Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 3 - Astika - Chapter 13 - Takṣaka’s Cunning

Takṣaka, ever cunning and burning with purpose,

Disguised as a Brahmana—withered and aged—

Stood before the radiant Kaśyapa, whose mind was clear like still water.

Kaśyapa, learned in mantras and medicines,

Endowed with the knowledge that can resurrect the dead,

Hastened to perform dharma and gain merit.

Yet here stood the very cause of death, cloaked in speech and staff.

And Takṣaka questioned:

“Whither goest thou, O shining sage?

With eyes ablaze and steps like fire—

Speak, what is thy purpose and haste this hour?”

Then Kaśyapa, resolute and radiant with austerity,

Replied to the disguised serpent with calm fire in his words:

“Though you art Takṣaka, crowned in dread,

And thy venom blazes like the sun’s own flame—

I wield the knowledge that gods revere,

With mantra and medicine, I shall undo thy claim.”

Takṣaka, hearing this unshaken vow,

Was struck not with fear, but cunning thought.

He knew the fire of Kaśyapa’s penance was no less fierce than his own poison.

Sauti continued:

Then Takṣaka, that prince among serpents, addressed the sage Kaśyapa and said,

“If indeed thou possess the power to cure any being bitten by me,

Then prove thy skill, O Brahmana. Behold this banyan tree—

I shall strike it down with my venom. Restore it if thou can.”

So saying, the serpent of fiery breath

Circled the great banyan in coiled might.

With venom blazing like the sun's fierce rays,

He bit the tree—its bark and branches withering,

Its leaves consumed in instant flame.

The banyan, vast and ancient,

Collapsed into a heap of ash.

Then Kaśyapa, firm in vow, calm in mind,

Recited sacred mantras, drew water pure,

And with divine syllables and gestures sanctified,

He sprinkled the ashes with holy drops.

And lo! That scorched tree,

Once charred by Takṣaka’s poison,

Sprang back to life—

Its roots renewed, its trunk restored,

Its boughs once more heavy with green leaves and blossoms.

And Takṣaka, beholding the tree rise again by the power of Kaśyapa,

spoke unto him with words mingled with awe and cunning:

“O sage, O mighty one,

It is no marvel that thou couldst neutralize my venom—

Thy learning is vast, thy ascetic fire burns high.

Nor is it beyond thee to quell even the fiercest poison

of serpents like myself or others of our kin.

Yet I ask—why go now to save a king cursed by a Brāhmaṇa,

his days already numbered by fate itself?

If it is for wealth thou journeyest,

then hear me:

The reward thou wouldst seek from that royal sufferer,

that son of Abhimanyu destined to die,

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I shall give unto thee—

be it ever so great,

no matter how difficult to obtain.

For consider, O sage,

if the curse of a Brāhmaṇa ends his life despite thy power,

thy fame—blazing like the sun across the three worlds—

shall vanish in a moment,

as the midday sun eclipsed,

its light swallowed by shadow.”

Then Kaśyapa, calm of mind and firm in resolve, spoke to the serpent lord:

“It is true—I go for wealth.

If thou wouldst offer me its measure,

then give it, O Takṣaka,

and I shall return content,

my purpose fulfilled without setting foot

in the palace of the dying king.”

And Takṣaka, cunning and resolute, replied:

“O best of Brāhmaṇas,

whatever gold you seek,

be it more than the king himself would grant,

I shall bestow it upon thee—

only abandon this path.”

Then Kaśyapa, the muni of yogic vision,

seated himself in silent meditation.

With his inner sight he beheld the truth:

the thread of life of the Kuru king was already cut.

No power, not even his, could restore what fate had resolved.

Understanding this,

that knower of time,

that sage of immense austerity,

took the treasure offered by the serpent king

and turned back from his path,

peaceful and unshaken.

And when the illustrious Kāśyapa had turned back, having received his gold and perceived the destined end of the king, Takṣaka, the serpent of dreadful prowess, moved swiftly and unseen through the skies. At the appointed hour, he entered the city of Hastināpura, his heart set upon the execution of the curse.

As he passed through the air, the serpent lord overheard the talk of the people:

“The king is well protected. Day and night, he is surrounded by Brāhmaṇas skilled in mantras, by physicians with potent remedies, and by guards vigilant at every gate. Poison itself cannot approach him.”

Hearing this, Takṣaka paused in thought.

“The monarch must be deceived.

Let illusion cloak my intent.

But by what art shall I pierce the fortress of vigilance

and fulfill the words of the curse?”

Then Takṣaka devised a cunning plan.

He summoned a group of serpents skilled in disguise and illusion. With spells, he transformed them into the semblance of holy ascetics—peaceful in appearance, bearing no threat. These serpents in disguise bore with them gifts: ripe fruits, sacred kuśa grass, and vessels of pure water—offerings befitting a Brāhmaṇa’s visit.

Takṣaka, their master, thus instructed them:

“Go forth as sages,

gentle in bearing, slow in speech.

Let no haste betray your mission.

Offer your gifts with humility,

so the king may accept them without suspicion.

Within the fruit I shall lie hidden—

and thus shall fate be fulfilled.”

Sauti continued:

Thus instructed by Takṣaka, the serpents in the guise of ascetics carried out his command. With solemn bearing and measured steps, they entered the king's high hall. Bearing kuśa grass, pure water, and ripe fruits, they offered their gifts unto the monarch. And that foremost of kings, of great strength and royal dignity, accepted their offerings with due reverence.

Having fulfilled their feigned errand, those disguised ones took their leave, and the king, well pleased, dismissed them with honor.

Then, as twilight approached and the sun neared the western horizon, King Parīkṣit, firm in resolve, turned to his counselors and friends and said:

"These fruits, brought by the wandering ascetics,

let us partake together, moved by reverence and trust.

The word of the ṛṣi must be fulfilled,

but now the sun sinks—its rays retreat.

The time of peril wanes."

And so they gathered to eat. The king himself, by chance or by fate, took into his hands a particular fruit—fragrant, round, and pleasing to the eye. Within that very fruit Takṣaka, the serpent-lord, lay hidden in a terrible form of magic.

As the fruit was opened, lo!—an insect emerged. Minute in size, its form scarcely visible, its body coppery with glinting black eyes, unassuming yet filled with dread.

The king beheld it and laughed gently, and with the calm of one who knows his fate, said to his counselor:

"Behold this insect—so small, so harmless!

Let it become Takṣaka,

for the sun now sets, and the time foretold has come.

Let this venom now be my expiation—

and the words of the sage stand true."

And even as he spoke, the insect grew.

Those counselors, too, impelled by the force of fate, assented to the words of the king. The moment was heavy with destiny, and they, their wisdom dimmed by the will of time, offered no further counsel.

And the monarch, smiling faintly, as if lulled by the silence of the twilight, lifted the tiny insect and placed it calmly upon his neck. His eyes, noble and serene, were touched by the haze of detachment, as if he had already glimpsed the halls of Yama.

Then, in an instant, the illusion fell away.

Takṣaka, the dread king of serpents,

assumed his vast and terrible form—

his coils immense as forest roots,

his hood blazing like a fire-tipped cloud.

With a sudden, thunderous roar that shook the very rafters of the palace, he wound himself round the monarch’s body. And before a cry could be uttered, before prayer or mantra could rise from trembling lips, the great serpent struck.

The protector of the earth, Parīkṣit, grandson of Arjuna, son of Abhimanyu, was consumed in the fire of venom.

And Sauti said:

Then did the king's counselors behold that dread sight—

the coils of Takṣaka wrapped round the royal neck.

Their faces paled. Their voices choked with grief.

They cried aloud and wept like children

bereft of a father's shelter.

The sound of Takṣaka’s roar resounded

like the sky splitting with thunder.

In terror they fled from the chamber,

scattering like birds from a shattered nest.

And as they looked back, through tears and disbelief, they saw the king of serpents—Takṣaka—ascending the heavens. He coursed through the sky like a streak of crimson lightning, like the vermilion parting in a woman's dark braided hair, vivid and terrible against the dusky blue.

And the mansion in which the king had taken refuge—fortified by mantras, guarded by men, and sealed against the winds—blazed up like a pyre, consumed by the venom of Takṣaka. Such was the power of that serpent's fury that the very walls, thought impenetrable, could not contain the fire of fate.

The king's counselors, stricken with dread, fled in all directions like deer scattered by a forest blaze.

And the great monarch, the last of the line of Arjuna, fell as if struck by Indra’s own bolt—

his mighty frame laid low in silence,

his life extinguished not by sword or spear,

but by the serpent’s fire, the wrath of destiny.

Then the royal priests, holy brāhmaṇas of spotless vows, gathered together with the king’s surviving ministers and performed the last rites with the sacred fire, offering oblations and mantras as befit the departed sovereign. The citizens, gathering as one, mourned as sons bereft of a father.

And with hearts heavy yet resolute, they placed upon the throne the king’s minor son—

Janamejaya, slayer of foes, lion of the Kuru race,

wise beyond his years, firm in dharma,

as radiant as Yudhiṣṭhira, his great-grandfather of sacred fame.

Though still in youth, his mind was steadfast, his spirit mature. He ruled with counsel from the learned and the wise, protecting the realm like Indra guards the heavens. And when his ministers, discerning the time was ripe and the kingdom secure, beheld in him the strength to withstand all foes, they sought to complete the duties of state.

They journeyed to Kāśī, jewel of ancient cities, and approached Suvarṇavarṇa, its noble king.

And with honor they requested his daughter’s hand—

a bride for Janamejaya, sovereign of the Kuru realm,

so that joy might blossom again in the House of Pāṇḍu.

Sauti continued:

And the king of Kāśī, having made the proper inquiries and observing all rites and customs ordained by the scriptures, bestowed his radiant daughter, Vapuṣṭamā, upon that mighty lion of the Kuru race. And Janamejaya, receiving his bride with reverence and joy, was gladdened in heart.

He gave not his affection to any other,

Nor let his gaze wander—

For she was to him the moon among stars,

The cooling balm after the fire of grief.

Gifted with youth and boundless energy, the prince roamed in delight,

—upon placid lakes, through flower-laden groves,

—amid forests where birds sang and breezes whispered,

the king found joy once more.

Even as Purūravas, monarch of old, basked in the grace of Urvashī,

so did Janamejaya in the company of Vapuṣṭamā.

And she, fairest among the fair, devoted to her lord,

Her love shining brighter than her ornaments,

Pleased him deeply with her affection,

And made joyful the season of royal leisure.