Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 3 - Astika - Chapter 1 - Jaratkāru and Wives of Kasyapa

Then, in the sacred forest of Naimiṣa, where sages had assembled for the twelve-year yajña of Śaunaka, the noble ṛṣi and kulapati, a question arose—one that stirred the gathering like wind through silent trees. Śaunaka turned to Sauti, son of Lomaharṣaṇa, seated humbly before the circle of ascetics.

With voice clear as the morning bell, he asked:

“O Sauti, thou knower of ancient lore,

Why did Janamejaya, king of kings,

Burn with wrath and summon the flames—

To destroy the race of serpents whole?

What crime, what curse, what karmic tide

Unleashed such vengeance on the world?

And how was it, amid that fire,

That Āstīka rose and peace returned?

Tell us of Janamejaya’s blood and name,

And of Āstīka’s wondrous birth—

That son of austerity and strange design.”

Sauti, bowing low and joining his palms, answered with measured reverence:

“O foremost among ascetics,

This tale you ask is sacred,

Old as the stars, wide as the sea.

I shall recount it as I have heard

From the ancient Purāṇas, chanted in silence

By sages deep in tapas and truth.

Listen, O brāhmaṇas, as the story unfolds—

Of anger born from death and sorrow,

Of a boy who bridged two fates,

Of fire held still by wisdom’s voice.”

He began:

In ages past, there lived a sage named Jaratkāru—a Brāhmaṇa of great austerity, radiant like the mind-born sons of Brahmā. A true brahmacārin, he had renounced pleasure, marriage, and even sleep. Living on air and sacred thought, he wandered the earth like a moving fire, bathing in holy rivers, his heart fixed on the Supreme.

One day, as he passed through a forest shaded by tall trees, he came upon a strange sight: in a dark pit, a group of men hung upside down, suspended by a single blade of grass—its roots gnawed by a rat. They hung without struggle, eyes hollow with quiet anguish.

Moved by the vision, Jaratkāru spoke:

“Who are you, O sorrowful ones,

Hanging like fruit upon a dying thread?

What fate is this that grips your limbs,

As time devours the only rope that holds you?”

Then, from the earth, came trembling voices:

“We are your Pitṛs—your sires, your ancestors.

Once mighty in tapas, now bound in grief.

You, O Jaratkāru, are of our blood.

But you have forsaken us in your vows.

You chose the forest and not the fire—

You seek mokṣa, yet leave us bound.

No son have we to carry us forth,

No rites, no name, no continuation.

And so we hang—by a grass-blade’s edge—

Devoured not by sin, but neglect.”

Hearing this, the sage stood still. His breath slowed. His mind turned inward, and shame rose within him like a tide. Folding his hands, he replied:

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“You are my sires,

And I, your son in flesh and name.

Command me, and I shall serve.

Speak, and I shall obey.”

The Pitṛs answered:

“Beget an offspring, O noble sage,

That we may rise again.

No tapas, no fire, no sacred chant

Brings merit greater than a son.

By offspring are the ancestors saved.

By children is dharma fulfilled.

This alone shall redeem your vows—

This alone shall lift us home.”

Then said Jaratkāru, firm and solemn:

“If a maiden be given to me in alms,

Named as I am—Jaratkāru by birth—

I shall wed her in purity,

And raise a son to lift your name.”

And so, having vowed thus, the sage wandered again, seeking a bride—not for pleasure, but for dharma. Yet none came forward, for who would give their daughter to one so lean, so stern, clad in bark, living on air?

One day, weary, he sat beneath a tree and cried aloud three times, calling for a wife. At that very moment, Vāsuki, lord of the Nāgas, appeared. He bowed and said:

“O sage of blazing penance,

Take my sister as thy bride.

She is chaste, learned, and named like thee—

She is Jaratkāru, born for this bond.

A curse once fell upon our race—

By our own mother’s wrath declared:

‘The serpent race shall perish in flame,

Consumed by the fire of yajña.’

To stay that doom, I offer my kin.

Let your son be our salvation.”

Thus, Jaratkāru accepted her with solemn rite. Fire was kindled, mantras chanted, and in holy union they were bound. From that sacred marriage, a son was born—Āstīka, radiant as Soma, wise beyond years, and calm as still water.

A child of two worlds he was—

Of serpent blood and Brāhmaṇa fire,

A bridge between destruction and grace,

Born to end a curse and uphold dharma.

Time passed.

Then rose Janamejaya, son of Parīkṣit, descendant of the Pāṇḍavas. His father, cursed by the sage’s son Śṛṅgin and killed by the serpent king Takṣaka, had died unjustly. Burning with fury, Janamejaya prepared a yajña unlike any before it—one to annihilate all serpents.

He summoned Brāhmaṇas, built the altar, and lit the flame. From across the earth, serpents fell into the fire, drawn by incantation and fate. Vāsuki trembled. The Nāgas perished in droves.

Then Āstīka, still a boy in years but a seer in soul, came to the sacrifice. With calm restraint, he spoke to Janamejaya:

“O king, the flames rise high,

But dharma lies not in vengeance.

Spare the innocent, spare the world.

Let wisdom temper wrath.”

And such was the power of his word, his presence, and his tapas, that Janamejaya halted the rite. The fire was quenched. The serpents were saved.

Thus, Āstīka fulfilled the will of heaven,

Redeemed the race of snakes,

And lifted his father’s ancestral burden.

By sacrifice, he pleased the gods;

By celibacy, he honored the sages;

By offspring, he raised his Pitṛs to joy.

And when Jaratkāru saw his task complete, he departed from worldly life, his debt repaid, his vow fulfilled. He entered the higher realms, leaving behind the noble Āstīka—son of wisdom, child of peace.

Sauti paused and concluded:

“This, O sages, is the tale you sought—

Of wrath turned still, of dharma’s rise.

What more shall I recount to you now,

From the river of sacred memory?”

Then the venerable Śaunaka, ever eager to uncover the roots of great events, asked once more:

“O Sauti,

You have told us how the Nāgas

Were saved by Āstīka,

And how their destruction was foretold.

Now tell us,

Who was their mother,

And what fault of theirs brought her wrath?

How could a mother—giver of life—

Curse her own sons to death by fire?

Relate to us this tale in detail,

For our hearts are eager to hear it.”

And Sauti, bowing gently to the forest of sages, replied:

“Listen now, O great ṛṣis,

To the tale of Kādrū and Vinatā,

The mothers of snakes and Garuda,

Born of Dakṣa's daughters

And wives of the sage Kaśyapa the Prajāpati.”

Sauti continued:

O sinless one, in the golden age of truth and virtue, the great progenitor Kaśyapa, resembling Prajāpati himself in splendor and wisdom, accepted as wives the daughters of Dakṣa, among whom were the noble Kādrū and Vinatā.

Pleased with their devotion and conduct, Kaśyapa, radiant with tapas, said unto his wives:

“Choose ye boons,

O blessed ones,

And I shall grant them—

For your conduct has pleased me.”

Hearing these words, the two wives rejoiced in their hearts. Then Kādrū, filled with longing, spoke first:

“O lord,

May I be mother to a thousand sons,

All radiant and equal in splendor,

Swift and strong like the wind,

Shining like fire,

And taking the form of snakes.”

Then Vinatā, with a different desire, said:

“O sage of boundless power,

I ask not for many,

But let two sons be born to me—

Each surpassing in might and glory

The thousand that Kādrū shall bear.”

And Kaśyapa, full of joy, said to each:

“Be it so.”

Then he blessed them, saying:

“Cherish well these embryos within these eggs,

And in time, your wishes shall be fulfilled.”

Having thus spoken, the mighty sage withdrew into the forest for penance, leaving the two radiant wives pleased and filled with expectation.

Sauti continued:

O best of regenerate ones, after a long span of five hundred years, both Kādrū and Vinatā, hopeful and anxious, awaited the fruition of their boons. In due course, Kādrū’s thousand eggs hatched, giving birth to the Nāgas, her serpent sons, radiant and terrible, born of heat and penance.

But Vinatā’s two eggs remained whole and silent.

Tormented by jealousy and the sight of Kādrū’s flourishing offspring, Vinatā grew impatient. She broke open one egg in haste—and within it she beheld a partially formed child, its upper body complete, but its lower limbs unformed.

Rising in anger, the radiant being spoke to his mother in verse:

“O mother,

Your envy hath undone me.

For breaking the shell too soon,

You have robbed me of my limbs.

Hear now the curse I place upon you:

You shall become a slave,

Bound in sorrow,

Until the day your other son

Rises in his might to deliver you.

But should you wait patiently

Five hundred years more,

And tend the remaining egg with care,

Then shall he be born

Strong, whole, and divine.”

Thus, cursing her, the radiant child ascended to the heavens.

And from that day forth,

He became known as Aruṇa,

The charioteer of the sun god,

Guiding the flaming orb

Across the sky each dawn.

Around this time, the two sisters, Kādrū and Vinatā, beheld something wondrous in the sky. Approaching with celestial radiance, there came the mighty steed Uccaiḥśravas, most resplendent among horses.

Born of the Ocean’s churning,

With nectar and gods and stars,

Worshipped by devas and praised in heaven,

Graceful, divine, and ever young,

He moved with majesty unmatched.

With limbs like lightning,

And mane flowing like moonbeams,

He was creation's finest jewel—

Blessed with every auspicious mark,

And bearing the strength of cosmic wind.

The sisters watched in awe as this immortal horse of divine origin galloped across the sky. Yet from admiration soon arose dispute, as their hearts, still bound in rivalry, turned to debate the color of its tail—a seemingly small difference, that would soon decide destiny.