The king, surrounded by his ministers and friends, invited them warmly, saying, “Let all of you eat these sweet fruits.” The fruits had been brought by ascetics and given to the king; now, with his ministers, he prepared to partake of them. Yet, bound by the ritual and the words of the sage, the king ate the very fruit in which a serpent was present. As he ate, a tiny worm appeared from the fruit—short, with black eyes and copper-colored, catching the attention of all, especially Shaunaka. The illustrious king, picking up the worm, spoke to his ministers: “The sun is setting; today I have no fear of poison.” But the sage, steadfast to his word, declared, “This worm will bite me; it will become Takshaka by name, and thus what was foretold will come to pass.” Prompted by the moment, the ministers followed the king’s actions. Having spoken, the king placed the worm upon his neck. Desiring death, and losing consciousness, he laughed and quickly placed the worm there; even as he laughed, Takshaka coiled around him. Emerging from the fruit, as had been reported to the king, Takshaka, lord of serpents, wrapped himself around the king, roared loudly, and bit the ruler of the earth. Seeing the king thus encircled by the serpent’s coil, the ministers’ faces became distressed, and they wept in great sorrow. Then, beholding the serpent, the ministers fled, watching in awe as the wondrous serpent moved through the sky. They saw Takshaka, foremost among serpents, shining like a lotus and marking the boundary of the sky, and they were overwhelmed by grief. The house, now surrounded by fire and blazing with the serpent’s poison, was abandoned in fear as everyone fled in all directions; it collapsed as if struck by lightning. When the king was overcome by Takshaka’s power, all the proper rites for the departed were performed. The pure Brahmin, the royal priest, and the king’s ministers carried out the ceremonies. All the people of the city gathered and proclaimed the king’s son, still a boy, as their ruler. They called Janamejaya, the foremost of the Kurus and slayer of foes, their king. Though still a child, the noble-minded Janamejaya, along with his ministers and priests, governed the kingdom just as his heroic great-grandfather had done before him. Seeing this valiant king, tormentor of enemies, the ministers approached Suvarnavarma, the Kashian, seeking his daughter for the sake of continuing the royal lineage. After due consideration and in accordance with dharma, Suvarnavarma gave his beautiful daughter to Janamejaya, the foremost of the Kurus. Having obtained her, Janamejaya rejoiced and set his mind on no other woman. With a joyful heart, the valiant king wandered among blooming lakes and forests, delighting as Pururavas once did after gaining Urvashi. Vapushtama, his virtuous and devoted wife, radiant in her beauty, brought him great joy, much like Rama, the most beautiful among the women of the inner chambers, did 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—he traveled among holy places, bathing in sacred waters. Sustaining himself only on air, without food, drying up day by day, the sage encountered his ancestors hanging head-down in a pit. They clung to a single remaining fiber of a reed stalk, while a rat dwelling in a hole slowly gnawed at that fiber. Emaciated, miserable, and without food, they longed for their own protection. Jaratkaru, appearing as miserable as they, approached and addressed them: “Who are you, clinging to this reed stalk, depending on a weak root that is being gnawed by a rat in a hole? Even the one root that remains is slowly being eaten by the rat’s sharp teeth. Soon, with so little left, it too will be cut, and then you will all fall headlong into this pit. Seeing you hanging head-down and in such distress, sorrow has arisen in me—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. Or, if you wish, let all of you be saved by the entirety of my ascetic merit—let it be done as you desire.” The ancestors replied, “How is it that you, a celibate, wish to save us? This cannot be remedied even by the highest asceticism of a foremost Brahmin. O best of those who speak, is there or is there not any fruit of austerity? Because our lineage has been destroyed, O Brahman, we are falling into an impure hell. Our grandsire declared that progeny is the highest duty; but here, O father, we are suspended, and no knowledge appears to us. By whom you, renowned in the world for your manliness, are not recognized—you, venerable and greatly fortunate—we, your ancestors, are to be pitied and deeply afflicted.” Out of compassion, one ancestor explained, “O twice-born, listen: we are called the Yāyāvaras, sages devoted to strict vows. Cast down from the world due to the destruction of our lineage, our severe austerity is lost; indeed, we have no descendant. Today, we have only one descendant left, and even he is as good as lost; of little fortune among the unfortunate, he alone has taken up austerity. He is known as Jaratkāru, accomplished in the Vedas and their branches, self-controlled, great-souled, of firm vows, and immense austerity. Because of his greed for austerity, we have come to this distress; he has neither wife nor son nor any relative.” Thus, the story unfolds—of kings and serpents, of ascetics and ancestors, and of the deep bonds of lineage and dharma.