Astika Reaches The Venue Of Sarpa Yajna

The Sarpa-Yajna blazed on.

The sacred flames had already swallowed crores of serpents — known, unknown, named and unnamed.
The air reeked of charred flesh. The sky had turned black from the smoke of burning scales.

Takshaka, the intended target, had already taken refuge under Indra’s protection, curled like a shadow in the palace of the gods.

But the fire did not stop. It climbed, it devoured, it pulled. Even Vasuki, the great Naga king, felt its heat — and fear.

‘This is not just justice. This is annihilation.’

He remembered the words of Brahma — words now carved into destiny:

“Only one can stop the fire. One born of two Jaratkarus.
A sage. A son of destiny.
His name shall be Astika.”

And so, he turned to his sister — Jaratkaru, the mother.

With folded hands, he said, ‘Now is the time. The reason for your marriage. The reason for your son’s birth. Send him. Or we are ash.’

And Jaratkaru — fierce and wise — called her son.

Astika, gentle yet brilliant, bowed at her feet.

‘Mother, I’m ready. Tell me why I was born.’

And she told him everything.

• How Kadru, the first mother of all serpents, once cursed her own children to perish in fire.

• How a petty bet about the color of Ucchaishravas’ tail led to a karmic landslide.

• How the serpents refused to cheat, and Kadru, enraged, let a mother’s curse slip from her tongue.

• How Brahma, the grandfather of worlds, told Vasuki:
  “Get your sister Jaratkaru married to a sage of the same name.
  From that union will come your savior.”

‘That, my son,’ she said, ‘is you.’

Astika’s eyes lit up. His voice was calm. His words unwavering:

‘I will not fail. I will go. And I will stop this fire with truth, not tears.’

At the venue of the Sarpa-Yajna, things were only escalating.

The mantras rolled like thunder.
Agni danced higher and higher.
Serpents still fell from the sky, writhing and screaming.

Janamejaya had already been warned by a vastu expert:

‘A Brahmin will stop your yajna. Beware.’

He had tightened his guard.
No strangers allowed inside the yajna mandapa.
The security was unbreakable.

But Astika… did not walk with force. He entered with grace.

When the guards stopped him, the boy didn’t argue.
He didn't protest.
He praised.

And oh, how he praised.

He lifted Janamejaya’s yajna and compared it to the greatest sacrifices ever performed:

• Soma’s yajna, Varuna’s yajna, and the yajna of Prajapati at Prayagraj.

• Indra, who did a hundred yajnas — this one is equal.

• Yudhishtira, whose yajna was heard of in Swarga — this too is no less.

• Sage Vyasa’s efforts in splitting and preserving the Veda — they live through this very fire.

He praised the purohitas:

‘They are not just priests. They are rishis in fire-born form.
Their dakshina shall not go in vain. Their words move the universe.’

He praised the Agni himself — in all his forms:

Vibhavasu, Chitrabhanu, Hiranyareta, Havishyabhoji, Krishnavartma — all were present, glowing in the yajna-kunda like divine witnesses.

He praised Janamejaya — not just as a king, but as a living embodiment of all virtues:

• As powerful as Indra.

• As righteous as Yama.

• As handsome as Srimannarayana.

• As wise as Krishna.

• As calm as Vasishta.

• As celibate as Bhishma.

• As brilliant as Surya.

• As charitable as Rantideva.

• As strong as Dambhodbhava.

• As disciplined as Valmiki.

And then came the kavacha, the protective seal of speech — praise so potent that even Agnideva smiled from the flames.

The entire court fell silent.

This wasn’t flattery.
This was truth, sweetened by grace.
Even the mantras paused for breath.

Janamejaya turned to his purohitas, his eyes shining not with pride, but awe.

‘He is so young. Yet he speaks like a sage of a thousand births.’

He looked around at Vyasa, at Jaimini, at Kautsa and Pingala.

Then said:

‘If it pleases you all, I would like to grant him a boon.
Let this boy speak. Let us hear what he desires.’

The moment had arrived.

The boy born of purpose,
The voice chosen by Brahma,
The torchbearer of dharma —
Astika stood at the edge of fire, ready to speak not for himself,
but for an entire race burning behind him.

Ramaswamy Sastry and Vighnesh Ghanapaathi