The summer sun was ascending toward the meridian. In the distance, the intense heat caused the air to shimmer, weaving white, spectral rings. The earth exhaled a scorching breath. This was a land of stone—not merely a barren mountain range, but a terrain where the earth lay in layered slabs and crusts, as if the night itself had solidified into stone. Such was the inherent nature of this soil. It was only natural for this fierce radiance to sear the skin of the body; natural, too, for the eyes to be dazed by the glare. To the ears, the relentless chirping of crickets felt strange and piercing.
From above, a slender stream of water descended. It lacked great width; one could leap across it with a single bound. Yet, she bore the significant name of a river: she was the Candrabhāgā[1]. Perhaps in ages past, a streak of moonlight had separated from the moon and flowed down as a liquid thread, giving her that name. The Candrabhāgā flowed on until she reached a certain point where the mountain abruptly ended. Below lay a sheer drop of four or five fathoms. From the edge of that precipice, the water leaped.
This place was a vast valley. It was only natural for the falling water to carve out a great pool. Within that chasm, a profound coolness lingered. The waters remained still. Only when the pools overflowed their capacity did the river resume its course! Indeed, not until it had traveled a great distance did it again resemble the shallow, channel-like stream found atop the mountain. In this valley alone, there was an abundance of water, trees, creepers, lush grass, wild fruits, and medicinal herbs. Between the boulders lay small, stagnant pools and tiny, trickling currents where the moss-covered ground made one's feet slip. Gigantic trees rose high, their canopy so dense they barred the summer sun, making that hidden sanctuary feel like the Himālayas even in the depths of the hot season.
Mankind is a diverse and complex creation. Some are mere creatures driven solely by the need to appease the pangs of hunger, while others are perpetually in search of physical comforts. The scarcity or abundance of wealth might seem the cause of these differences in human nature. In reality, however, wealth is not the reason for such inherent traits. Some are born with a natural inclination toward luxury. Others merely exist. Even in the houses of the wealthy, some will eat whatever is served. Others find no relish unless a specific dish is prepared. This is seen not only in the homes of the rich but in poor households as well. A man might refuse a morsel of food if his favored delicacy is missing. This is a distinction ordained by nature itself.
Here, the Candrabhāgā flows. There is a waterfall. Below, it is an exquisitely cool place. While the summer heat causes the body to blister, one can find refuge during the burning hours in the shade of the trees upon some rocky ledge, resting until the sun begins its descent before returning home. In that region, there are one or two villages. Some of the inhabitants there do not even know that this waterfall exists. But on that day, two individuals were experiencing the refreshing chill of that sub-aquatic sanctuary. One of them was a man of great beauty—with a face like the lunar orb and a fair complexion. He was tall of stature. Wearing pendants in his ears and a sacred thread around his neck, he appeared to belong to a noble Kṣatriya[2]family. The second man also possessed Kṣatriya[3] traits, but he was dark-complexioned. His eyes were small. There was a certain distorted line upon his face; a sense of repulsion arose upon looking at him. These two were the closest of companions. They sat upon a rocky surface; just seeing them, one might say the prince was reclining there.
Descending into that chasm is difficult. There are no steps. One must grasp the creepers and slowly lower oneself, dragging one's feet over the mountain rocks. The ascent is the same. These two had arrived there when the day was but a quarter spent. The capital is a great distance from here. Having heard countless praises of the beauty of this place, the prince had desired to see it and experience this coolness in the midsummer heat for four or five years. The friend who first described the beauty of this location was this companion. That friend's name is Jayadratha. The prince's name is Śrīmukha[4].
Śrīmukha is a prince of the Āndhra dynasty. The Āndhra people have existed as a distinct race since the Tretā Yuga[5]. In ancient times, there was a great king named Yayāti, who married Devayānī, the daughter of Śukrācārya! Śarmiṣṭhā, the daughter of Vṛṣaparva, was also his wife. This Yayāti had five sons, among whom was one named Anu. In that lineage, a king named Bali was born. He ruled the entire eastern region of Bhārata[6], known as the Prācyaka-deśam[7]. This Bali had six sons: Aṅga-rāja, Vaṅga-rāja, Kaliṅga-rāja, Sumha-rāja, Puṇḍra-rāja, and Āndhra-rāja[8]! Bali divided the Prācyaka-deśam among these six sons. The land situated between the Kṛṣṇā and Godāvarī rivers fell to the share of Āndhra-rāja. From that day, this country came to be known as Āndhra-deśam. This Āndhra-rāja was a contemporary of Daśaratha Mahārāja, the father of Śrī Rāma.
This Śrīmukha is the son of Romapāda, the lord of Āndhra-deśam. Śrīmukha is well-educated and discerning, yet he is a man of intense passion. His friend's name is Jayadratha. He is not of this country. From which country he came, no one truly knows. Many people speak of it in various ways: some claim he is from Kāśmīra-deśam[9]; others say he hails from Magadha-deśam; still others believe him to be of the royal lineage of Nepāla[10]. Regardless of his origin, he is a man who has wandered through many lands, possessing an infinite experience of the world and a mastery of speech. At the mere sight of his face, common folk tend to recoil and give way. Yet, he chooses to befriend a select few. His friendship is like wine—the more one partakes of it, the more intoxicating it becomes.
This Jayadratha forged a bond with Śrīmukha. Certain circumstances had arisen to foster this intimacy. Jayadratha and his mother arrived at the Āndhra capital six years ago. The capital was situated on the banks of the Kṛṣṇā[11]. As they were of Kṣatriya lineage and had traveled through many lands in search of livelihood, they were granted an audience with the King. The King did not offer Jayadratha any formal employment, but he arranged for their lodging in a dharmaśālā (charitable rest house). It became the custom to provide them with daily provisions. Jayadratha had no other work to occupy him. Over time, Śrīmukha developed a deep affection for him. Jayadratha would never speak with Śrīmukha when others were present; he spoke only in solitude. It was always Śrīmukha who displayed the eagerness to converse for hours, while Jayadratha's own enthusiasm remained hidden. Yet, every word Jayadratha uttered kindled a longing within Śrīmukha, provoking the swelling of a hidden, secret desire. To Jayadratha, this seemed like a craft in itself. Within four or five years, Śrīmukha's entire orientation toward life and action had become a product of Jayadratha's subtle influence, though no one else was aware of this.
It was Jayadratha who awakened and nurtured within Śrīmukha the desire to behold the beautiful, cool sanctuary of the Candrabhāgā waterfall. Furthermore, no one knew that Jayadratha was accompanying Śrīmukha to this place. The prince and several servants arrived in the region on horseback. Śrīmukha took up residence in a village some distance away. Four or five days prior, the prince and three servants had surveyed the entire area. A path had been prepared for Śrīmukha to descend into the chasm—steps were carved in some places, while in others, sturdy creepers were arranged for support. After two or three days of such preparations, Śrīmukha came with a single royal servant, rested in that valley for a while, and then departed. The next day, the prince announced that he would go there alone. The path had been made easy, and the resting spots from the previous day were familiar. The guard relented; indeed, he had no choice but to obey, as Śrīmukha had firmly forbidden him from coming along.
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On that day, once the sun had climbed high into the sky, Śrīmukha descended into the valley. The royal servant held the reins of the two horses and stood at a distance under the shade of a tree. Upon the upper reaches of the hill where the Candrabhāgā flows, there are no real trees—only low shrubs scattered here and there. To call anything there a tree was a stretch, yet for lack of any other shelter, one stood there: a tree with a trunk about two yards in girth, its upper branches and leaves tangled like a thorny thicket. Could such a tree truly cast a shadow? Yet, the servant had no other choice but to seek its refuge. He tied the horses to its trunk and remained there. The horses fidgeted restlessly in the heat, their bodies glistening with streaks of sweat.
The waters of the Candrabhāgā flowed as clear as coconut water. The tree stood close to the stream, and the servant used the river's waters to mitigate the ferocity of the sun. In his eyes, even that intense heat seemed humbled by the coolness of the Candrabhāgā. Yet, a single anxiety gnawed at his mind: if any calamity were to befall the prince at the base of the waterfall, his cries would never reach the top. If he went to the edge of the precipice to check, he feared the prince's wrath: "Why have you come?" He had no permission to bring the prince back until the sun had begun to set. Thus, by the cool, spray-moistened banks of the Candrabhāgā, he passed the time in anxious deliberation—now watering the horses, now splashing water upon their faces and flanks, doing whatever he could to make the hours move.
Meanwhile, Śrīmukha had reached the bottom and sat upon the rocky ledge where he had rested the day before. In that deep chasm, it was impossible to tell if the day was advancing or if time had stood still. He was waiting there for Jayadratha. How would Jayadratha manage to come? Whichever way he took, he would surely be spotted by the royal servant. If he were to descend from above, he would not know of the makeshift steps and paths the servants had prepared. Yet he had told the prince, "Why worry? I shall come." This Jayadratha was a man of extraordinary intellect. His father, the King, had never granted him employment, and so he and his mother had lived in the dharmaśālā for years. They asked for nothing, and the King gave nothing; it was Śrīmukha himself who had arranged for a portion of the dharmaśālā to be made comfortable, even luxurious, for their habitation.
At the base of the hill where the waterfall plunges, the water pools into a tank and then, overflowing, resumes its journey as a slender channel. Until this channel forms fully, it is flanked on both sides by high, towering hills. Once past these hills, the land becomes level, transitioning into highlands and then into the low-lying plains beyond. Looking through the corridor formed by these two hills, Śrīmukha watched the river flow toward the lowlands and felt a sudden urge to follow it and survey his kingdom. Yet, he did not rise. Instead, he sat gazing at the distant gap where the hills parted.
For a long time, he saw something tiny in the distance, like a small, moving shrub. Gradually, as it drew closer, it took the shape of a man, and finally, it was revealed to be Jayadratha. With a gentle smile, Śrīmukha threw a dozen questions at him: "How did you walk such a distance? Is all this terrain familiar to you? Are there villages behind those hills?"
Jayadratha came and sat beside him. Śrīmukha asked, "O Jayadratha! Why do you harbor such fear? We could have easily traveled here together, could we not?"
Jayadratha replied, "O Prince! Since my birth, there is no country I have not wandered. Traveling through various lands has become my life's vow (vratam). Having no specific task or craft, I simply wander and return. The Great King has given me no employment. If our friendship were to become common knowledge, the royal officials would look upon me with envy. You are the one sustaining me and my mother. Our bond must remain a secret; otherwise, even this small measure of grace might be destroyed, would it not?"
---
Śrīmukha: "You should marry."
Jayadratha: "I am already married. I even have a son."
Śrīmukha: "What! I had no idea! Where is your wife's family? How have you lived here alone for so long, having left her behind?"
Jayadratha: "She is a woman of the Kāśmīra royal line. She is currently in Kaliṅga-deśam, where we have kinsmen. I travel there and back occasionally."
Śrīmukha: "Ah, I see. You do disappear for months at a time. So you have been going there. What is the age of your son?"
Jayadratha: "Four years. He is of the same age as your own son. Your son's name is Vikrama, is it not? My son is younger than him by two months. My son's name is Aśmaka."
Śrīmukha: "You must bring your wife and son to our capital at once."
Jayadratha sighed. "O Prince! These lives of ours are strange. As the saying goes, 'The man is free, but the drum is tied to his neck'—my mother and I survive only by your charity. My mother is a princess, yet she is a soul who has known extreme hardship. She is a queen who has undertaken severe vows. For the sake of a vow, a conviction, or a pledge, she possesses a fierce nature that can sacrifice an entire lifetime.
"My wife is not like that. Though we are Kṣatriyas, we are Kṣatriyas who know no kingdom. We have deliberately renounced sovereignty. My wife is a child of a house that has known royal splendor; she cannot live in two rooms of a dharmaśālā. I do not say this to seek wealth from you or to ask for a separate palace. My nature is simply different. What is there in mere 'living'? I married, a wife came. The thrill that existed in union during those first days does not exist in the days that follow. We struggle through our intellect and imagination to recreate it, pretending the initial spark is still there, toiling in vain. We call this living.
"In truth, any new experience in life happens only once. In the experiences that follow, there is no newness. The mind, struck by the memory of that first experience, merely wanders in circles. Some argue there is a special joy in the memories that follow, but I have no faith in that. Consider a daring deed: before doing it, there is no certainty we can succeed. Even if there is confidence, there is no guarantee! The momentary surge of emotion during that act—a trembling of the soul, a beautiful, new acquaintance with one's own life—exists only while performing that deed."
"Imagine two Kṣatriya warriors meeting in battle! Both are veterans, both skilled, both mighty, and both hungry for victory. They confront each other to kill. They fight for a long time. Finally, one slays the other. In that infinitesimal moment (lipta) when the warrior realizes his enemy has fallen by his own blade—what is the state of that man's mind? As I reflect upon it, the ultimate mystery of life resides within the unique experiences of such moments. That alone is the purpose of life.
"Otherwise, what is there? The sun climbs the eastern peaks, we wake up. We perform our daily chores, we bathe, we eat, we indulge in pleasures. What is special in this? Look at this river, the Candrabhāgā. To call this a river is a testament to the wisdom of the Āndhra people[12]. It is not even as large as the Tuṅgā. The Kṛṣṇā and Godāvarī can be called great rivers, but this Candrabhāgā flows like a tiny channel. Anywhere you step, the water is not even waist-deep. What is special in its flow? Nothing.
"But look—it reaches the edge of this hill and leaps! In that fall, it roars like the trunk of the celestial elephant Airāvata[13]. It falls, creates this pool, and has made this entire valley beautiful! It has kindled vibrant reflections in the heart of every stone. Through its coolness, this whole valley feels a thrill of ecstasy. Beyond this rim, there are no shrubs, no grass—only barren rock. But inside, the water has soaked the earth within the rocky depths, and from that moisture, the hidden life-force has manifested as wondrous medicinal herbs.
"What strange power lies in earth soaked by water! We cannot know what life—moving deep within as a tiny stir, a glimmer of light—takes shape and carves its way out. Once the water overflows this pool between the two hills, the river becomes a dry, empty thread once more. In the life of this river, this waterfall, this valley, and these strange herbs are a singular, magnificent experience.
"This experience illuminates the very form of the River-Goddess[14] eternally. That goddess is truly fortunate. Human life lacks such eternal beauty. In a human life, a great experience is consumed the moment it is felt and vanishes in that same breath. Therefore, if a man were to obtain one such supreme, wondrous experience and die immediately after, his birth would find its ultimate fulfillment.
"I do not love my wife. In our lineage, we do not marry for love. That is our vow. We have taken a fierce pledge. Generation after generation, we uphold it. We are born only to fulfill that pledge. Therefore, I have no authority over my own life."
Śrīmukha: "If you possessed such freedom, what would you have done?"
Jayadratha: "What would I have done? Within my heart dwells a love for beauty that knows no bounds. I would have gathered all the beauty of the three worlds[15]—just as fishermen spread their nets across miles of ocean, corral all the fish into one place, and fill a hundred boats with them—I would have gathered all that beauty into one spot. And that accumulated essence of beauty, I would have manifested into the form of a woman."
Śrīmukha: "Such a woman does not exist in this world."
Jayadratha: "Why should she not? It is said that Draupadī, the wife of the Pāṇḍavas, was such a woman!"
Śrīmukha: "Perhaps. Otherwise, such a great war[16] would not have been fought in her name. Very well. Once you had obtained such a woman, what would you have done?"
Jayadratha: (Laughing with a distorted expression) "In the first union of the first night with her, while experiencing that supreme bliss, I would have etched that specific experience into my mind and immediately pierced myself with a sword and died. That is the ultimate purpose of the moment. That is the ultimate purpose of life's experience."
Śrīmukha: "What you have said is very beautiful. It is true. On the second night, the unique quality of newness from the first night is gone. Yet, there is a different kind of novelty."
Jayadratha: "The novelty of the second night is not a part of authentic experience. It is an artificial sensation brought about by the mind through imagination as familiarity grows. Only the first time is the true, unadulterated experience. What follows is merely the delusion of pleasure. A man is born. This body is a combination of the five elements. Within this combination, there is a certain newness. But as one lives, does life not grow stale? Let us assume this newness lasts for the first few days. Even then, the newness that existed in the preceding moments does not exist in the moments that follow, does it? In reality, the newness of that very first day is the only true newness. Whatever we experience for the very first time with this body—that alone is the supreme beauty within a strange experience. Everything else is mere wear and tear."
Śrīmukha: "Then you and I are also excluded from such authentic experience."
Jayadratha: "How can that be, Prince? It is said your wife possesses otherworldly beauty. It is said you loved and chose her yourself."
Śrīmukha: "True. But I did not die at the moment of that blissful experience on my first night, did I? Yet, if one were to die during some such extraordinary experience, would that not fulfill the purpose of this birth?"
Jayadratha: "What words are these, Prince! You are one who has studied the Vedas and Vedāṅgas. You are capable of protecting the Cāturvarṇya system[17]. The people of Āndhra-deśam have placed their hopes in you. Your father is aged; he intends to entrust the kingdom to you and retire to the Vānaprastha ashram[18]. Prince, the lives of men are of two kinds: one is the selfish life, the other is for the sake of others (parārtha). The lives of kings are dedicated to others. They possess no freedom over themselves."
Śrīmukha: "Between these two kinds of lives, which do you say is superior?"
Jayadratha: "If you ask me, a selfish life alone fulfills the purpose of birth. But I am living a life for others. To me, this is a vow. This vow does not end with me; I must pass this pledge on to my son. Therefore, my own life has no personal fulfillment. Only such a strange, singular experience possesses true fulfillment."
Śrīmukha: "I have heard that yogīs and those who know Brahman[19]attain a particular sublime experience, have I not? Is that not fulfillment?"
Jayadratha: "That is not the fulfillment of a single birth. It is not a fulfillment natural to birth itself, nor is it earned through the distinction of bodily experience. It is something that eliminates future births altogether. That consciousness has no relation to these births or these bodies. Even if one accepts their doctrines, is it not for the sake of obtaining some extraordinary experience that one dons this body? When one wears this body, there must exist an experience that is the supreme goal of the multi-atomic interaction born of the five elements within that body. It has nothing to do with Brahma-jñāna.[20]
"I told you before! Because of this waterfall, this entire valley has become cool. The interior of the rock fragments in the depths of this valley is cool. We do not know what strange experience the earth-substance within them is undergoing as it is moistened. The result of that experience is their manifestation—the grasses and medicinal herbs! Before they manifest, there is an unknown vibration within the different atoms of that chilled earth, is there not? That—the movement of the atoms of the five elements within a true body, an experience gained through a movement that is yet a stillness—that is it! A man attains such an experience in the first meeting with a woman of otherworldly beauty whom he loves with all his soul. Or when leaping into a blazing pit of fire. Or if one were to surrender his body to the abyss beneath a great waterfall like this. This experience is exactly like that. No other experience can resemble it."
Śrīmukha: "What you have said is a very novel doctrine. You are like Vyāsa Maharṣi[21]. You are like Śrī Kṛṣṇa himself."
As Śrīmukha spoke these words, Jayadratha closed his ears and sat with his face resting on his knees. This act of closing his ears did not seem to display a dislike for hearing the names of Śrī Kṛṣṇa.
After some time, Śrīmukha rose and said, "Jayadratha! I believe the sun may have begun to decline by now. Shall we go up and see?"
Jayadratha followed the Prince. He had no desire to go up with him, for royal officers would be there and he would be seen. Yet he could not refuse to come. He decided he would follow for a distance and then drop back, but a doubt lingered in his mind.
For four years, Jayadratha had maintained a secret relationship with Śrīmukha. He had thoroughly analyzed the Prince's nature. He knew all the peaks and valleys of Śrīmukha's temperament. Śrīmukha had a deep fascination for anything entirely new. Yet, he was a man of traditional mind. He had studied the Bhagavad Gītā and the Brahma Sūtras which had recently spread through the land[22], and had developed a taste for new commentaries upon them. He would not deviate even a hair's breadth from the paths prescribed by the Dharma-śāstras. However, his royal traits were dominant. He was attached to the experience of pleasure. He had a great love for daring deeds and regarded life as a trifle. If he heard a novel idea, he would immediately seek to bring it into experience.
The royal officers must not see Jayadratha. Śrīmukha was climbing the hill.
Jayadratha hesitated. Śrīmukha looked back and motioned for him to follow. Jayadratha had no choice. Śrīmukha reached the crest of the hill and stood waiting for Jayadratha to join him. Jayadratha followed, necessarily. While his body remained shielded by the slope of the hill, he extended his head to survey the surroundings. He carefully examined the distant landscape. The royal servant was stationed far off. The sun was blazing intensely. When the second watch of the day has passed and the first half of the third watch begins, the ferocity of the heat is peculiar. The eyes fail to see clearly. A man at a distance cannot be perceived distinctly; the shimmering rings of light born of the heat obstruct the vision. Furthermore, the glare in treeless, rocky regions reflects in such a way that it diverts the eyes' light rather than allowing it to travel straight. In such a place, if a slender stream of water flows, the sunlight strikes the water, and the water pushes back against the sun. The heat becomes turbulent; its waves ripple and undulate. Within such undulating waves of heat and water, the light of the eye is caught in a swirl, and the vision does not project clearly. Thus, the royal servant stood amidst this chaos of light—a path of confused brilliance and watery ripples. Moreover, at the mouth of the waterfall, this collision of heat and moisture was even more intense. The servant could not easily identify who anyone was. Jayadratha and Śrīmukha proceeded toward the very edge where the water leaped.
The royal servant saw the Prince. He recognized him as the Prince. To recognize him meant he knew the Prince was there. The spot where one descended into the chasm was a known landmark, and the Prince had ascended from there. The clothes he wore were familiar. For these reasons, even if the Prince's form was not vividly clear, the servant could identify him. But who was that second figure? How could one identify Jayadratha? Few knew of the deep intimacy between the Prince and Jayadratha. Furthermore, how could Jayadratha have come to this place? Could it be some Nāga-rāja[23] from the netherworld had surfaced to visit the Prince? At a distance, the figure appeared dark and lean. He looked like someone seen before, yet elusive. The royal servant dared not venture closer. Moreover, the sun was pouring its radiance over them. The spray from the upper part of the waterfall, scattered in the violent energy of the leap, resembled the white tresses of a ghost unfurled and shaken. Rainbows shimmered. A rainbow fully formed is one thing; a rainbow about to break is another. A formed rainbow is a delight to the eyes, but a breaking rainbow is a deception of the vision. For a rainbow to manifest clearly, the heat must be tranquil. Here, there was no tranquility of heat. Only the initial, chaotic stage of the rainbow existed. In that state, the servant could not grasp who the second person was.
The two sat at the mouth of the waterfall for about an hour. Śrīmukha asked, "Shall we bathe?" Both removed their clothes. They began to bathe exactly at the mountain's edge, where the water was about to plunge downward. The width of the waterfall was very narrow. A man could sit there, block the flow with his hands, and stop the current. Behind the man, the water would pool and swell until it rolled over his shoulders. For those who had endured two hours of needle-like heat, that cool water brought supreme comfort to their bodies.
Śrīmukha said, "I wish to experience that ultimate bodily pleasure you spoke of. I shall go down with this cascade."
Jayadratha said no. Śrīmukha began to display his desire more and more fervently. Jayadratha resisted him just as intensely. He grasped the Prince's hands and pulled him back. Śrīmukha pretended to relen; Jayadratha knew he was only acting.
Some more time passed.
Then Jayadratha rose, dressed, and began his descent into the valley. Judging that Jayadratha would have completely reached the bottom by then, Śrīmukha prepared to move. He came out and began to dress, but then he removed his clothes again and stepped back into the water.
By then, the intensity of the sun allowed for a slightly clearer distance of vision. That second man had disappeared. The Prince was alone. He descended once more into the stream to bathe. Sitting within the falling torrent, the Prince was not clearly visible to the royal servant. A doubt flickered in the servant's mind. He began moving toward the edge where the water fell. He drew closer to the Prince. Suddenly, Śrīmukha slipped into the cascade and was swept away. The royal servant ran forward. Without a second thought, without weighing the consequences, he too leaped into the falling water.
Translation by vihu_vhu
[1] spelled - Chandrabhaagaa
[2] spelled - kshatriya (IAST)
[3] The warrior clan.
[4] spelled- shreemukha
[5] The Yugas are a cyclical concept in Hindu cosmology, representing four distinct epochs of time that define the moral and spiritual state of humanity. 2nd one - Treta Yuga: The Age of Three Quarters Truth, lasting 1,296,000 years, where virtue diminishes slightly. Each Yuga represents a phase in the cosmic cycle, with humanity's moral and physical state deteriorating as time progresses through these ages.
[6] Indian Subcontinent + plus somemore land
[7] desam - country
[8] raja - king
[9] Kashmir
[10] Nepal now
[11] spelled - Krishna ( river )
[12] Mockery
[13] Legendary white elephant that resides in Heaven. It's mount for Indra.
[14] referring Chandrabhaaga
[15] He's praising Heavenly realms, Earthly worlds, Hell realms
[16] referring Mahabharatha war
[17] Division based on the work. Families continue their trade(work/skill) succeding further generations.
[18] Vānaprastha is part of the Vedic ashrama system, which starts when a person hands over household responsibilities to the next generation, takes an advisory role, and gradually withdraws from the world. This stage typically follows Grihastha (householder), but a man or woman may choose to skip householder stage, and enter Vānaprastha directly after Brahmacharya (student) stage, as a prelude to Sannyasa (ascetic) and spiritual pursuits.
[19] it connotes 'That' from which all existence proceeds, and to which everything returns, the origin and cause of all that exists. In contemporary Hindu metaphysics it is the highest universal principle, the Ultimate reality of the universe. - The formless, genderless ultimate reality having no attributes.
[20] Brahma jnana is knowledge of God or of the spiritual Self. The term comes from the Sanskrit
[21] Narrator of Mahabharata and 18 Puranas and many others
[22] remember this is happening few years after happening of Mahabharata war and starting of Kaliyuga.
[23] Snake King - they can shapeshift according to their will and the snake clan possesses some powers (they're not regular snakes).