**"Wait, wait, WAIT!"**
Saunaka's voice rang out across the forest clearing with such enthusiasm that several birds took flight from nearby trees. The great sage was practically bouncing on his ornate seat, his usual dignified composure completely abandoned.
"Sauti, my dear boy, you can't possibly leave the story of Astika there! We need the FULL version! The complete history! Every detail!"
The other sages immediately began nodding and murmuring agreement, their faces lighting up with anticipation.
"Yes!" called out a younger sage from the back. "You've given us the summary, but we want the epic version!"
"The kind of detailed telling that your father was famous for!" added another enthusiastically.
"With all the background stories and character development!" chimed in a third.
I couldn't help but grin at their eager faces. *This is it. This is the moment every storyteller dreams of—when your audience is so hooked they're literally begging for more!*
"And I have to say," Saunaka continued, his voice warm with genuine appreciation, "you have the same gift your father possessed. That perfect accent, that natural emphasis, that way of making ancient stories feel immediate and alive!"
"He's got Lomaharshana's rhythm!" agreed one sage.
"And his timing!" added another.
"Plus his ability to make us care about characters we've never met!" contributed a third.
"Your father always made us feel like we were right there experiencing these events ourselves," concluded a fourth with a nostalgic smile.
I felt a warm glow of pride spread through my chest. *Dad would be so proud to hear that. Following in his footsteps, but making the stories my own.*
"Thank you, revered sages," I said, bowing deeply. "That means more to me than you know. And if you truly want the full version of Astika's story—the complete epic with all the background and buildup—then settle in, because we're going back to the very beginning!"
"This story," I began, my voice taking on the formal cadence of epic narration, "begins in the golden age itself, when the world was young and the gods walked freely among mortals."
The forest fell silent except for the gentle crackling of the sacred fires as I transported them back to the dawn of time.
"Prajapati—the Lord of Creatures, the great progenitor—had two daughters of such extraordinary beauty that their very presence could make the seasons pause in wonder."
"How beautiful exactly?" interrupted one of the younger sages, clearly already invested.
"The kind of beauty that shapes destiny," I replied seriously. "The kind that starts wars, changes the course of rivers, and makes even gods reconsider their life choices."
Several sages chuckled at this, but I could see they were also recognizing the weight of what was coming.
"Their names were Kadru and Vinata, and they were destined to become the mothers of species that would be locked in eternal conflict until the end of time itself."
"These two sisters," I continued, "both became wives of the great sage Kasyapa—one of the most powerful and respected figures of his age."
"Ah, a polygamous marriage," observed one of the middle-aged sages knowingly. "Always complicated."
"Especially," added another with a slight grimace, "when both wives are equally beautiful and equally favored."
"The potential for jealousy and competition must have been enormous," contributed a third, shaking his head.
"Oh, you have no idea," I said with a meaningful look. "But initially, everything seemed perfect. Kasyapa was absolutely delighted with both his wives. The text says he 'derived great pleasure' from them and was so gratified by their companionship that he resembled Prajapati himself in his contentment."
"The honeymoon period," murmured one sage with knowing amusement.
"When everyone's still on their best behavior," agreed another.
"Before the real personalities start showing," concluded a third with a chuckle.
"And in his happiness and gratitude," I continued, "Kasyapa made the kind of generous gesture that wise husbands know they should think about more carefully before offering."
Several of the married sages in the audience started grinning knowingly.
"He told both his wives that he would grant each of them any boon they desired. Anything at all. Their choice completely."
"Oh no," whispered one sage, covering his face with his hands.
"He didn't," said another, looking horrified.
"Never give unlimited wishes to competitive co-wives!" declared a third, shaking his head vigorously.
"Especially not at the same time!" added a fourth.
"You can practically see the disaster coming from ages away!" concluded a fifth.
I nodded grimly. "Kasyapa, for all his wisdom and spiritual power, apparently never learned the fundamental rule of managing multiple relationships: never make the same offer to rivals simultaneously."
"But the deed was done," I continued, "and both sisters were absolutely ecstatic about getting to choose their heart's desire."
"Now, this is where their personalities really start to show," I said, preparing to act out both parts. "Kadru, the first sister, makes her wish..."
I took on what I imagined was her voice: "I want a thousand sons! All of them equally splendid, all of them equally powerful, all of them reflecting my glory as their mother!"
"Quantity over quality," observed one sage thoughtfully.
"A thousand children," murmured another. "Can you imagine the household management challenges?"
"The noise alone would be unbearable," added a third with a shudder.
"But then Vinata," I continued, shifting to her voice, "makes a completely different choice: 'I want just TWO sons, but I want them to be superior to all thousand of Kadru's children combined in strength, energy, size, and prowess!'"
The silence that followed was profound as the sages absorbed the implications.
"Oh," said one sage quietly. "Oh, that's... that's a problem."
"She basically just declared war on her co-wife's entire future family line," observed another grimly.
"Before any of them were even born," added a third, shaking his head.
"And Kasyapa," concluded a fourth, "was apparently too caught up in his generous mood to realize he'd just granted wishes that guaranteed eternal family conflict."
"But the wishes were made and accepted," I said solemnly. "Kasyapa, true to his word, granted both boons exactly as requested. 'Be it so!' he said to each sister."
"And with those words," I continued, my voice taking on a more ominous tone, "the fate of their offspring was sealed. Kadru would have a thousand serpent sons of equal power. Vinata would have two children who would surpass them all."
"The eternal conflict between serpents and... what exactly?" asked one curious sage.
"Ah," I said with a mysterious smile, "that's the beautiful part. We're about to meet one of the most legendary figures in all mythology."
"But first," I continued, "Kasyapa gives them some final advice: 'Bear the embryos carefully.' Then, having set up this entire family drama, he cheerfully heads off to the forest for his spiritual practices, leaving his pregnant wives to work out the details!"
"Classic!" laughed one sage. "Make the life-changing decisions, then disappear when the consequences start!"
"'You two figure out how to raise your predestined enemies peacefully. I'll be meditating,'" mimicked another in a mock-serious voice.
"Father of the year material right there," concluded a third sarcastically.
"So both sisters began their pregnancies," I continued, "but this wasn't going to be a normal nine-month situation."
"How long?" asked a practical-minded sage.
"Try five hundred years," I replied.
The collective gasp was exactly what I'd hoped for.
"FIVE HUNDRED YEARS?!" exclaimed one sage.
"That's not pregnancy, that's a geological age!" declared another.
"Can you imagine the anticipation?" asked a third. "And the anxiety?"
"And the sibling rivalry building up over five centuries?" added a fourth.
"By the time those children were born, their mothers would have had half a millennium to perfect their competitive feelings," concluded a fifth grimly.
I nodded enthusiastically. "Exactly! And both sisters laid eggs—Kadru produced a thousand eggs, Vinata just two. But those eggs had to incubate for five full centuries."
"The servants must have gotten very good at egg-sitting," observed one sage dryly.
"Imagine the specialized equipment needed for five-hundred-year egg preservation," mused another.
"And the anxiety of checking on them every day for centuries," added a third.
"Finally," I announced dramatically, "after five hundred years of waiting, Kadru's thousand eggs burst open simultaneously!"
"All at once?" asked one sage.
"Like the world's most chaotic Easter morning," I confirmed. "Out came a thousand serpent children, each one equally beautiful, equally powerful, equally magnificent."
"And Kadru was presumably over the moon," observed another sage.
"Until she looked over at Vinata," I said meaningfully, "and saw that her co-wife's eggs were still sitting there, completely unhatched."
The sages immediately understood the implications.
"Oh no," whispered one. "The competitive pressure must have been incredible."
"Five centuries of anticipation, and then your rival's children arrive first while yours are still... cooking?" said another.
"The smugness potential alone would be unbearable," concluded a third.
I nodded seriously. "And this is where the story takes a turn from family comedy to family tragedy. Because Vinata, consumed with jealousy and impatience, makes a decision that will haunt her for the rest of her existence."
"She breaks one of her eggs open early," I announced.
The horrified gasps from the assembled sages were immediate and heartfelt.
"She didn't!" exclaimed one.
"After five hundred years of waiting, she couldn't wait a little longer?" asked another, incredulous.
"The maternal impatience got the better of her?" concluded a third, shaking his head sadly.
"And what she found inside," I continued grimly, "was a nightmare of premature birth. The upper half of the embryo was fully developed—beautiful, perfect, powerful—but the lower half was still incomplete."
I paused to let them absorb the tragic image.
"Imagine her horror. Instead of the perfect child she'd been dreaming of for centuries, she was looking at a partially formed being that she herself had damaged through her impatience."
"The guilt must have been overwhelming," murmured one sage sympathetically.
"Five centuries of anticipation ruined in one moment of weakness," added another sadly.
"And the child," I continued, "was understandably furious."
"This half-formed child," I said, my voice taking on the gravity appropriate to a prophetic moment, "looked at his mother and delivered one of the most devastating curses in family history."
The clearing fell silent as I channeled the wronged child's voice:
"'Since you have prematurely broken this egg, you shall serve as a SLAVE. But if you can wait five hundred more years—if you can show patience with the remaining egg and not break it through impatience—then the child within it will deliver you from slavery!'"
"A curse with an escape clause," observed one sage thoughtfully.
"But requiring exactly the patience she'd already proven she lacks," noted another grimly.
"And then," I continued, "the child added a warning that makes the stakes crystal clear: 'If you want the remaining child to be strong enough to save you, you must take tender care of that egg for all this time!'"
"No pressure at all," murmured one sage sarcastically.
"Just spend another five centuries being perfect after you've already proven you can't handle the waiting," added another.
"And with that curse hanging over both their heads," I concluded, "the damaged child rose into the sky and became Aruna—the charioteer of the Sun himself, forever seen in the morning hours, forever bearing the physical reminder of his mother's impatience."
"Now Vinata faced the longest five hundred years of her life," I continued, "knowing that her freedom depended entirely on her ability to show the patience she'd already failed to demonstrate once."
"But somehow, she managed it. She waited. She cared for that second egg with desperate tenderness, knowing it contained not just her child, but her salvation."
"And when the second five hundred years finally ended..." I paused for maximum dramatic effect.
"The egg burst open, and out came GARUDA!"
Even the sages who knew the story seemed thrilled by the name.
"The King of Birds!" exclaimed one.
"The Serpent-Eater!" added another with excitement.
"Vishnu's own mount!" contributed a third reverently.
"The eternal enemy of all snakes!" concluded a fourth, suddenly understanding the full implications.
"EXACTLY!" I shouted, pointing at each of them. "Now you see the complete picture! Kadru's thousand serpent sons and Vinata's one perfect child—who happens to be the natural predator of serpents!"
"And Garuda," I continued, "immediately proved that Vinata's second wish had been granted in full. He was indeed superior to all of Kadru's children in strength, energy, size, and prowess."
"How immediately?" asked one curious sage.
"The moment he saw light," I replied, "he spread his wings and took off, driven by a hunger so intense it could only be satisfied by his natural prey."
I paused meaningfully. "Serpents."
"So he was born already knowing what he was supposed to eat?" asked another sage.
"The Great Ordainer of All had assigned him his food," I confirmed. "And that food happened to be his step-mother's children."
"The family dinners must have been incredibly awkward," observed one sage dryly.
"'Pass the... oh wait, never mind, Uncle Garuda just ate my cousin,'" mimicked another.
"No wonder family relationships were strained," concluded a third.
But then the mood in the clearing grew more serious as the full implications settled over everyone.
"This isn't just sibling rivalry," said one of the older sages quietly. "This is the origin story of species-level warfare."
"Every time a bird of prey catches a snake," added another thoughtfully, "it's an echo of this ancient family conflict."
"And every time serpents threaten humans, and birds help protect them," contributed a third, "it's this same cosmic drama playing out in miniature."
"And now," I said, settling back with satisfaction, "you understand why Astika's story is so important. When we eventually get to Janamejaya's snake sacrifice, it won't just be one king trying to kill some serpents."
"It'll be the continuation of this eternal conflict," finished one sage, understanding dawning in his eyes.
"With Astika caught right in the middle," added another.
"The child of both worlds, trying to make peace in a war that started before the world was fully formed," concluded a third.
"Exactly," I said softly. "Every family conflict, every species rivalry, every predator-prey relationship, every moment when someone has to choose between competing loyalties—it all goes back to this moment when two sisters made incompatible wishes and set their children up for eternal conflict."
The forest clearing fell into contemplative silence as everyone absorbed the cosmic scope of what we'd just explored.
"So when we talk about Astika saving the serpents," I continued quietly, "we're not just talking about one heroic intervention. We're talking about someone trying to heal a wound that goes back to the very foundation of the natural order."
"The kind of story," observed one sage softly, "that reminds us why these ancient tales still matter."
"Because they're not just entertainment," agreed another. "They're explanations for why the world works the way it does."
"And why conflict resolution is so difficult when the conflicts are literally built into the nature of existence itself," concluded a third.
The weight of that realization settled over all of us as we sat in the ancient forest, surrounded by the same kinds of trees that had witnessed these original events, contemplating the eternal patterns that shape all our stories.