From childhood, I have understood the subtle distinctions among dharmas, knowing well the difference between anger and excessive speech, as well as the line separating strength from weakness. One who forsakes his own proper conduct, abandons true dharma, and behaves unworthy of a disciple should not be tolerated by anyone seeking virtue. A servant or disciple who casts aside his rightful behavior becomes fruitless; thus, I do not wish to live among those whose conduct is mixed. Those who insult others by their actions or by their lineage are not fit company for a seeker of goodness; the virtuous should not dwell among the wicked-minded. Instead, one should reside among people recognized for their noble conduct or lineage, for such a dwelling is considered the best. There are those always controlled by others, deprived of wealth, of bad conduct and evil deeds—even wealthy outcastes. Outcastes are not so by birth alone, but by actions according to their own conduct; those who cling to wealth, lineage, or learning, yet display outcaste behavior. They hate without cause and speak slander; among such people, the virtuous do not dwell, for associating with the wicked leads only to wickedness. Wherever a person becomes attached—whether to good or evil deeds—he finds delight there; therefore, one should not harbor hatred. The harsh words spoken by Vṛṣaparvan’s daughter burn my heart like fire kindled on wood. I cannot imagine anything more difficult in all three worlds than one who, lacking prosperity, must serve the blazing fortune of a rival. The wise know that, for such a person, death is preferable, for he suffers humiliation day by day through association with the lowly. Once harsh words are spoken, they emerge from the mouth and wound the heart, causing grief both day and night. They strike at the vital points of another, and so the wise never let themselves speak them. A wound cut by weapons or burned by fire can heal, but a wound inflicted by words does not heal in the bodies of living beings. Even a wound pierced by arrows or freshly cut by an axe may heal, but a terrible, harsh word does not—the wound of speech remains open. At this moment, Kavi, the foremost among the Bhṛgus, approached, filled with anger, and spoke thoughtfully to Vṛṣaparvan, who was seated. “Unrighteousness, O King, does not bear fruit immediately, like a cow; but as it is turned over slowly, it cuts at the roots of the doer. If not in one’s sons or grandsons, then surely in oneself, the fruit of sin is seen—just as food eaten by a teacher surely bears fruit in the belly. “O King, why did you have the Brahmin Kacha, son of Angiras, killed—he who was devoted to study, self-controlled, patient, sinless, learned in dharma, eager to serve, and attached to my household? And, O lord, Devayānī was cruelly insulted by Śarmiṣṭhā with many harsh words, and, in anger, the high-minded girl was thrown into a well. She is not fit to dwell with her; how can I, deprived of her, remain here? Therefore, O King, I renounce your realm. Because of the undeserved killing of Kacha and the harm done to my daughter, know this, Vṛṣaparvan: I will abandon you and your kin. I cannot remain in your realm, nor can I stay with you. “Do not grieve, Vṛṣaparvan, nor be angry, lord of men. I cannot remain in your realm without her. Her fate is my fate; what is dear to her is dear to me. Whether I kill a Brahmin or cry out in grief, if Śarmiṣṭhā has wronged Devayānī, by that act I go to a bad end. Alas, you think me, O Daitya, a speaker of falsehoods, since you do not restrain or correct this fault of yours, but disregard it.” Vṛṣaparvan replied, “O Bhārgava, I know in you neither unrighteousness nor falsehood. In you are both righteousness and truth; may you be gracious to us. If you, O Bhārgava, leave us and go from here, I will enter the ocean first, together with my kin. Or I will enter the underworld or fire; there is no other refuge. If you, lord of planets, go to the gods, abandoning me, then, having renounced everything, I will enter the blazing fire.” Shukra said, “Enter the ocean, or flee to the directions, O Asuras! I am not able to bear any harm to my daughter, for she is dear to me. Let Devayānī be appeased, for my life depends on her. I am your protector of welfare, as Bṛhaspati is for Indra. Whatever wealth of the lords of the Asuras exists on earth—be it elephants, cows, or horses—O Bhargava, you and I are its masters. Whatever riches belong to the mighty Daitya kings, O great Asura, I am the lord of it, if only Devayānī may be appeased.” Thus addressed, Vṛṣaparvan replied, “So be it,” to the great sage, and, approaching Devayānī, Bhargava spoke to her of these matters. Devayānī said, “If you are truly the lord, O Bhargava, of the king’s wealth, I do not know of it; let the king himself declare it.” Hearing Shukra’s words, Vṛṣaparvan, together with his kin, fell at Devayānī’s feet, saying, “Let Devayānī be appeased. You are always to be praised and honored by me, and you are like a father, O auspicious one. Whatever desire you cherish, O Devayānī of pure smile, even if it is difficult to obtain, I shall grant it to you.” Devayānī replied, “I desire Śarmiṣṭhā as a maid, together with a thousand maidens; let her follow me wherever my father may give me.” Vṛṣaparvan ordered, “Rise, nurse, go quickly and bring Śarmiṣṭhā; let Devayānī do whatever she desires. One should abandon one for the sake of the family, a family for the sake of the village; a village for the sake of the country, and the earth for the sake of oneself.” Then the nurse went to Śarmiṣṭhā and said, “Rise, gentle Śarmiṣṭhā, bring happiness to your kin.