Yayati was a king among kings — descended from the moon-god himself, ruling with justice, strength, and knowledge. He had everything: a vast kingdom, loyal subjects, wisdom of the scriptures, and two extraordinary wives.
One was Devayani, daughter of the powerful sage Shukra, the priest of the asuras.
The other was Sharmishtha, a princess of the daityas and once Devayani's servant, but now a queen in secret.
For a time, all was hidden, all was stable. But truth, when buried, does not rest quietly.
When Devayani discovered that her husband Yayati had taken Sharmishtha as a wife and had children with her, her fury was endless. She went to her father, the great Shukra, and spoke with bitterness and shame.
"My honor has been broken. My place has been stolen. You, the master of curses, must restore justice."
Shukra listened. And then, without hesitation, he pronounced a curse upon Yayati.
"You, who could not control your desire, shall now be made old. Your body will wither with age before its time, and your youth will leave you."
In a single moment, the mighty Yayati — young, proud, and powerful — became wrinkled, weak, and bent. His hands shook. His voice cracked. He fell from his throne not by war or betrayal… but by the weight of his own uncontrolled longing.
Yet even then, desire did not leave him.
He turned to his sons, born from Devayani and Sharmishtha, and made a plea.
"Take my curse for a time. Let me borrow your youth. Let me live in desire once more, and you will inherit your kingdom after."
Each of his sons refused — proud or afraid, unwilling to trade their future for their father's pleasure.
All except one.
Puru, the youngest son of Sharmishtha — the one least expected to obey — stepped forward.
"Take my youth, Father. I shall bear your burden."
And so, the curse shifted.
Yayati was young again. For a thousand years he wandered through every pleasure known to men — love, power, wealth, conquest. He tasted every fruit the world could offer.
But in the end, he stood on a mountaintop and looked across the lands. His heart, once restless, now trembled not with hunger — but with clarity.
"Desire," he whispered, "is never satisfied. It is fire. The more it consumes, the more it grows."
And so he returned the youth to his son and embraced the path of renunciation.
He gave the throne not to the sons of queens or ministers, not to the eldest or strongest — but to Puru, the one who had sacrificed without question.
From Puru would descend a line of kings destined for both greatness and destruction — a line that would lead to the Bharatas, and eventually, to war.
The Mahabharata had not yet begun, but its shadow had already fallen on the world.