Naciketā's story begins at a sacrifice being performed by his father, Vājaśravas.
His father is giving away possessions. Naciketā watches the gifts closely and notices that the cows being given are old: they have finished drinking, eating, giving milk and bearing calves. The boy begins to worry about what kind of result such gifts can bring.
Then he turns the logic of giving onto himself.
Father, to whom will you give me?
He asks once.
He asks again.
He asks a third time.
At last his father answers in anger: I give you to Death.
The Kaṭha Upaniṣad does not spend time describing a road, a chariot or a supernatural journey. It simply brings Naciketā into the presence of the consequence of those words.
He reaches the house of Yama, Death.
Yama is away.
Naciketā waits there as a guest without food.
One night.
Two nights.
Three nights.
When Yama returns, the failure of hospitality matters. A brāhmaṇa guest has waited unfed in his house for three nights. To make amends, Yama offers three boons, one for each night.
Naciketā chooses the first boon for home.
He asks that his father be peaceful, free from anger, recognize him and welcome him when Yama sends him back. The first thing he repairs is the relationship from which the story began.
For the second boon, Naciketā asks to learn the fire-sacrifice associated with reaching the heavenly world, a state described there as beyond fear of old age, hunger and thirst. Yama teaches him the fire, the arrangement of its bricks and the ritual knowledge connected with it.
Naciketā repeats the teaching back correctly. Yama is pleased, gives him an additional gift, and declares that this fire will carry Naciketā's name.
Then comes the third boon.
Naciketā asks the question that opens the rest of the Upaniṣad: when a person dies, some say that something remains and others say it does not. Teach me what is true.
Yama does not answer immediately.
He says even the gods have doubted about this matter. It is subtle. Choose another boon.
Naciketā hears that differently. If even the gods have found the question difficult, and if Death himself is the teacher in front of him, then there is no better question and no better person to ask.
So Yama raises the price of abandoning it.
He offers sons and grandsons who will live a hundred years. Herds of cattle. Elephants. Gold. Horses. A wide stretch of earth. As many years of life as Naciketā wants. He even offers to make the boy a king with the power to enjoy whatever desires he chooses.
Then the offer becomes more dazzling: chariots, music, attendants and pleasures difficult for ordinary people to obtain. Yama says these are things mortals struggle to obtain and places them directly in front of him.
Take these, Yama says in effect. Do not ask about death.
Naciketā refuses.
His answer is not that horses, music or long life are ugly. It is that they are temporary. They wear out the vigour of the senses that enjoy them. Even the longest human life remains short beside the question he is asking.
He tells Yama to keep the chariots, dance and song. He adds that wealth never finally satisfies a person; if wealth were what he needed, standing before Yama would already make wealth available.
Long life only postpones death. Another pleasure is not an answer to what happens when pleasure, wealth and life itself come to their limit.
So Naciketā asks again.
Naciketā keeps the question. Yama has offered almost everything except the answer, and the boy has refused to trade the question away. Only after that refusal does the larger teaching begin.
By this point the pattern is exact.
Naciketā is offered excellent answers to questions he did not ask.
He refuses to confuse value with relevance.
Yama could offer Naciketā almost everything except an easy answer; the boy kept the difficult question instead.