There once lived a king of incomparable valor, renowned and illustrious, who protected the earth as if she were a goddess herself. He had no enemies and harbored hatred toward none. Impartial to all beings, much like the lord of creatures, he ensured that Brahmins, Kshatriyas, Vaishyas, and Shudras each remained steadfast in their own duties. Under his rule, the people were well-disposed and unwavering; he cared deeply for widows, the helpless, the afflicted, and the poor. Handsome among all beings, he shone like another Soma—prosperous, strong, truthful, and firm in his courage. In the science of archery, he was a disciple of Sharadvata, and your father, Janamejaya, was dear to Govinda. This illustrious king was beloved by everyone. After the destruction of the Kurus, he begot a son with Uttara. From him was born Parikshit, mighty son of Subhadra, skilled in royal duties and law, endowed with every virtue. Parikshit was self-controlled, steadfast, intelligent, devoted to righteousness, wise, and master over the six inner enemies. He excelled in the knowledge of statecraft. Your father protected his people for sixty years, but when his destined end arrived, he brought sorrow to all. Then you, best of men, embraced the path of righteousness; the kingdom of the Kuru line came to you for a thousand years. Crowned while still a boy, you became the guardian of all beings. Never in this lineage has there been a king who was not beloved and pleasing to his people, especially when considering the noble conduct of our forefathers, devoted to great deeds. Yet you ask, how did my father, such a man, meet his end? Tell me truly and in detail; I wish to hear the facts. Thus urged by the king, the ministers, wishing for his good and favor, spoke to him as it had happened. That king, protector of the earth and foremost among warriors—your father—was always devoted to hunting. Just as mighty-armed Pandu, the best of archers in battle, had entrusted all royal duties to us without exception, so did your father. Once, having gone to the forest, he struck a deer with a feathered arrow. After wounding it, he quickly pursued the deer into the dense woods. On foot, sword at his side, carrying his bow and quiver, your father searched but did not find the lost deer in the thicket. Exhausted by age—sixty years old—worn by old age and hungry, he came upon a most excellent sage in the great forest. The king, lord of men, questioned the sage, who was observing a vow of silence. Though asked, the sage said nothing. Tormented by hunger and fatigue, seeing the sage standing motionless, calm and silent, the king was suddenly overcome by anger. Not understanding that the sage was observing a vow of silence, your father, filled with rage, insulted him. Lifting a dead snake from the ground with the tip of his bow, he placed it on the shoulder of that pure-hearted sage, O best of Bharatas. The wise sage neither spoke nor indicated whether it was right or wrong; he remained just as he was, unangered, bearing the snake on his shoulder. Then the king, O lord of kings, having placed the serpent on the sage’s shoulder, returned again to his own city. That sage had a son named Śṛṅgī, of great fame, immense energy, sharp power, and prone to anger. The sage, having approached Brahman, performed worship; then, with his permission, Śṛṅgī heard of what had happened. Long ago, your father was insulted by your friend’s father, O tiger among kings, while he stood motionless, with a dead serpent draped upon him. Though blameless, he carried the dead snake on his shoulder—this great ascetic, foremost among sages. He was self-controlled, pure, steadfast in wondrous deeds, his soul radiant with austerity, disciplined in all his limbs. Virtuous in conduct, speaking auspicious words, firmly established, free from greed, not petty-minded nor envious, elderly, observing the vow of silence, a refuge for all beings—yet your father wronged him. Then, filled with anger, the great and radiant son of the sage, though a boy with the brilliance of an elder, cursed your father. Quickly touching water, blazing with energy, Śṛṅgī spoke these words in wrath, directing them at your father: “He who placed a dead serpent on my innocent and venerable father—him shall the serpent Takṣaka, enraged, burn up with his fiery power. The venomous serpent, fierce in might, impelled by the force of my words, will, after seven nights, display the power of my austerity—behold!” Having pronounced the curse, Śṛṅgī went to where his father was and reported what he had done. The tiger among sages then sent your father’s disciple, Gauramukha—a man of virtue and good qualities—to the king. Composed in spirit, Gauramukha told the king everything in detail: “You have been cursed by my son—be vigilant, O king! Takṣaka, O great king, will burn you with his fiery power.” Hearing those dreadful words, your father Janamejaya became vigilant and fearful of Takṣaka, the foremost of serpents. When the seventh day arrived, a brahmarṣi named Kāśyapa wished to go to the king. At that time, the serpent lord Takṣaka saw Kāśyapa.