The throne of Hastinapura was no longer ruled by heroes.
The sons of Pandu and the sons of Dhritarashtra — those whose names had once split the skies in war — were gone. The battlefield of Kurukshetra was silent. The age of Krishna, Arjuna, Karna, Bhishma, and Draupadi had passed.
But their story had left a scar on time.
And in that silence, a new king ruled — the son of Abhimanyu, grandson of Arjuna.
Parikshit.
He was noble. He was brave. He was born during the war's final breath and had survived by Krishna's grace itself.
He grew under the weight of legacy — carrying the name of the Pandavas on his shoulders. He was taught dharma, trained in war, and raised with the memory of everything his ancestors had won and lost.
But fate has no favorites.
One day, while hunting in the forest, King Parikshit found himself lost and hungry.
His men had fallen behind. The sun was sinking behind the trees. His throat was dry. And in that moment of weakness, he came upon the hermitage of a great sage.
The sage was Samika — an old ascetic, deep in meditation.
Parikshit dismounted. He called out, respectfully.
"O holy one," he said, "I am King Parikshit. I have come seeking food and water."
But the sage remained still — eyes closed, breath steady, lost in deep tapasya.
The king called again.
And again.
No answer.
Something in him — perhaps pride, perhaps anger, perhaps the weight of being ignored by someone so far beneath him in rank — snapped.
He looked down and saw a dead snake lying in the grass.
Without a word, he picked it up and, in a moment of insult and mockery, placed it around the sage's neck like a garland.
A joke. A punishment. A mistake.
Then he left — not knowing that his action had cracked open the gates of his own doom.
Elsewhere, the sage's young son, Shringi, returned home.
A boy trained in the Vedas. A child of purity and fire.
When he saw the snake coiled around his father's neck, fury rose within him like a storm.
"Who has done this?" he cried.
"Who dares insult a Brahmana deep in meditation?"
His classmates told him: it was King Parikshit.
Shringi's hands trembled with rage. His voice, young but filled with sacred power, shook the air.
"Then hear my words, O heavens and earth," he declared,
"Let the king who has mocked my father be punished by fate itself!
Seven days from now, the mighty serpent Takshaka shall strike him down — and he shall die, burned by venom!"
And so, with a single curse from a boy's mouth, destiny changed direction.
Parikshit soon heard of the curse.
He did not run. He did not deny.
He accepted his fate with the dignity of a true Kshatriya.
But his ministers and priests were terrified.
"We must stop the snake! We must protect the king!"
A great tower was built — sealed, guarded, purified with chants. No tree, no grass, no opening was left for any serpent to enter.
But fate does not come through doors.
Takshaka, the serpent-king, came disguised.
In the form of a learned Brahmana.
Carrying nothing but knowledge… and death.
And on the seventh day, he entered the tower.
And struck.
Parikshit — son of heroes — was burned from the inside by poison and reduced to ash.
The Pandava line was broken. And the boy who had once sat at his father's funeral… now sat on the throne.
His name was Janamejaya.
And his heart was filled with only one thing.
Vengeance.