Two krōśas downstream from Dhānyakaṭakam, there lies a village inhabited mostly by normal villagers. Directly across the Kṛṣṇā river from this village are mountains and a vast, dense forest. In that era—which is said to be five thousand years ago—the Kṛṣṇā river was like a great ocean above the Indrakīlādri mountain. Near Indrakīlādri, between two hills, the river's flow was no wider than a large canal.
Consequently, from Indrakīlādri to Vēdādri, the river remained filled in all seasons like a massive reservoir, appearing in some places like a giant pool and overall like a great sea. In those days, crossing the Kṛṣṇā was no easy task. During the monsoon, it turned into a gargantuan expanse of water. Even without an influx from upstream, it remained ocean-like. Thus, the slightest cloud or wind made the river terrifying and nearly impassable. It was for this reason that only around ten settlements existed on either side of the Kṛṣṇā, from Vēdādri to Indrakīlādri.
Two thousand years later, the gap between the two hills at Indrakīlādri widened. Over millennia, the Kṛṣṇā eroded the two hills, the flow surged, and the water ceased to stagnate upstream. The river expanded and roared down toward the sea. As the erosion widened the passage, the river—which once sat like a sea up to Dhānyakaṭakam and Vēdādri—narrowed, and villages began to thrive on its banks. Sandbanks (lanka) began to form in the middle. In summer, the flow would shrink to a mere large canal in some spots, and silty tracts increased on both sides.
By the time two or three thousand years had passed from the period of this story, the Kṛṣṇā attained the width it has today at Indrakīlādri. This story takes place when barely a hundred years had passed in the Kali Yuga. By the time the Āndhra Kings ruled Magadha, twenty-three hundred years of Kali had elapsed. The Āndhras remained lords of the pan-Indian empire for about five hundred years.
The Kṛṣṇā of today is different, the Kṛṣṇā of the Āndhra Kings' era was different, and the Kṛṣṇā of this story's era was different still. The Āndhra Empire existed exactly midway between this story's time and the present. Today, 5,060 years of the Kali Yuga have passed.
On the day Yudhiṣṭhira departed for heaven, the Yudhiṣṭhira Śaka[1] began.
The Kuru-Pāṇḍava war lasted eighteen days. After the war, Yudhiṣṭhira was anointed the emperor of all Ancient India. He ruled for thirty-six years. In the thirty-seventh year of his reign, Lord Śrī Kṛṣṇa departed earth.
On that day, the Saptarṣi Maṇḍala (the constellation of the Seven Sages [Big Dipper]) left the Makhā star. Seven planets were aligned in the sign of Aries (Mēṣa Rāśi)—a strange and ill-omened time, for seven planets in a single sign is not a favorable sign of the times.
The Kali Yuga entered on the first day of the bright fortnight (śukla pakṣa) of the month of Caitra in the year Pramādi, at six ghadiyas and thirty liptas. From that day, the astronomers of India began the count of Kali.
This year (in which this book is written i.e.,1958) is Vikāri. Exactly 5,060 years have passed since the entry of Kali. Sixty-six years have passed since Śrī Kṛṣṇa ascended to heaven. The Saptarṣi Maṇḍala moves backward through the twenty-seven stars, staying a hundred years in each. By the time it completes one full circle, 2,700 years pass. Since the entry of Kali, this cycle has completed once; in the second cycle, another 340 years are required for completion. This is the reckoning of the Kali Yuga. Twenty-six years after the start of Kali, Yudhiṣṭhira ascended to heaven, and the Yudhiṣṭhira Śaka—also known as the Laukika Śakam, Saptarṣi Śakam, or Kāśmīrābdam—commenced.
To count how many years of Kali have passed by the current time of this story, Yudhiṣṭhira had lived twenty-six years into Kali. At the onset of Kali, Parīkṣit was crowned. Entrusting the kingdom to Parīkṣit, Dharmarāja (Yudhiṣṭhira) departed for the forest with his brothers. At that time, Parīkṣit was thirty-six. He ruled for sixty years and died of a snake bite. Janamējaya then came to the throne. Fifty-two years have passed since Janamējaya became king. Thus, exactly 113 years of Kali have elapsed.
The village two krōśas below Dhānyakaṭakam is called 'Agnigrāmam'. Its people are normal-folk, yet they claim to be Kṣatriyas. Members of this lineage would later establish kingdoms in India after four thousand years of Kali had passed. But at this time, they were villagers. While some grew wealthy and ruled, most were sailors. They primarily worshipped Fire, earning them the name 'Agnivamśīyas'.
In those days, the Brāhmaṇas, Kṣatriyas, and Vaiśyas performed Yajñas and rituals; many were Nityāgnihōtris (perpetual fire-worshippers). However, the fire-worship of the Cāturvarṇya (the four-varna system) was different from that of the Agnivamśīyas. For the Cāturvarṇya, Fire was a deity for daily ritual (nityōpāsanā), but Nārāyaṇa was the Supreme Deity. For the Agnivamśīyas, Fire itself was the Supreme Deity.
As infinite time passes, human intellects change. Straying from the Cāturvarṇya system established by the Supreme Lord, some became Mlecchas and migrated to lands like Śaka, Yavana, Barbara, and Darada. From there, they moved further and occupied the land of "Ionia," known today as "Greece"—the word Yavana itself became Ionia.
Decay (bhramśamu) is the characteristic of all creation. Birth, growth, and decay—this applies not just to the body, but to nations, empires, and languages. The only language that does not know this state is Sanskrit; hence it is called the Language of the Immortals (Amara-bhāṣā).
These fisherfolk of Agnigrāma, by worshipping Fire as the sole Supreme Deity, harbored a certain Mleccha sentiment. Thus, the villagers were favorable to Jayadratha's philosophy.
Those villagers vaguely know that Jayadratha was acting as a 'comet' (dhūmakētu—a sign of doom) to this kingdom. In a large house in that village, there was an underground chamber where Jayadratha's followers would meet. These meetings occurred on cloudy nights, nights of howling winds, or when the capital was distracted by grand festivals or royal weddings.
It was the fourteenth day of the dark fortnight (Kṛṣṇa Pakṣa Caturdaśī) in the month of Śrāvaṇa. It was the height of the monsoon; the sun had not been seen for ten days. The Kṛṣṇā river, whipped by violent winds and filled with red waters, looked like the goddess Kālikā repeatedly flicking her tongue. Despite the terrifying river, the fisherfolk moved with the ease of those strolling in a cool garden. They steered two small boats from Agnigrāmam into the mountain forests on the opposite bank. The wind shrieked, and the darkness was so thick that even sitting in the same boat, one could not clearly see another. They feared being followed. The boats moved swiftly, aided by the intense river current. It took an entire Yāma (three hours) to reach the other bank.
Four men disembarked. The four oarsmen quickly secured the boats to wooden stakes driven into the bank and crawled into two nearby burrows (neala boriyalu) covered with leaves and soil, pretending to be asleep.
The four who disembarked walked for two or three ghadiyas through the forest. Three of them were capable of finding the path in the absolute darkness of the mountain forest. The fourth man did not know these mountains or the path. Had it been daylight, he might have recognized the place, as he had come here to hunt five or six times. But in this darkness, he knew nothing and relied entirely on his guides, who treated him with great reverence. Finally, they reached a cave in a mountain valley. One would not know humans were there until reaching the very mouth of the cave. The entrance was hidden by boulders on two sides, with the path coming from a third slanted side. Unless one knew it well, the light from within the cave would remain invisible to the world. The three guides ushered the man inside and stood at the entrance. The fourth man still did not know who the other three truly were.
The cave was well-lit by four torches. They were not ordinary torches; they were made by collecting some branches of some forest trees and by crushing the end of those sticks until it becomes soft and fibrous and then lighting them. In that flickering light, Jayadratha stepped forward and welcomed Nāgārjuna. Upon seeing Jayadratha, a sense of relief and clarity spread across Nāgārjuna's face. In the absolute darkness outside, it was not evident, but it was now clear that until this moment, Nāgārjuna had been walking with a clenched heart, not knowing where he was going or what his companions might do to him—driven only by a desperate courage. The torchbearers followed the two of them as they ventured deeper into the belly of the cave.
There sat a woman. She was exceedingly old; by the reckoning of those times, she might have been two hundred years old. Her entire body was a map of wrinkles, and her frame was utterly emaciated. She appeared like a mere heap of bones. She had no teeth in her mouth, yet her eyes shone with an extraordinary brilliance. Around her neck hung a string of beads—beads that matched neither in size, color, nor kind. Some were sea shells, some were large rudrākṣas, some were small forest seeds, and some were wooden sticks as long as fingers. She wore a small cloth partially covering her hips and chest. The cloth over her chest repeatedly slipped down, and if she felt inclined, she would pull it up and tuck it into the string of beads tightened around her neck. In that dark cavern, she looked like a Piśācham (demoness) seated upon a pedestal.
However, Jayadratha was there, along with the four forest-dwellers acting as torchbearers. They were dressed as Kirātas (hunters) and behaved with great humility.
Jayadratha said to Nāgārjuna: "This is Kōṇangi. She can foretell the future. As I mentioned to you, if you show her your hand, she will read your destiny." Nāgārjuna felt a wave of revulsion. Since his birth, he had never encountered such a situation.
Jayadratha and Nāgārjuna had met a few years prior. Jayadratha had approached him and offered a salutation. Nāgārjuna had never seen him in Dhānyakaṭaka before and asked who he was. The words Jayadratha spoke about himself that day filled Nāgārjuna with a sense of wonder (adbhuta rasa). Initially, he thought jayadratha might be a madman, but soon realized he was not.
Jayadratha had said then: "To make you believe my words, I will demonstrate some of the arts that i have mentioned. Then you may trust me. But I must show these to you in secret. You are a Prince. If you venture to follow me one night as I suggest, I shall take you to a place where the truth of my words will be revealed. This is a matter of great secrecy. If anyone learns of our meeting, I will not be able to perform the demonstration I promised." There was humility in his speech, yet also authority and a subtle threat.
Later, on a designated night, Jayadratha met Nāgārjuna, took him to Agnigrāma, and seated him in a large house. There, he demonstrated his skills. First, he performed small feats of illusion. He threw a stick, and it turned into a snake. When Jayadratha caught its tail, it became a stick again. He took a blanket, hung it over a hooked pole, and asked Nāgārjuna to close and then immediately open his eyes. In the blink of an eye, the pole and blanket appeared as a bear standing on its hind legs. The bear was so close that Nāgārjuna, forgetting it was an illusion, drew his dagger and stabbed it. The blanket and stick fell to the floor. Jayadratha laughed. He showed many such wonders. That was their first meeting, and from that day, Nāgārjuna's interest in Jayadratha grew.
A year later, after Nāgārjuna had visited the secret location a few times, Jayadratha spoke of his prowess in swordsmanship. Nāgārjuna had assumed the man had merely learned some street magic from forest-dwellers and did not initially believe him. However, Nāgārjuna was no stranger to the the sword-craft.
Since Śrīmukha and Vijaya Simha were older, they—along with Niraṅkuśa—had learned swordsmanship from Niraṅkuśa's father. At that time, Nāgārjuna was too young. By the time he came of age, Rōmapāda sent him to the same teacher, but the man was already bedridden with an ailment. He could not physically train the Prince but taught him all the secrets and theories of the art. Swordsmanship, however, is not learned by mouth; practice is more vital than theory. While it was well known that Vijaya Simha was the greatest practitioner in the land, no one knew the hidden secrets of the art as well as Nāgārjuna. Even today, there are such masters who can teach the nuances to many but cannot perform them physically.
In the fort, Nāgārjuna often acted as an examiner and judge during sword displays. There were even techniques that Vijaya Simha and Niraṅkuśa had learned from Nāgārjuna's verbal instructions. Such was his mastery. Though he could not duel effectively, he knew everything. Therefore, he challenged Jayadratha to show his skill. On another cloudy night, they dueled in that house. Nāgārjuna realized Jayadratha's immense capability, and from then on, his respect for the man was established.
In subsequent conversations, Jayadratha would speak in riddles, implying that Nāgārjuna would become king. When asked for clarification, he remained silent. Nāgārjuna harbored a great affection and hope for Nīlā; in Vikrama's house, it was believed she was fit to be a queen. Nāgārjuna felt that if her husband became a king, she was capable of ruling the kingdom. When Jayadratha repeatedly hinted at his kingship, Nāgārjuna's mind, fueled by his hopes for Nīlā, began to entertain the possibility that he might indeed become the ruler of some land.
After two or three years of this, Jayadratha explicitly said, "I have a conviction that you will become king."
Nāgārjuna replied, "I have two elder brothers. How can I? They might conquer some foreign land and appoint me its ruler."
Jayadratha said, "No, not like that. Not like that." When asked how else, he would not answer.
One day, Jayadratha told him: "In a great cave lives a Yakṣiṇi. She is invisible by day and stays in the cave only at night. She appears old, but she is truly a Yakṣiṇi. If someone, caught in the forest during a stormy night with no place to hide, accidentally enters her cave, she deceives them. This happened to me once. I struck a flint to see the place, and I saw her. Through my tantric powers, I realized she was a Yakṣiṇi and subjugated her. She knows the past, present, and future. She read my palm. I will take you to her."
Afterward, Nāgārjuna pressured him many times. Jayadratha kept insisting that they must wait for the right time. Like this some days had passed, Jayadratha said: "That Yakṣiṇī resides there at all times. But it must be the peak of the monsoon. A persistent, heavy drizzle must last for four or five days without respite. When such a drizzle has continued for four days, we must go to her in the middle of the night. She stays in a mountain cave in the middle of the great wilderness beyond the Kṛṣṇā. Whenever I wish to see her, I visit only on such days."
Nāgārjuna's anticipation grew until he became the very embodiment of waiting. His desire was not so much for his own power, but for Nīlā to become a Queen.
Nāgārjuna showed his hand to the "Yakṣiṇi". The torches were brought closer so that the lines on the Prince's palm were clearly visible. The Yakṣiṇī looked at it, grimaced, and signaled him to take his hand away. Nāgārjuna withdrew his hand. Suddenly, all four torches were extinguished. A hideous, mocking laughter (vikatāttahāsam) erupted in the cave.
For the first time, Nāgārjuna felt fear. Had Jayadratha brought him here to kill him? What would be the gain? Was this truly a Yakṣiṇī's illusion? Jayadratha had said she was under his control. Nāgārjuna was alone against Jayadratha, the four torchbearers, and the three at the entrance—eight in total. Though the torchbearers had no swords, Nāgārjuna had secretly brought a sword hidden like a waistband. He drew it. Niraṅkuśa's father had taught him a secret technique called "Sarvadiśārakṣaṇi" (The Protector of All Directions). The sword was flexible like a palm leaf; when swung, its movements were invisible, forming an impenetrable shield around the body.
Suddenly, Jayadratha's loud voice boomed: "You Yakṣiṇī! I shall bind you within this very cave!"
As he finished, some words emerged from the old woman's throat. They were not entirely clear, but the meaning was unmistakable:
"He will not be King. There is only one way. He has two elder brothers. If he seeks the path to their death, or at least assists in it, they will die. Only then will he become King. He cannot do it. If he does, he shall be King. But what is the use of him being King? He has a wife; she is a great stateswoman. He will not help in the killing of his brothers. Unless... his love for his wife becomes stronger than his love for them."
Suddenly, the torches flickered back to life. But the old woman was gone.
Translation by Vishal Royal
[1] like how C.E calender dates from then to now 2026, yudishtira saka began then.