By the brilliance of his own being, Agni, the mighty fire-god, was called upon to fulfill the curse laid upon him by the sage Bhrigu. The Grandfather, Brahma himself, urged Agni to accept into his mouth the offerings made to the gods and to himself, thus bringing the sage’s pronouncement to fruition. Agni, bowing to the command of the supreme Lord, replied, “So be it,” and set forth to do as he was bid. With Agni’s acceptance, the divine sages were delighted. They departed as they had come, their hearts content, and the seers continued performing all the sacred rites as before. The gods in heaven rejoiced, as did all beings in the world, for Agni was now freed from his sin and attained supreme satisfaction. Thus, in the ancient days, Agni received Bhrigu’s curse, an event long remembered: the laughter of Hati, the curse of Agni, the destruction of Puloman, and the birth of Cyavana. Cyavana, the illustrious descendant of Bhrigu, was born of Sukanya. He was a sage of great soul and radiance. In time, Cyavana fathered a son named Pramati, and Pramati, by the celestial nymph Ghritachi, begot a son called Ruru. Ruru, in turn, fathered Sunaka by Pramadvara. Sunaka, a joy to all the Bhargavas, was born with a great spirit and, through severe austerity, gained lasting fame. Now, O Brahman, let me tell you in detail the splendid tale of Ruru. Listen to it in full. There was once a great sage named Sthulakesha, renowned for his austerity and knowledge, ever devoted to the welfare of all beings. At that very time, the king of the Gandharvas, Vishvavasu, was born from the Apsaras Menaka. When the time was right, Menaka, the celestial nymph, abandoned her child on the riverbank near the hermitage of Sthulakesha and departed, showing neither mercy nor shame. A great sage beheld the infant girl, radiant in beauty as if born of the immortals, lying alone and abandoned by the water’s edge. Sthulakesha, moved by compassion, took the child into his care. In his auspicious hermitage, she grew up, nurtured by his kindness. The sage performed all the sacred rites for her in the proper manner and order, as one would for a cherished daughter. Endowed with exceptional beauty, form, and virtue, surpassing all other women, the sage named her Pramadvara. In time, Ruru, the righteous son of Pramati, beheld Pramadvara in Sthulakesha’s hermitage and was overcome by love for her. Ruru informed his father and friends of his desire, and Pramati approached Sthulakesha to ask for Pramadvara’s hand in marriage. The sage agreed, giving the maiden to Ruru and arranging for the wedding at an auspicious time under the proper star. But as the wedding day drew near, Pramadvara, radiant and joyous, was playing with her friends. Unaware, she stepped upon a sleeping snake stretched across her path, her fate sealed by destiny. The serpent, roused from its slumber, struck her fiercely with its venomous fangs. Bitten by the snake, Pramadvara fell to the ground, her color fading, her beauty lost, her ornaments scattered, and her consciousness gone. She lay there, her hair loosened, lifeless—no longer to be seen by those who loved her, yet still enchanting even in death. Her father and the other ascetics, seeing her fallen and writhing on the earth, were struck with sorrow. Eminent sages and twice-born brahmins, filled with compassion, gathered at the scene: Svastyatreya, Mahajanu, Kushika, Shankhamekhala, Uddalaka, Katha, the illustrious Shveta, Bharadvaja, Kaunakritsa, Arstishena, and Gautama all came. Pramati, with his son Ruru and the other forest-dwellers, saw the lifeless maiden, struck down by the serpent’s poison. Overcome by grief and compassion, they wept. Ruru, his heart shattered, left the gathering and wandered into the dense forest, while the noble sages sat in mourning. Deep in the woods, Ruru, overwhelmed by sorrow, cried out in anguish. He lamented bitterly, remembering his beloved Pramadvara: “She lies on the ground, slender-limbed, her face like the full moon, as if she is taking away my very life. If she, with her beautiful form and lotus-petal eyes, dies now, will she not take my soul with her? What greater sorrow can there be for my parents, friends, and kin than this loss of one so dear, who receives no offerings? If ever I have given, performed austerities, or honored my teachers, by that merit let my beloved live again. If I have been self-controlled and steadfast in my vows since birth, may this radiant Pramadvara rise up today.” As Ruru mourned and poured out his heart in the forest, a divine messenger appeared before him, ready to speak.