As the days passed, Jaratkāru flourished in his new life, growing in strength and radiance just as the moon waxes in the bright fortnight. In time, weary from his austere practices, the illustrious sage rested his head in his wife’s lap and fell into a deep, exhausted sleep. As he slept, the sun dipped behind the mountain, and dusk approached. Jaratkāru’s wife, the noble sister of Vāsuki, watched the day draw to a close, her heart troubled by the weight of duty. She pondered anxiously: “Should I awaken my husband, or let him sleep? He is a righteous man, yet sorrowful—how can I avoid wrongdoing toward him?” She knew that even the virtuous might become angry, but she also realized that failing in her duty was a graver fault. “If I wake him, he will surely be angry,” she thought, “but if I do not, he will miss the twilight rites—a lapse in righteousness.” Torn by this dilemma, she resolved to act. Approaching her husband, who lay radiant with the fire of his austerities, she gently and sweetly spoke: “Rise, O fortunate one, the sun is setting. Perform the evening rites, O blessed one—touch water, steadfast in your vows, for this is the sacred time for the fire-offering. Twilight has begun in the west, O lord.” Awakened by her words, the illustrious Jaratkāru, great in penance, spoke with trembling lips: “You have shown me disrespect, O serpent woman. I will not remain with you; I shall depart as I came. You had no power to prevent the sun from setting while I slept. It is in my heart to leave at the proper time; no one wishes to stay where they are not honored. What, then, for one devoted to righteousness, or for me, or for anyone like me?” Hearing this, Jaratkāru’s wife was shaken to her core. In the assembly of Vāsuki, she pleaded: “O Brāhmaṇa, I awakened you not out of disrespect. I did it so that you would not incur a lapse in righteousness, as you yourself instructed me, O great ascetic.” But the sage, seized by anger and intent on leaving, declared, “My words are never false; I shall leave you, O serpent-woman. This was our agreement before—I have lived happily with you. Now, O auspicious one, tell your brother when I have gone, and do not grieve.” Stricken, the faultless woman replied, her mind overwhelmed by sorrow and anxiety. With tears choking her voice, her face parched and hands joined in reverence, she steadied herself despite her trembling and said, “O knower of righteousness, you should not abandon me, who am without fault. I have always acted for your benefit, steadfast in righteousness. The reason I was given to you was for the welfare of my kin. If I, unfortunate as I am, have not fulfilled that purpose, what will Vāsuki say of me, especially as we suffer under our mother’s curse? The offspring we hoped for from you has not yet appeared. If I bear your child, my relatives will find well-being. Let this union not be in vain; for their sake, I entreat you.” She continued, “You have placed this indistinct embryo within me, O noble one. How can you, great-souled as you are, wish to abandon me and return to the serpents?” Hearing her words, the sage, steadfast in his austerity, spoke: “If your words are true and proper, O Jaratkāru, then know this: you do indeed have a child in your womb, blazing like fire—a sage, supremely righteous, learned in the Vedas and their branches.” Having said this, the great and righteous Jaratkāru, firm in his resolve, departed once more to pursue severe austerities. No sooner had her husband left than Jaratkāru went to her brother Vāsuki and recounted everything, just as it had happened. Hearing of this great misfortune, Vāsuki, lord of the serpents, became even more dejected and spoke to his sorrowful sister: “You know what is to be done and why you were given in marriage. If it is for the welfare of the serpents, let your son fulfill that purpose. He, endowed with great energy, will surely deliver us from the snake-sacrifice, as the Grandsire and the gods once declared.” “O fortunate one, is there a child in your womb from that best of sages? I do not wish the effort of that wise one to be fruitless. It is not proper for me to ask you such a question, but the matter is so important that I must. Knowing your husband’s great austerity and difficult nature, I will never pursue him, lest he curse me. Tell me, gentle one, all your husband’s actions, and remove from my heart the grievous thorn that has long troubled me.” Thus addressed, Jaratkāru consoled her distressed brother, saying, “That great-souled, austere one was questioned by me for the sake of offspring. He answered, ‘There is,’ and then departed from me.” In this way, the destiny of the serpents and the hope for their deliverance was entrusted to the child growing within her.