Sāvitrī was the only daughter of king Aśvapati. When she came of age, her father told her to choose her own husband. She travelled the kingdoms and came back to say — I have chosen Satyavān, son of the blind exiled king Dyumatsena. He lives in the forest. He has no kingdom.
The sage Nārada, overhearing, said — Sāvitrī, choose anyone else. Satyavān is noble, he is handsome, he is virtuous. But he will die in one year from this day. Exactly one year. There is nothing to be done about this.
Sāvitrī said: I have chosen him. I will not unchoose.
She married him. She went to live with him and his parents in the forest. For a year, she said nothing about the prophecy. On the last three days she began a fast, saying nothing to anyone.
On the day of his death, Satyavān took his axe and went into the forest to gather wood. Sāvitrī asked to come with him. He agreed. They walked. He cut wood. At midday he said — my head hurts. He lay down with his head in her lap, and stopped breathing.
Then Sāvitrī saw a figure. Dark, green, with a noose. It was Yama, come personally for this soul — a sign that Satyavān was no ordinary soul. Yama bound the life and began to walk south, toward his own kingdom.
Sāvitrī followed him. Not weeping. Just walking behind. Yama turned after some distance and said — stop. You cannot come further. Go home. Perform the last rites.
She said — I am his wife. I walk where he walks. Have you never heard the law?
Yama was impressed. He said — not with him. You cannot follow him into my kingdom. But I am moved. Ask a boon. Anything except his life.
She asked that her father-in-law's sight be restored.
Yama granted it. Walked on. She followed.
He turned again. Go home. Another boon, he said. Anything except his life.
She asked that her father-in-law's kingdom be restored to him.
Granted. He walked. She followed.
A third time. He said — a boon. Anything except his life.
She asked that her father should have a hundred sons.
Granted. He walked. She followed.
A fourth time. Tired now, and more impressed than he would admit. A boon, he said, one last time. Anything except his life.
She said — may I have a hundred sons too.
Yama, without thinking, said — granted.
She stopped walking. She said — my lord Yama, I thank you. But you have just bound yourself. You gave me the boon of a hundred sons. I am Sāvitrī. I can have no sons with any man but Satyavān, because I have taken one husband and will take no other. You have taken my husband. So the two boons cannot stand together. Which one will you keep?
Yama looked at her. He had been outargued by a girl in a forest. He undid the noose. He released Satyavān's soul. He said — go. Be a hundred-son mother. Be the one who brought him back.
Satyavān woke in her lap. He felt his headache was gone. They walked home together. His father saw them coming, and realised his sight had returned.
The story is read on Vaṭa Sāvitrī every year, by women who want long life for their husbands. But the deeper reading is simpler. Death can be argued with, if you are careful enough with the wording, and if you have loved enough to earn the hearing.