As the ministers stood witness, a wondrous and terrible serpent appeared before them. At the sight of this serpent, they were seized with terror and scattered, fleeing in all directions, their eyes never leaving the creature as it moved majestically through the sky. This was none other than Takshaka, the foremost of serpents, radiant and resplendent like a blooming lotus, his very presence marking the edges of the heavens. The ministers, overwhelmed by grief and fear, watched helplessly. Soon, the king’s palace was engulfed. Flames surrounded the house, and the venom of the serpent blazed fiercely within. Panic-stricken, all who dwelt there abandoned it, running for their lives as the house collapsed, struck down as if by a bolt of lightning. The king, overcome by Takshaka’s power, met his end. As was proper, all the rites for the departed were performed with due reverence. The pure-hearted Brahmins, the royal priest, and the king’s ministers together ensured that every ritual was observed for the king’s journey beyond. In the aftermath, the people of the city gathered together. They proclaimed the king’s young son, Janamejaya—foremost among the Kurus and a slayer of foes—as their new ruler. Though still a boy, Janamejaya, noble-minded and wise beyond his years, took up the mantle of kingship. Guided by his ministers and priests, he ruled the kingdom as his heroic great-grandfather had done before him. Recognizing the importance of strengthening the royal lineage, the ministers approached Suvarnavarma, the king of Kashi, seeking his daughter’s hand for Janamejaya. After careful thought, and in accordance with dharma, King Suvarnavarma agreed and gave his beautiful daughter to the young Kuru king. Janamejaya, having received her, rejoiced and devoted himself to her alone. With a joyful heart, the valiant king wandered amidst blooming lakes and fragrant forests, delighting in his new bride as Pururavas had once delighted after winning Urvashi. His wife, Vapushtama, virtuous and radiant, was devoted to him and brought him great happiness, shining among the women of the inner chambers like Rama herself in times of pleasure. At this very time, the great ascetic Jaratkaru, a wanderer without home or possessions, traversed the earth. Practicing severe and difficult vows, he journeyed from one holy place to another, bathing in sacred waters, living only on air. Day by day, he grew thinner, his body drying up from his austerities. One day, as he wandered, Jaratkaru beheld a strange and sorrowful sight: his ancestors, hanging head-down in a pit, clinging desperately to a single remaining fiber of a reed stalk. From a hole nearby, a rat gnawed steadily at this fragile root. The ancestors, emaciated and miserable, longed for rescue. Moved by compassion, Jaratkaru approached them, appearing as wretched as they, and spoke, “Who are you, clinging to this reed stalk, depending on a single weak root being gnawed by a rat? Even this last root is nearly gone—soon you will all fall into this pit. Seeing you in such distress, my heart is filled with sorrow. What 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, take all of my merit, and let you all be saved—let it be as you desire.” The ancestors replied, “How can you, a celibate, hope to save us? Not even the highest asceticism of a Brahmin can remedy this. O best of speakers, is there any fruit in austerity? Because our lineage is destroyed, we are falling into impure hell. Our grandsire has declared that progeny is the highest duty, but here we are, suspended, with no knowledge or hope. “You, renowned in the world for your manliness, do not recognize us. We, your ancestors, are to be pitied and are deeply afflicted. Listen out of compassion: we are the Yāyāvaras, sages devoted to strict vows. Cast down from the world by the destruction of our line, our austerity is lost; we have no descendant. Today, only one remains, and even he is nearly lost—he alone, of little fortune, has taken up austerity. “He is known as Jaratkaru, accomplished in the Vedas, self-controlled, great-souled, and firm in his vows. But his greed for austerity has brought us to this state—he has neither wife nor son nor relative. Therefore, we hang over the pit, unsupported and dejected. He must be told, for you have seen us in our helplessness. “We, your ancestors, depend on you, hanging over the pit, our hearts broken. O noble one, take a wife and beget children—we beg you. Only one thread of our lineage remains, a single ascetic, whom you see clinging to the grass-stalk. He is the pillar of our family, the one who might increase our line; the roots you see are his shoots. “These are our lineages, consumed by time, and the root itself is half-eaten. Even as we hang over the pit, that one is engaged in austerity; the mouse you see is mighty Time itself, gnawing slowly at that weak ascetic—Jaratkaru—devoted to penance, yet senseless in his neglect of duty. “O best of beings, his austerity will not save us—uprooted and fallen, our minds afflicted by Time. We have entered this pit as wrongdoers, and when we fall, all our kin will fall with us. When that last one is cut off by Time, he too will go to hell from here, no matter how great his austerity, sacrifice, or other purifications.” Thus, the ancestors pleaded with Jaratkaru, revealing their plight and the cause of their suffering, and begged him to fulfill his duty so that their lineage might be saved.