Hearing Takṣaka’s words, the sage Kāśyapa—renowned among the twice-born and possessed of great energy—paused to reflect upon the fate of the king. Endowed with divine insight, Kāśyapa perceived that the king of the Pāṇḍavas had but a brief span of life remaining. With this realization, and having received the wealth he desired from Takṣaka, the illustrious sage turned back at once. Takṣaka, meanwhile, hastened toward the city known as Nāgasāhvaya. As he traveled, he learned of the king, who was being guarded most carefully by divine spells meant to neutralize poison. Takṣaka thought, “I must deceive him—but how?” Adopting the guise of an ascetic, he summoned the serpents and instructed them: “Go forth, all of you, without hesitation, to the king. Be diligent in your task.” The serpents, obedient to Takṣaka’s command, disguised themselves as ascetics. They approached the mighty king, bringing darbha grass, water, and fruits. The king graciously accepted these offerings. Having completed their task, the disguised serpents were told by the king, “You may depart.” When they had left, the king addressed his ministers and friends: “Let all of you eat these sweet fruits.” The fruits brought by the ascetics were distributed, and the king, together with his ministers, prepared to partake of them. Bound by ritual and the words of the sage, the king ate the very fruit in which the serpent was hidden. As he ate, a tiny worm emerged—short, with black eyes and copper-colored. The illustrious king showed it to his ministers, saying, “The sun is setting; today I have no fear of poison.” But the sage, steadfast in his word, declared, “This worm will bite me; it will become Takṣaka by name, and thus the deed will be done.” The ministers, prompted by the unfolding events, followed the king’s actions. The king, desiring death and losing consciousness, laughed and swiftly placed the worm upon his neck. Even as he laughed, Takṣaka emerged, wrapping himself around the king with his coils. Takṣaka, as foretold, emerged from the fruit and encircled the king, roaring loudly. He bit the ruler of the earth, fulfilling his dreadful purpose. Witnessing the king thus entwined by the serpent’s coils, the ministers were overcome with grief; their faces distressed, they wept in sorrow. Seeing the serpent, they fled in terror, watching as the wondrous Takṣaka moved through the sky. Takṣaka, foremost among serpents, shone like a lotus at the edge of the heavens, and those who saw him were overwhelmed by grief. The king’s house, now surrounded by fire and blazing with the serpent’s poison, was abandoned in fear as people fled in all directions. The house collapsed, as if struck by lightning. When the king was overcome by Takṣaka’s power, all the proper rites for the departed were performed. The pure Brahmin, royal priest, and the king’s ministers attended to these duties. All the people of the city gathered and proclaimed the king’s young son as their new ruler. They called Janamejaya, foremost among the Kurus and slayer of foes, their king. Though still a child, the noble-minded Janamejaya, together with his ministers and priests, governed the kingdom as his heroic great-grandfather had done before him. Seeing the new king, the ministers approached Suvarnavarma, the Kashian, seeking his daughter to strengthen the royal lineage. After due consideration and in accordance with dharma, Suvarnavarma gave his beautiful daughter to Janamejaya. The king, having obtained her, rejoiced and set his heart on no other woman. With joy in his heart, the valiant king wandered among blooming lakes and forests, delighting as Pururavas had once rejoiced upon gaining Urvashi. Vapushtama, his virtuous and devoted wife, radiant in her beauty, brought him happiness like Rama, the most beautiful among the women of the inner chambers, during times of pleasure. At that very time, the great ascetic Jaratkaru—homeless and wandering—roamed the earth. Practicing severe vows, difficult for the undisciplined, the radiant sage journeyed among holy places, bathing in sacred waters. Sustaining himself only on air, without food, and growing weaker by the day, Jaratkaru came upon his ancestors hanging head-down in a pit. They clung desperately to a single remaining fiber of a reed stalk, while a rat dwelling in a hole slowly gnawed at that slender thread. Emaciated, miserable, and without sustenance, his ancestors longed for their own protection. Approaching them, Jaratkaru, himself appearing as wretched as they, addressed them: “Who are you, clinging to the reed stalk and relying on this feeble root, which is being eaten by a rat living in a hole? Even the one root that remains is slowly being gnawed away by the rat’s sharp teeth. Soon, with so little left, it too will be severed, and you will all fall headlong into this pit. Seeing you hanging head-down and suffering such distress fills me with sorrow—what dear thing can I do for you? Tell me quickly if you wish to escape this calamity by a fourth, a third, or even half of my ascetic merit.