Why Parikshit Was Cursed?

In the twilight echoes of Dvapara Yuga, stood a king — not just any king — but one born of valour and virtue, Raja Parikshit, son of Abhimanyu, grandson of Arjuna. The scriptures speak of him as the very embodiment of raja dharma — a sovereign who governed not with fear, but with fairness; not with pride, but with principle.

He was no ordinary ruler. He had subdued the six inner enemies — kama, krodha, lobha, moha, mada, matsarya. The fire of desire, the storm of anger, the hunger of greed, the fog of delusion, the intoxication of ego, and the poison of envy — all these, he had mastered.

But even the wisest stumble.

One day, fate rolled her dice.

Parikshit, out on a royal hunt — an act customary for kings of his time to protect their people from wild beasts — found himself chasing a creature into the heart of a dense forest. The deeper he went, the lonelier he became. The trees grew thicker. His retinue disappeared. Sixty winters had passed over his head — and now, alone, on foot, hungry, weary, and parched, he wandered like a man lost between duties and instincts.

And then he saw a figure — seated still, silent as stone. A muni.

The king approached.

‘Have you seen the animal I wounded?’

No reply.

The sage was in mauna-vrata. Silence — deep, unwavering, sacred. But the king, in his exhaustion, did not recognize the silence as spiritual. He saw it as arrogance. He did not know this was Rishi Shameeka. No ochre robes. No matted locks or flowing beard as shown in dramas. Munis do not wear labels. Many are householders — clad like any other man, their power veiled behind simplicity.

Parikshit, in that moment of misjudgment — driven not by cruelty, but by hunger, heat, and frustration — saw a dead snake lying on the ground. With the tip of his bow, he picked it up and placed it mockingly around the neck of the silent sage.

Then... he left.

The muni did not react. No curse leapt from his lips. He remained seated, still immersed in his vow. That’s real penance. That’s restraint. That’s tapas.

But destiny was not done.

Rishi Shameeka’s son, Shringi — young, fiery, eruptive like a summer storm — was returning from his gurukul. A friend rushed to him and reported what had happened: ‘Your father... insulted... a dead snake around his neck.’

The fire in Shringi’s chest roared.

He did not pause. He did not investigate. He did not even speak to his father. Rage blinded his youth. Righteous anger — but misdirected.

He raised his hands and uttered a terrible curse:

‘The one who committed this offense shall meet his end within seven nights. Let Takshaka, the serpent-king, burn him with his venom!’

The curse flew like a flaming arrow.

When Shameeka heard what his son had done, he sighed — a sigh heavier than thunder.

He summoned his disciple, Gauramukha.

‘Go to the king,’ he said. ‘Tell him what has happened. Tell him he must be prepared. Let not ignorance seal his fate.’

And so, the news reached the palace.

Parikshit was shattered.

‘What have I done? A sage… I insulted a sage?’

Remorse flooded his heart. Not fear — first came guilt. Only then the dread of Takshaka, the deadliest of serpents, chosen by the curse itself — for what better punishment than death by snake, when the crime was a mockery using a snake?

See the contrast.

The king — praised for conquering his senses — faltered under hunger and heat.

The sage — given every reason to retaliate — held his peace, anchored in his vow.

One moment of weakness from Parikshit. One moment of fury from Shringi. And the wheel of fate turned.

Mahabharata does not just tell a tale.

It opens our eyes — that even the great may slip, and even the wronged may choose compassion. That true restraint is not tested in comfort, but in provocation.

And above all, that dharma walks a tightrope — swayed by wind, shaken by emotion — but always leading us back to truth, if only we dare to look.

Ramaswamy Sastry and Vighnesh Ghanapaathi