Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 2 - Puloma - Chapter 4 - The Cursed Snake

Sauti continued:

One day, while wandering alone through the depths of an ancient forest, Ruru came upon a serpent lying still upon the forest floor. It was a member of the Dundubha species—aged, unmoving, harmless in both body and mind.

Gripped by the fury that still lived within him, Ruru lifted his staff, heavy like Yama’s own rod. The oath he had sworn echoed in his heart. He would not suffer a serpent to live—not while the memory of Pramadvarā’s death still burned within him.

But just as he prepared to strike, the serpent raised its head and spoke in a calm and reasoning voice:

“O Brāhmaṇa,

I am old and weak,

And I have done thee no harm.

Why, then, shall I fall beneath thy wrathful hand?

Is it just to punish all for the sin of one?

Is not the wise man he who restrains

His fury, even when vengeance begs release?”

Hearing this, Ruru did not at once lower his staff. His heart still seethed with pain. He answered sharply:

“My wife, more dear to me than breath,

Was slain by a serpent’s fang.

From that day I swore a dreadful vow—

That wheresoever I see a snake,

I shall strike it down,

And let it hiss no more.

Thou art serpent in form and name.

And by that vow, I must strike thee!”

But the old Dundubha, unmoved by the threat, replied with grave wisdom:

“O Brāhmaṇa,

Know that I am no biter of flesh.

I am a Dundubha, serpent only in form,

Not in venom, not in deed.

Like others shaped as I,

I share the curse of appearance,

But not the guilt of poison.

Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

It is not dharma to strike the guiltless,

Nor noble to shed blood by error.

Spare me, O Ruru,

Lest thy vow consume thy virtue.”

Ruru, hearing these words and seeing the aged creature trembling not in deceit, but in helplessness, paused. A change stirred in his heart. The fire of wrath dimmed before the quiet truth of compassion.

Lowering his staff, he said:

“O serpent,

Thy words have calmed the fire within me.

I shall not strike thee down.

But tell me truly—

Who art thou in truth?

This form is not thy nature.

What curse cast thee into scales?”

Then the serpent, grateful and serene, spoke:

“O Ruru, son of Pramati,

Know me once as Sahasrapāt—

A Brāhmaṇa, a ṛṣi,

Learned in sacred lore and firm in vows.

But by a curse, I was cast into this form,

Slithering where once I walked proud.

And if thou wouldst hear my tale,

I shall tell thee how I came thus to be.”

Ruru nodded, and the serpent continued:

“In former times, I had a friend, a noble sage named Khagama—wise, swift in speech, resolute in penance. One day he performed the Agnihotra, the sacred fire offering.

In jest, I shaped a serpent of grass—

A harmless thing—and cast it near,

Thinking to stir laughter, not dread.

But alas, Khagama was startled,

He swooned, and then rose with fury.

‘You mock my rite with fearsome jest?

Then be yourself a serpent—

But venomless, as your prank was without sting!’

I fell before him and begged forgiveness. My words were sincere.

He relented, but his curse held force.

‘You must bear this form, O Sahasrapāt,

Until the day a man named Ruru,

Moved by mercy, shall spare thy life.

Then shall the curse be lifted.’

And now, O noble Ruru,

That day has come.

Thou art he, the son of Pramati.

Because you spared me,

My true form shall return.”

And behold—before Ruru’s eyes, the serpent shed its skin of bondage. The cursed form fell away, and Sahasrapāt stood tall once more, radiant with the light of tapas and truth.

He folded his hands and spoke with gentle power:

“O Ruru,

The greatest virtue of a Brāhmaṇa

Is to spare the life of living beings.

Let not anger become thy guide,

Nor vengeance bind thy vision.

For mildness and forgiveness

Are the true ornaments of thy kind.

You are not of the sword,

But of the sacred syllable.

Let your life be fireless and firm,

Yet lit with compassion.”

Then, his voice deepened with insight, the sage continued:

“Hear now of a greater tale—

Of King Janamejaya, son of Parīkṣit,

Who vowed to burn the serpent race,

And of the sage Āstīka,

Who stayed that terrible yajña.

This tale, O Ruru, holds great meaning,

For it concerns dharma, vengeance, and restraint.”

Ruru, still awed by the transformation, spoke with longing:

“Tell me, O Ṛṣi,

Why did Janamejaya seek to destroy the snakes?

What crime had they committed?

And who was Āstīka, whose name alone

Seems to carry peace upon the wind?”

But Sahasrapāt only smiled, his eyes serene. He replied:

“O Ruru,

That tale is vast,

And it is not mine to tell in full.

Seek a knower of ancient history—

A sage who has heard the Bhārata in entirety.

From him, you shall hear the tale of Āstīka,

Of Takṣaka, of Parīkṣit’s death,

And of how fate, fire, and forgiveness converged

At the edge of destruction.”

And saying this, the sage vanished, his form dissolving into light like the morning mist. Ruru stood alone in the glade, his heart stirred, his thoughts burning with new questions.

Sauti continued:

And Ruru, driven by wonder and longing, searched the forest, calling out to the vanished ṛṣi. Grove to grove, tree to tree, he wandered, but found no trace.

At last, weary and bewildered, Ruru fell to the earth. For a time, he lay senseless, the weight of revelation pressing upon his chest like sleep.

But slowly, clarity returned. Rising with resolve, he returned to his hermitage and approached his father Pramati.

Bowing low, he said:

“Father, I have seen marvels—

A serpent become a sage,

A curse undone by mercy.

I have heard the names of kings and sages,

Of Janamejaya, of Āstīka the savior.

Tell me, I beg of thee—

Why did that king seek to destroy the serpent race?

And how did Āstīka turn the tide?”

Then the noble Pramati, seated with serenity, his eyes bright with wisdom, began to speak. With measured words, he prepared to recount the sacred tale—of vengeance born from a snake’s bite, of a yajña that scorched the skies, and of the child-sage whose voice stilled the flames.

Thus ends the Puloma Parva.