruler of Anga, making him Angaraja. As a mother, how could I not feel happy to see my son honoured?

Yet, that very moment brought another sorrow. Karna had become the sworn enemy of my own children.

How painful it is for a mother to watch her own sons live as bitter enemies!

My Karna became the closest companion of Duryodhana, a man who was openly hostile towards my Pandavas. He stood beside Duryodhana even in his wrongful deeds, lending him his support and strength. I could not bring myself to intervene or tell Karna to turn away from that path.

All I could do was watch in silence.

And so, the days continued to pass.

Even when my children fought for their lives in the House of Lac, I remained helpless. When they escaped through a tunnel and saved themselves from death, I could do nothing but endure the fear and uncertainty.

Then came the days when I had to live with my children in the forest. We survived on the alms they gathered for us. In those moments, I hardly felt like a great mother. What had become of the lives I had hoped to give them? What fate had brought my children, born to a royal house, to such hardship?

At last, they established their own kingdom. I rejoiced, believing that perhaps now they could live in peace and that my days of anxiety might finally come to an end.

But just when I began to hope for tranquillity, the game of dice returned to destroy everything.

It ensnared my eldest son, Dharmaraja, and clouded his judgement. Duryodhana, driven by his own wicked intentions, had set the trap. Yet my sons failed to recognise the danger until it was too late.

And then came that terrible moment in the royal assembly.

How could a mother bear the humiliation inflicted upon her daughter-in-law, Draupadi, in a hall filled with elders and kings? How could I endure the thought of her suffering, surrounded by those who should have protected her?

My heart was already burning with grief. The decree that my sons must undergo twelve years of forest exile followed by one year of incognito life poured yet more fuel upon that fire.

Fourteen years!

Not a year or two, but fourteen long years during which I would have to live apart from my children.

Where would they go? How would they survive? What dangers would they face? Would they be safe? Would they find peace anywhere in the world?

The one refuge that offered me some solace was Vidura’s home. His kindness gave me shelter when my heart had nowhere else to turn.

Every moment, my thoughts remained with my children. I prayed to the Protector of His devotees, pleading for their safety. My sons had already been denied the comforts of palace life. If they could not enjoy royal happiness, could they not at least find peace wherever fate took them? Could they not live in safety, free from fear and suffering?

I waited, endured, and prayed.

At last, those agonising years came to an end. But when I finally saw my children again, they were not returning to a peaceful life. They were preparing for war.

A terrible war.

And in that war, my grandchildren were sacrificed.

What words could describe the agony of a grandmother who had already endured so much? My children had known suffering from the very beginning. Was happiness never meant for them, Krishna?

How many times had I asked Gopala this question! How often had I poured my grief into prayers, seeking an answer from Him?

His smiling face alone brought me comfort. And the knowledge that He was standing beside my sons gave me courage. Whatever their fate might be, Krishna was with them. That thought sustained me through the darkest hours.

But by the time the war ended, I had grown weary of everything.

I had seen enough sorrow to last a lifetime. I had watched my children endure humiliation, exile, danger, and war. I had witnessed the loss of lives that could never be restored.

When I finally saw them attain a measure of peace and security, I felt that my duty was done. The splendour of palace life no longer held any attraction for me. I turned away from its comforts and set forth towards the forest, embracing the life of *Vanaprastha*.

And so, the life of Kunti—the unfortunate woman who had carried so many sorrows within her—came to an end somewhere in the depths of the forest, far from the world that had witnessed her struggles.

The heart of that great mother held countless untold sorrows. Yet, just as she had carried them silently throughout her life, many of those sorrows remained unknown even after her death.

Perhaps that was Kunti’s greatest tragedy: she lived as a mother to many, bore the burdens of countless relationships, and endured the suffering of a lifetime—but the deepest wounds of her heart remained her own.

I was Kunti. A mother who loved, a woman who endured, and a heart that carried its sorrows in silence.