He looked upon Aṣṭaka and added, with respectful explanation: “In years, I am older than you. That is why I did not offer you salutation first. It is said among the wise that a Brāhmaṇa always honours age, or superior learning, or ascetic power—and so too does the Kṣatriya who upholds dharma. I ant no discourtesy. But it is right to honour the elder first.”
Aṣṭaka replied with calm reflection:
“O noble monarch,
thou speakest truly when thou sayest
that age commands respect.
But listen also to what the wise proclaim:
‘He is most worthy of honour
not rely by years,
but by the depth of learning
and the fire of ascetic rit.
It is not ti alone that crowns a man—
but wisdom, restraint, and righteousness.’”
“Therefore, O Yayāti,
in the company of sages,
it is the rit of conduct, not the number of years,
that earns reverence.”
Yayāti, pausing with the weight of experience, replied: “You speak wisely, Aṣṭaka. But understand—there is a deeper peril in pride than in re age or rit. It is said that sin destroys the fruit of four virtues. And vanity—subtle and seductive—contains within it the seed of ruin, a path that leads to darkness and fall. The virtuous do not follow the ways of the wicked. They live so that their rit continually grows.”
He sighed, reflective: “I once had great religious rit. But it is gone. Lost through pride, and perhaps never to be regained—not even by my greatest efforts. Let all who see my fall rember: he who desires true good for himself must cast away vanity like a burning coal.”
Then, turning to Aṣṭaka, he spoke more gravely:
“One should never boast of wealth—
even when possessing much.
Nor should the learned be proud
for having mastered the Vedas.
He who gains riches and offers them in yajña,
who masters śāstra and remains humble,
who turns from pleasure to tapasya—
he alone ascends to the worlds beyond.
n differ in their natures,
but over all stands one truth:
Daiva is supre.”
In a softened voice, he continued: “Power and effort often co to nothing. Destiny—daiva—moves unseen. Knowing this, the wise do not exult in gain nor grieve in loss. They stay content, unmoved in sorrow or success. For when daiva governs all, then both grief and pride beco unworthy. As for , O Aṣṭaka, I neither tremble in fear nor grieve in sorrow. I accept what the Supre Disposer ordains.”
He looked to the trees and added, “Insects, worms, birds, fish, trees, grass, even stone—beings great and small—are joined with the Brahman when they are freed from the fruits of action. Happiness and sorrow—they are both fleeting. Why, then, should one grieve? We cannot always avoid suffering, so let us not despair over it.”
Aṣṭaka, full of wonder and reverence, said:
“O great one,
Thou who lived for a million years
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in the radiant gardens of Nandana,
taking whatever form thou didst desire—
What cause, O monarch of the Kṛta age,
could drive thee from such blissful realms?
What failing cast thee down
from among the immortals?”
Yayāti’s voice trembled with mory: “In this world, when wealth departs, kin, friends, and even blood relations forsake a man. So too in heaven—when righteousness wanes, the gods, with Indra at their head, turn away from the fallen.”
Aṣṭaka leaned forward, intrigued by the laws beyond the Earth: “O king, this stirs my heart. Tell —how do n lose rit in the world beyond? What acts lead to which results? What regions are gained by the righteous—and which are denied?
You have walked the path of the devas and ṛṣis. You know their ways. Let the mystery now be revealed.”
Yayāti answered with quiet gravity: “Those who speak proudly of their own virtues fall into the terrible hell called Bhauma naraka—the hell of Earth. It is for those whose pride consus their rit. Though they seem to flourish on Earth, through sons and grandsons, they are but shadows—emaciated in truth—destined to beco food for vultures, jackals, and dogs. Their lineage does not save them. Their pride devours them. Such is the fruit of boastful self-praise.”
Then, with solemn finality: “This vice is grievous—censurable and vile. It must be subdued, for it leads only to darkness.”
“O king,
I have spoken all that is needful.
Ask now—what more wouldst thou know?”
Aṣṭaka said, his brow furrowed with reflection:
“O king, I have listened well,
yet one doubt troubles my soul.”
He continued in prose, sincere and contemplative: “When a man dies of old age, his body is consud by creatures of the Earth. This, I understand. But what becos of his soul? Where does the self go, once the flesh is lost?”
Then, softly: “How does life return? Where does it rest, once the body is reduced to ash?”
He added, “And this hell of Bhauma—what is it? I have heard of no such place in all my travels. Who falls into it—and why?”
Yayāti replied, with clarity and depth: “After the body dissolves, a man enters another womb, shaped by karma—his rit or his sin. There, in a subtle, dormant state, he lies unseen. Gradually, he is reborn—and walks again upon the Earth.
This very world is the Bhauma naraka—the Earth-hell. To fall here, again and again, is bondage. Forgetfulness is his condition. He does not strive for mokṣa—he begins anew, bound by desire.”
“So souls ascend to the heavenly realms—sixty thousand years, even eighty. But when their rit ends, they fall. And when they fall, they are not t with peace.”
Yayāti’s eyes grew still, and he spoke in solemn verse:
“Like Rākṣasas in kinship’s guise,
sons and grandsons gather round—
Not to liberate,
but to bind once more.
With affection’s net, they draw the heart
away from the path of release.
Clinging to ho, to duty, to lineage,
the soul forgets to strive for freedom.”
Aṣṭaka’s eyes widened with deeper awe. He asked:
“O king,
What sin causes this strange fall?
Why do fierce, sharp-toothed beings—
cloaked as kin—
descend upon the falling soul?”
“Why does it not simply dissolve into stillness?
Why does it return, again and again?”
“And how, O seer,
does the subtle soul enter the womb—
to rise again clothed in form and mind?”
Yayāti, now filled with divine rembrance, answered:
“The soul becos subtle, invisible. It enters water. That water becos sen—the spark of life. In the season of union, it enters the womb and becos an embryo. There it grows, shaped by karma and ti.”
“But this essence—jīva—moves not only in man. It dwells in plants, herbs, wind, space, and stone. When the ti is ripe, it takes form—bird or beast, four-footed or two—guided by its past actions.”
“Thus, O Aṣṭaka, does life circle in saṃsāra—the turning wheel of becoming.”
Aṣṭaka, gentle in inquiry, asked: “O father, one last doubt stirs my thought: When the being is reborn as man, does he enter in full form—or grow anew? How do the senses arise? How does the body take shape?”
Yayāti answered with serene vision: “He co-inheres in the seed—driven by karma. Drawn into the womb, he lies in subtlety—formless, yet bound to beco. Slowly, flesh enfolds the self. At birth, his senses awaken—sight, sound, taste, sll, touch, and mind—all open like lotus petals.”
“From the unseen cos the seen. From karma arises form. From form—world.”
Aṣṭaka asked:
“But when the body is broken,
burned to ash, scattered to wind—
what calls the soul again to form?
What remains to pull it back?”
Yayāti answered:
“O king, when the body dies, the soul—ātman—does not vanish. It takes a subtle form, shaped by its karma, and swiftly moves to the next birth. The virtuous ascend. The sinful descend—to insect, worm, crawling beast. All are reborn, by their deeds. I have said all this. What else would you ask?”
Aṣṭaka, undeterred, said: “O father, tell of the highest path—how may a man escape return? Is it by tapas, or by jñāna? By action, or renunciation?”
Yayāti replied, luminous in tone:
“The seers speak of seven gates to heaven:
Tapas(Austerity), Dāna (Benevolence), Śama (Tranquillity of mind), Dama (Self-control),
Hrī (modesty), Ārjava (simplicity), and Dayā (kindness to all).
But beware—pride is the thief of all rit.
It hides in virtue and makes it rot from within.
One who brags—‘I gave, I studied, I renounced’—
loses what he proclaims.”
“Let silence be thy fire. Let humility guard thy heart. Those who live without attachnt—desiring only the formless, eternal—attain mokṣa, peace beyond return.”
Aṣṭaka said:
“O father, the Vedic paths differ.
Tell —how should each man, in each āśrama,
act to gain the highest good?”
Yayāti replied, enurating the āśrama-dharmas in prose with clarity:
“The Brahmacārin must live with his guru, humble, obedient, silent unless asked. He must serve the teacher before himself, rising early, retiring late, with passions controlled.
The Gṛhastha must earn rightly, perform yajñas, give alms, welco guests, and share all he has before he eats.
The Bhikṣu—true renunciate—does not live by trade or craft. He wanders freely, detached, seeking nothing, harming none.
The Vānaprastha departs only when desire is tad. He harms no creature, gives freely even in solitude. Such a one redeems ten generations.”
Aṣṭaka asked: “How many types of Munis are there?”
Yayāti replied: “So dwell in the forest. Others live among n, but carry the forest within. True silence lies not in place—but in freedom from attachnt.”
Aṣṭaka asked again: “Then what defines a Muni?”
Yayāti responded:
“He owns nothing, hoards nothing, desires nothing.
Even in silence, he serves the world.
He takes what cos. He harms none.
He walks—yet does not walk.
He lives—yet is not bound.
Alone, he is all.”
“He whose heart is pure, whose hands do no harm,
whose words wound none—
he rises like fire without smoke.”
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