The sage Romasa spoke of King Somaka, who once performed a great sacrifice and obtained a son named Jantu. The child was the joy of the palace, tenderly reared by the king, the queens, and their attendants. All the queens loved him as their own, so united in affection that the people marveled at such harmony, for in royal households rivalry and envy were more common than concord.
One day, as fate would have it, a small ant bit the boy upon his thigh. His cry pierced the air, and the queens too wept aloud in terror. Hearing their lament from the court, Somaka rushed in, consoled his child, and summoned the royal physicians, who soon allayed the boy’s pain. Yet the king, moved to thought, said to the Vedic scholars around him: “I have many queens, yet only one son for them all. If even the touch of a breeze can disturb our peace for his sake, is it right that so many should be bound to one fragile life?”
The assembled sages, versed in sacred law, replied: “O King, if it be thy wish that every queen bear a son, obey our word without question. The decree will seem harsh, yet it springs from divine ordinance. Thy only son, Jantu, must be offered in the sacrificial fire. Satisfy Agni thus, and each of thy queens shall bear a child. Jantu himself shall be reborn, radiant as gold, and first among them.”
Somaka, torn between love and duty, bowed before the Brahmins’ command. With solemn rites, the boy was consigned to the flames, while the wails of the queens rose higher than the hymns of the priests. The queens fell senseless in grief, but Agni was appeased and granted them his favor. In due time, every queen conceived and bore a son, one hundred in all. The chief queen’s child was Jantu himself, reborn, his every gesture and voice identical to what had been before. The palace rejoiced, and the princes grew in virtue and fame, beloved for their righteousness.
Years passed, and the priests who had performed the sacrifice died and fell into torment in the lower worlds. Somaka too, when his time came, journeyed through those realms toward the higher abodes. Seeing his chief priest in misery, he cried, “O learned one, how art thou fallen into this dreadful state?” The priest answered, “Because I presided over that sacrifice wherein a boy was slain. But thou, O King, art shielded by thy royal merit. Save me, I pray.”
Somaka went to Yama, the Lord of Justice, and pleaded, “O King of Dharma, this man suffers for my deed. The cause is mine; tell me what must be done that he may rise with me.” Yama, pleased by his compassion, said, “The sacrifice of life, whatever the intent, bears its price. The sin of kings rests upon their priests. Yet thy selfless heart redeems him. Take him hence to the realms of light.” Thus did the merit of Somaka’s virtue free the priest from hell, proving that righteous intent sanctifies even a deed born of sorrow.
Romasa then spoke of other monarchs who, by sacrifice and virtue, attained the higher worlds. Brahma himself once performed a thousand-year sacrifice called Istakrutha. From Nabhaga’s line, King Ambarisha held a mighty rite and ascended to celestial realms. Nahusha, too, offered vast wealth—gold, cows, and fertile lands—in the Sarvabhauma sacrifice. Here also did King Yayati perform a grand rite, with Indra as his honored guest; that sacred spot was known as Ramahrada, near the holy Plaksha Avatara, guarded forever by the divine sage Samvarta.
Bharata, son of Dushyanta, held many sacrifices there and gained the vision to behold all three worlds. At Romasa’s counsel, Dharmaja and his brothers bathed in those waters, prayed with folded hands to their forefathers, and sanctified themselves at the spot where Daksha once held his ill-fated sacrifice. That river, said Romasa, was none other than Saraswati herself, where Brahma had once performed his sacred rites. Whoever died upon her banks was said to gain a divine form and dwell among the gods.
Once, Saraswati vanished into the earth in the realm of the Nishadas and reappeared at a holy ford called Chamasodbheda, also known as Sindhu Tirtha. There, the sage Agastya took Lopamudra as his lawful wife. “O Dharmaja,” said Romasa, “this is the blessed Vishnupada Tirtha of the Chandra line. The river Vipasa flows nearby, and beyond lies the sacred land of Kasmira, watered by the Vithastha. There stands the shrine called Manasa-dwara, founded by Parashurama, whose act of creation was like the swan’s descent into mystery, guiding souls toward higher truth. At Manasa-sarovara, Lord Shiva, with his consort, grants blessings to those who worship during the spring season. The sage Vasishta and his faithful Arundhati once dwelt there, performing penance upon Mount Bhrigutunga, where the noble King Shibi too held his sacrifice.”
There, Indra and Agni sought to test Shibi’s steadfast virtue. Agni took the form of a dove pursued by Indra as an eagle. The dove sought refuge in the king’s lap, and when the eagle demanded his prey, Shibi refused. The eagle said, “By denying me food, thou condemnest my family to death. What justice is this, O righteous king?” Shibi replied, “This creature has come to me in fear. It is my duty to protect all who seek refuge, regardless of station. To abandon one who trusts me would be sin itself.”
The eagle answered, “If thou wouldst save this dove, give of thine own flesh equal to its weight.” Without hesitation, the king cut from his thigh and placed it upon the scale, but the dove outweighed even his whole body. At last, Shibi stepped onto the balance himself, and at that moment Agni and Indra revealed their true forms. They blessed him, saying, “O noble Shibi, never has such courage and compassion been seen among men. Thy fame shall endure as long as virtue is spoken of.”
Romasa pointed to the verdant grove around them: “Here is the holy garden of Swetaketu, son of Uddalaka, who performed penance with his uncle Astavakra. The river Saraswati herself served Swetaketu in human form.” At Dharmaja’s request, Romasa then told of the birth and wisdom of Astavakra.
The sage Ekapada, a master of the Vedas, had a devoted wife named Sujatha. One day, as he instructed his disciples in sacred chant, a voice came from within his wife’s womb: “O learned one, thy students err in rhythm and accent, weary from ceaseless repetition. Should not their rest be measured, lest the purity of the hymn be lost?” Angered by correction from the unborn, Ekapada cursed, “Since thou hast mocked the Vedas, crooked shalt thou be at birth.” Thus was the child Astavakra marked with eight bends of the body.
When Sujatha neared her time, she lamented their poverty, for ascetics possess no wealth but wisdom. Ekapada went to King Janaka’s court to seek reward through debate but was defeated by Vandi, son of Varuna, and cast into the sea as the wager decreed. At that very hour, Sujatha bore Astavakra, while Uddalaka’s wife gave birth to Swetaketu. The cousins grew together, and Astavakra, not knowing his father’s fate, revered Uddalaka as his own sire.
One day, as the boy sat upon Uddalaka’s lap, Swetaketu grew jealous and taunted him: “Go, sit upon thy own father’s knee.” Distressed, Astavakra ran to his mother and learned of his true father’s end. Resolute, he took Swetaketu with him to Janaka’s sacrifice, seeking justice.
At the gate, the guards barred them, saying only elders, scholars, and priests might enter. Astavakra replied, “Age whitens the hair but not the mind. True wisdom alone ennobles, and even a child may shine brighter than the old if he is learned and steadfast.” The guards, awed by his words, sought Janaka’s leave, and the boys entered the hall of debate.
