novelraw Arc 3 - Astika - Chapter 12 - Parikshit’s Folly
Arc 3 - Astika - Chapter 12 - Parikshit’s Folly
Sauti continued:
Once upon a time, there lived a king named Parīkṣit,
Scion of the Kauravas, mighty-armed and valiant,
Great-grandson of Arjuna’s father, the lion-hearted Pāṇḍu.
In prowess and in skill with bow,
None rivaled him in war or hunt.
He roamed the woods with retinue and bow,
Pursuing deer, boars, wolves, and wild buffalo,
Thrilled by the thunder of hoof and cry.
One day, loosing a sharp arrow,
He pierced a deer—yet it vanished from his sight.
Like Rudra chasing the sacrificial stag
That had assumed celestial form—
So Parīkṣit gave chase, alone,
Through thickets deep,
Seeking what no beast had ever done—
Escape while wounded by his hand.
But this deer, unlike the rest,
Fled on, as if led by fate,
A herald of what must come:
The curse,
The snake,
The fire that would consume his line.
And the deer that Parikshit, the king of men, had pierced was lost to his gaze, drawing the mighty monarch ever deeper into the forest’s heart. Weary and parched with thirst, the king came upon a forest-dwelling muni, seated calmly upon a mat of kusa grass, his attention turned inward, absorbed in his vows. He drank silently the froth from the mouths of calves suckling their dams, observing the vow of mauna—sacred silence.
Approaching hastily and with his bow still in hand, the hungry and fatigued king addressed him:
“O Brahmana, I am Parikshit, son of Abhimanyu. A deer pierced by my arrow has escaped into these woods. Tell me, have you seen it?”
But the sage, steadfast in his vow, answered not a word.
Anger swelled in the heart of the king. Misunderstanding the sage's silence for insolence, Parikshit lifted a dead snake with the tip of his bow and, in a moment of folly, draped it mockingly across the sage’s shoulder. The muni, unmoved and absorbed in his meditations, bore the insult without protest—spoke neither in anger nor in forgiveness.
Realizing his error even as he turned away, the king cast off his wrath and sorrowed for his rash deed. Yet he returned to his capital, unaware of the storm this insult would awaken.
That muni, of Brighu’s noble line, forgave the king in his heart, knowing him to be righteous and devoted to the duties of his kshatriya order. But destiny had already stirred.
And Parikshit, though a tiger among kings and foremost in Bharata’s race, knew not that the sage he had thus insulted was a rishi of great virtue—had he known, he would never have committed such an act.
That rishi had a son named Sringin—a boy in years, but vast in power. He was fierce in his vows, severe in his asceticism, gifted with great energy, and feared for the ease with which his anger flared. Though still in the bloom of youth, his wrath was as potent as poison, and his temper like fire unbound.
He honored his preceptor with diligence and sat humbly at his feet, attentive to every command, ever engaged in study and in the good of all beings. One day, when his teacher had granted him leave, Sringin set out for his father's hermitage.
As he went, staff in hand and matted locks swinging with each step, a fellow student—Krisa, son of another rishi—met him along the path. Krisa, lighthearted and unaware of the storm he would provoke, greeted him with laughter and said:
“O Sringin, have you not heard? The great King Parikshit has done a shameful thing to your father. With a dead snake, he mocked the sage, placing it on his shoulders even as he sat in penance!”
These words, meant in jest, ignited the fire in Sringin’s heart.
His brows knit, his eyes flared like coals, and his whole frame shook with rage. That young ascetic, powerful in speech and spirit, blazed up like the sacrificial fire kindled with clarified butter.
Sauti said:
And hearing these words from Krisa, young Sringin, inflamed with wrath, his eyes red as fire, spoke unto him with great agitation.
“What say you, O Krisa? Who hath done this thing?
Who hath dared place a dead snake on my father's shoulders?
Tell me all, for today I shall avenge this insult.”
And Krisa replied:
“O wise one, the son of Abhimanyu, King Parikshit,
Pierced with hunger and wrath, came to your father,
And asked him of a deer he had hunted.
But your sire was observing the vow of silence,
And uttered not a word in reply.
Then, in anger, the king took up a lifeless serpent
And laid it upon your father’s shoulder.
This he did and then departed.
And thy father still sits unmoved,
Bearing the dead snake with patience rare.”
Sauti continued:
And having heard that a dead snake was placed upon his father's shoulders, the young sage, Sringin—his eyes reddened with wrath and his body trembling with fury—was overcome by anger. He touched water to sanctify his words and, burning with indignation, pronounced the curse aloud with fire in his voice.
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“That sinful wretch of a monarch,
Who dared place a dead snake upon the shoulders
Of my aged and ascetic sire,
That insulter of Brahmanas,
That tarnisher of the guru’s dignity,
Let him be seized—seven nights hence—
By Takshaka, king of serpents,
And dragged to the abode of Yama,
Compelled by the fire of my words!”
Thus did the curse go forth from the mouth of the angry boy-sage, whose words, like thunder, echoed in the sacred forest.
And having thus hurled his curse, the fiery Sringin hastened to his father’s hermitage. There he beheld his sire seated in the cowpen, still bearing the lifeless serpent upon his shoulders. At this sight, his rage was rekindled, and sorrow swelled in his heart. With tear-filled eyes, he stood before his father and spoke:
“Father, having heard of the insult done to you
By that wicked monarch, Parikshit of the Kuru race,
My blood boiled in anger, and I cursed him.
That king, blind with pride, shall perish—
In seven days, by the fang of Takshaka,
The serpent-lord, he shall be dragged to Yama’s hall.”
But the sage, calm as the ocean and deep in dharma, opened his eyes and gently rebuked his son:
“Child, your fury hath clouded your wisdom.
I am not pleased with what you have done.
Ascetics like us, who dwell in peace,
Should never act from wrath.
That king is our protector—
Upholder of law and guardian of our domain.
If you strike down Dharma,
Dharma itself will one day strike you.”
Then the aged sage, calm in spirit and vast in understanding, gently reproached his son with words steeped in righteousness and experience:
“If the king does not protect us well,
We fare as beasts in the wild.
Without his shield, we cannot offer oblations,
Nor perform sacred rites as we desire.
But under righteous rulers,
We reap the fruit of our penance,
And they, in turn, share in that merit.
Therefore, kings must be honored,
And their lapses forgiven.
Parikshit, like his ancestor Pandu,
Protects his people with justice.
That day, weary and hungry,
He came to me unknowing of my vow of silence.
His act, though rash, was born of need,
Not malice nor pride.
Know, child, that a land without a king
Falls prey to lawlessness and ruin.
It is the fear of punishment
That holds wickedness at bay.
It is the king who guards dharma,
And it is dharma that opens the gates of heaven.
The monarch is the pillar of order—
Do not strike down that which upholds the world.”
The venerable Rishi, unwavering in his calm, continued to teach his son the true way of dharma:
“The king,” he said, “establishes dharma—
The axis on which the cosmos turns.
He is the guardian of yajñas and rites,
Without him, the sacred fires are extinguished.
Sacrifice pleases the gods;
The gods bring rain from heaven;
Rain gives grain and herbs to men—
The source of strength and life itself.
Know this:
One king who guards the people
Equals ten brahmanas learned in the Veda.
So spoke Manu, the lawgiver of old.
That prince, weary and burning with hunger,
Approached me—
And in his ignorance of my vow,
Acted as he did.
Why then, my child,
Have you, in haste and youthful rage,
Committed this rash and unrighteous deed?
It is not ours to curse the king,
Whose burden is justice,
Whose duty is to protect.”
And Śṛṅgin then replied to his father:
“Whether my deed, O father,
Be rash or improper in thy eyes,
Whether thou approvest or not—
The words I have spoken shall never be in vain.
A curse once uttered by me
Can never return unfulfilled.
Not even in jest
Have I spoken a lie, O sire.
My vow is truth,
My truth is my vow.
The king shall fall—this is decreed.”
And Śamīka, the sage of restraint and great understanding, spoke to his son:
“Dear child, I know thy truthfulness,
Thy strength in penance and vow.
Never has falsehood touched thy lips—
So thy curse shall surely bear its weight.
Yet even one grown in wisdom and years
Should still be guided by his father’s voice.
For counsel, like fragrance to a flower,
In youth crowns virtue with renown.
Thou art still tender, still unfolding,
A sapling with the bark of fire.
Therefore, let me guide thy steps.
O my son, who lives on fruits and roots,
Destroy not the merit of thy penance through wrath.
Anger consumes the gains of tapas,
Leaves the soul parched like burnt grass.
Forgiveness lifts the soul to realms
Even Brahma may not claim with ease.
Let peace be thy companion, O child.
In peace is strength, in strength is restraint.”
Then he added with resolution:
“For my part, I must act,
To soothe the wound thy wrath has made.
I shall send word to the king:
‘O monarch of Bharata’s line,
You have been cursed by my son,
A child yet raw in judgment,
Enraged by what he thought your slight.
Bear no ill, for this came of youth’s error,
And not from enmity.’”
Sauti continued:
And that great ascetic, mindful of duty and driven by compassion,
Dispatched his noble disciple, Gauramukha—
One of calm demeanor and learned in vows—
To the court of King Parīkṣit.
He said to him:
“Go, child, and first inquire with warmth
Of the king’s health, his kin, his land.
Speak with reverence and humble tone.
Then, reveal what must be known.”
And so instructed, the mild Gauramukha departed.
With his bark robe swaying and staff in hand,
He arrived at the gates of Hastināpura,
Where the Kuru flag fluttered high.
He sent word through the attendants,
That a disciple of sage Śamīka sought audience—
Not with accusation, but with a message of weight.
Sauti continued:
The twice-born Gauramukha, received with honor by Parīkṣit,
Was offered water, seat, and rest.
And when the proper time came, he rose and spoke—
“O mighty king of kings, lion among men,
Hear now the words of sage Śamīka, your subject,
A man of peace, firm in penance,
Living quietly within your realm.
While you wandered the woods, weary and famished,
Not knowing he observed the vow of silence,
You placed upon his shoulders a serpent—dead—
With the end of your bow.
The sage forgave you, for he is rooted in forbearance.
But his son, the young and fiery Śṛṅgin,
Unable to bear the sight of his father’s humiliation,
Cursed you in wrath, without his father’s leave:
‘Seven days from now, let Takṣaka, king of serpents,
Drag this king down to Yama’s realm.’
Śamīka, distressed, tried to recall the words,
But no force could undo what was spoken in wrath.
He sends you this message not in enmity,
But in concern—for dharma and for your good.”
Hearing those cruel words and learning of his fate,
King Parīkṣit—great among kings and gifted with divine splendor—
Was not grieved at the thought of death,
But was instead overcome by sorrow for his own misdeed.
Recollecting how the sage had borne his insult in silence,
And learning that the Rishi had been observing a vow of mauna (silence),
The king, himself now a man of penance,
Was struck with remorse as sharp as any serpent’s fang.
He reflected:
“Alas! What have I done, blinded by fatigue and hunger?
To one who was faultless, immersed in sacred discipline,
I acted out of ignorance—and that ignorance has become sin.
Greater than the fear of death is the weight of this wrong.
How could I, who descend from noble Pandu,
Tarnish my race by such a deed?”
Thus, the king repented with a heavy heart,
Not for his end, but for the disrespect done to a man of dharma.
Then the king, having heard the words of the sage’s disciple,
With folded hands said, “Let the worshipful Samika be gracious to me.”
And with that, he dismissed Gauramukha with due honor.
In great anxiety but with collected mind,
He consulted with his ministers, wise and experienced,
And they resolved to shield the monarch with utmost vigilance.
By the king’s command, a solitary mansion was erected,
Built high upon a single pillar,
Fortified and guarded day and night from all directions.
Around it stood skilled physicians with potent herbs,
And brahmanas adept in sacred mantras,
Chanting incantations to avert all misfortune.
None could approach the king unbidden—
Not man, not beast, nor even the wind itself,
So closely protected was the ruler of the Kurus.
From that high and sacred chamber,
The king continued to discharge his royal duties,
Upright and noble even in the shadow of death.
A sacred interlude now begins—
Where destiny turns from fear to transcendence.
On the banks of the Ganga, as the king awaited his foretold death,
He renounced all royal comforts and sat upon a bed of kusa grass,
Facing east, his heart open to truth.
There arrived Śuka, son of Vyāsa, youth eternal, sage supreme,
With no desire for name or fame, untouched by worldly illusion.
He came, drawn not by summons, but by divine compassion.
And there, for seven sacred days and nights,
Śuka recited to the king the Bhāgavata Mahāpurāṇa,
That nectar of pure devotion, that bridge to Moksha.
All assembled—sages, seers, gods unseen—
And Parīkṣit listened with unwavering mind,
Absorbing the glories of Vāsudeva,
The truth of dharma, the mystery of creation,
And the path of bhakti as the highest of all.
When the seventh day came, he had no fear,
For the soul that has seen the Supreme has nothing left to grieve.