The sage sat in deep meditation, his senses, breath, mind, and intellect perfectly restrained. He had risen above the three realms, merged with the unchanging Brahman itself. His appearance was austere: he was clad in matted hair and a deerskin, his throat parched from thirst. In this state, the king approached and begged him for water. Yet, the king found nothing to offer—no grass, no earth, not even the customary water or a word of kindness. Feeling overlooked and disregarded, anger welled up within him. Never before had hunger and thirst tormented him so; envy and anger towards the Brahmin arose in his heart. In a fit of rage, he picked up a lifeless snake and placed it upon the sage’s shoulder, and then left the hermitage, returning to his city. As he departed, he wondered, “Is this one, with senses withdrawn and eyes closed, truly absorbed in meditation, or is it only a pretense? What does this say of the warrior class?” Meanwhile, the sage’s son, a boy of extraordinary brilliance, was playing among his friends. When he heard what had happened to his father, he spoke out immediately. “Alas!” he cried, “What injustice by the rulers, who greedily consume the offerings! The offense committed by the servants against their master is like the gatekeepers, or even dogs, attacking their lord. Though born a kṣatriya, this king was appointed by the brāhmaṇas as guardian of the household—how should such a doorkeeper claim the household’s provisions for himself? Now that Kṛṣṇa, the Lord and guide for the lost, has departed, I will punish those who have broken the bridge of righteousness. Behold my power!” With eyes reddened by anger, the young sage purified himself at the Kauśikī river. There, among his friends, he released a thunderbolt of words: “Thus, having crossed the boundary, Takṣaka, urged by me, will bite this destroyer of the dynasty on the seventh day.” After speaking, the boy returned to the hermitage. When he saw his father with the dead serpent draped around his neck, sorrow overcame him and he cried out loudly. The sage, a brāhmaṇa of the Āṅgirasa lineage, heard his son’s lament, slowly opened his eyes, and saw the lifeless snake. He calmly cast the serpent aside and asked, “Child, why are you crying? Who has wronged you?” The boy explained everything. Hearing that the king had been cursed undeservedly, the brāhmaṇa did not rejoice. Instead, he lamented, “Alas, what a great calamity you have caused today! Though the offense was small, the punishment is severe. You should not judge the king, O immature-minded one. By his invincible power, the people enjoy prosperity and safety from all sides. When the king, called Naradeva, wielder of the chariot wheel, is disregarded, the world will be overrun by thieves and, unprotected, will perish in an instant, like sheep without a shepherd. “Now, sin will come upon us without end, as people plunder the wealth of those who have lost their protector; they will kill one another, curse, rob, and seize cattle, women, and property. Noble dharma will dissolve among men, together with the practices of varṇa and āśrama, which are rooted in the three Vedas. Those absorbed in wealth and pleasure, like dogs and monkeys, will cause the mixing of castes. “The king, guardian of dharma, is the great emperor Bṛhacchrava, a royal sage and true devotee, who performed horse sacrifices. A sin has been committed against this innocent king by a child of immature understanding. May the Lord, the soul of all, forgive this offense. Even when insulted, deceived, cursed, abused, or killed, devotees of the Lord do not retaliate, even if they have the power to do so.” Thus, because of his son’s rash act, the great sage was filled with remorse. Though he himself had been wronged, he did not dwell upon the offense. The virtuous, he reflected, are often placed in situations of duality by others, yet they neither grieve nor rejoice, relying instead on the qualities of the self. He then instructed on proper conduct: “One should not lie down without washing the feet, nor with wet feet, nor with the head wet; nor eat food offered by others, nor lie naked, nor at the times of dawn or dusk. Always pure, clothed in clean garments and endowed with auspiciousness, one should worship cows, brāhmaṇas, fortune, and the infallible Lord before breakfast. Women and those of valor should worship with garlands, fragrances, offerings, and ornaments. Having worshipped her husband, a woman should attend to him and meditate upon him as residing within her womb. If you uphold this unbroken vow of puṃsavana for a year, then a son who will defeat Indra shall be born to you.” Diti, resolute, agreed: “So be it.” She received the seed from Kaśyapa and faithfully undertook the vow. Indra, knowing his maternal aunt’s intention, served Diti, who dwelled in the hermitage, with great attention. He regularly brought her flowers, fruits, sacred grass, kusha, leaves, sprouts, clay, and water at the proper times. While she observed the vow, Hari, desiring to break it, served her in a crooked fashion, like a deer in the form of a deer. Yet, Indra found no breach in her vow, for she was intent upon it. He grew anxious, wondering by what means he might achieve his purpose. One evening, exhausted by her observances and having eaten, Diti, with her feet unwashed and not cleansed by water, fell asleep—her mind confused by fate. Seizing this opportunity, Indra, master of yoga, entered Diti’s womb by his yogic power while she slept. With his thunderbolt, he split the golden-hued embryo into seven parts. As each part cried, he said to them, “Do not cry.” But as they were being split, all of them, with joined palms, asked, “Why, Indra, do you wish to kill us, your brothers, the Maruts?” Indra replied, “Do not fear, brothers; you are dear to me. You are my attendants, the hosts of Maruts, devoted to me alone.” By the compassion of Śrīnivāsa, Diti’s embryo did not die. Though struck again and again by the thunderbolt, just as you survived the weapon of Drona, so too did they survive.