Kaśyapa, the wise sage, spoke of his own intentions: “Desiring wealth, I saw the king as my means, and so, after the king had been cursed by the serpent, I left my home to aid the excellent monarch with my knowledge.” But Takṣaka, the mighty serpent, confronted Kaśyapa and said, “O foremost of Brahmins, take as much wealth as you wish from the king; I will give it to you. Go to your home; I am satisfied.” Hearing these words, Kaśyapa, who understood the supreme truth, began to reflect deeply within himself: “What should I do?” he pondered again and again. “If I accept this wealth and simply return home, my fame in the world will be lost, tainted by my attachment to greed. But if I save the excellent king’s life, my reputation will become unshakable, I will gain even greater wealth, and I will earn merit by saving a life. “Fame must be protected at all costs; cursed is the wealth that comes without it. Even Raghu, in days of old, gave away everything to a Brahmin for the sake of fame. Hariścandra and Karṇa, too, sacrificed much for their good name. How, then, could I turn my back on a king who is burning with the fire of poison? If I save the king’s life today, happiness will come to all his people; for without a king, the destruction of the people is certain—there can be no doubt of this. If the king dies, the sin of their ruin will be upon me, and infamy will follow me throughout the world, all because of my greed for wealth.” Thinking thus, Kaśyapa, wise and discerning, entered into meditation and perceived the truth: the king’s life was at its end. Realizing through his inner vision that the king was indeed near death, Kaśyapa, upright in soul, accepted the wealth from Takṣaka and returned home. With Kaśyapa thus turned away, Takṣaka, intent on fulfilling the curse and slaying the king on the seventh day, swiftly made his way to the city called Nāgasāhvaya. There, he learned that the king was staying at the edge of the city, within a palace carefully guarded by precious jewels, powerful mantras, and potent medicines, watched over diligently and without lapse. Takṣaka, filled with anxiety and fearful of the Brahmin’s curse, began to contemplate through his yogic powers: “How can I enter the house? How can I deceive this sinful king, who is ruined by the Brahmin’s curse, deluded, and a tormentor of Brahmins? None born in the line of the Pāṇḍavas has ever committed such an act—placing a dead serpent on a sage’s neck. The king, knowing the course of time, has committed a blameworthy deed; he has set guards in the palace and entered his mansion. “Today, the king, free from anxiety, thinks he has cheated death. How shall I burn him, as commanded by the Brahmin’s words? The deluded one does not realize that death is irreversible; and so today he enjoys himself, having placed guards and ascended his palace. If death is truly ordained by fate for one of such immeasurable power, how could it possibly be averted by any means, no matter how many efforts are made?” Meanwhile, the king—descendant of the Pāṇḍavas—aware that death was upon him, remained composed, fixing his mind upon life. “A king should always perform acts of charity and merit,” he reflected, “for through righteousness, disease is destroyed and life is made enduring. Otherwise, if the decree of death is not fulfilled, then the rituals of bathing and giving gifts at the time of death would lead one to heaven; otherwise, to hell. The sin of harming the twice-born, and the terrible curse of a Brahmin, now approach at the time of my death. “There is no Brahmin at my side to warn me now; and death, ordained by the Creator, is unavoidable in every way.” While these thoughts passed through the minds of both, Takṣaka devised a plan. He commanded the snakes nearby to take on the guise of ascetics and sent them forth. Takṣaka himself entered into one of the fruits, assuming the form of a worm hidden within. The disguised serpents quickly departed, carrying with them fruits and roots, and, reaching the royal palace, stood near the mansion. The guards, seeing the ascetics, questioned their purpose. The serpents, appearing as sages, replied, “We have come today from the forest hermitage to see the king. We wish to bless the heroic son of Abhimanyu, the radiant scion of his line, and to nurture him with Atharvan mantras. Inform the king that sages have come desiring an audience; after bestowing our blessings, we will depart, giving him sweet fruits. “In the lineage of the Bhāratas, it has never been seen that doorkeepers bar the way, nor is it heard that ascetics are denied the king’s presence. We will ascend to where King Parīkṣit is, bless him with our benedictions, and, having received his permission, we will depart.” Hearing these words, the guards, taking the ascetics for true Brahmins, replied as the king had instructed: “Today, O Brahmins, you cannot see the king—such is our decision. Tomorrow, all the ascetics may come here to the royal palace. The palace is not to be ascended by Brahmins, O best of sages; this was ordered by the king himself, out of fear of a Brahmin’s curse—there is no doubt.” The ascetics then said, “Let the fruits, roots, and water be brought.” They instructed the royal guards to deliver these offerings to the king. The guards who had gone out returned to the king and informed him of the ascetics’ arrival. The king said, “Bring here whatever fruits, roots, and such there are. Ask the ascetics what their purpose is, and about their coming again in the morning. Convey my respects to them, for today I will not grant an audience.” Thus, having gathered the fruits, roots, and whatever else had been brought, the guards presented them to the king with great honor.