Seeking refuge, a devotee approached the king, known for his compassion toward those who come to him in need. With urgency, the petitioner pleaded, “Grant a jewel among women for the king’s sake—or else, I shall give up my life.” In the waters nearby, a wondrous sight appeared: a tree with a golden trunk and splendid leaves resembling coral. Upon its branches stood a young girl, delicate and radiant in her beauty. Witnessing this marvel, the seeker made his way to the king, who himself was drawn to the spectacle and ventured as far as the ocean to see it. With humility, the king addressed the young woman, declaring, “I have come here for your sake.” She responded with a gentle laugh, saying, “On the fourteenth day of the dark fortnight…” Her words stirred a deep longing in the king’s heart, and on that very day, he became overwhelmed with desire. Suddenly, a demon named Bakavāhana appeared. Blinded by his longing, the king slew the demon and spoke fearlessly to his wife. She revealed, “O king, listen! I am indeed the daughter of a Vidyādhara. I did not come at the time of the meal, nor to the house of my father and mother. Today, on the fourteenth day of the dark fortnight, the demon will seize you.” She wept and recounted how she had spoken to her father, who had replied, “O daughter, you will be enjoyed by a hero.” She continued, “By your command, O king, I will go to my father’s house. With you, I will go to the house of the Vidyādhara.” In that city, a great festival arose among the people, but suddenly, death befell them. The king wondered, “Tell me, for what reason?” He reflected deeply, troubled by the fear of losing his kingdom, for it is known that a king who indulges in sensual pleasures is certain to face the destruction of his realm. In the beautiful city of Cūḍāpura, there was a king named Cūḍāmaṇi. His teacher was Devasvami, accomplished in the Vedas and their branches. The radiant queen worshipped Shiva, desiring a son, and in time, a son named Harisvami was born—famed, powerful, and bearing a portion of the gods. His wife, Rupalavanyika, was a celestial maiden. Once, husband and wife dwelled together during the blossoming spring. A Gandharva named Sukala was captivated by her beauty and, awakened to longing, sought after her. Renouncing all sensual pleasures, Sukala devoted himself to meditation on Hari. One day, he cooked rice pudding and took shelter beneath a banyan tree. Yet, O King, the food was poisoned by a snake. A mendicant arrived, ate the rice pudding, and became intoxicated. He cried, “You, foolish one, gave rice pudding mixed with poison!” Having spoken thus, he died and attained the realm of Shiva. Upon hearing this, the Vetala addressed the king. “Therefore,” he said, “the snake is at fault, but did not incur the sin of killing a Brahmin. The Brahmin, deluded by fate, gave alms to the hungry. The sin committed by oneself must always be experienced by people. At that time, the killing of a Brahmin should be understood as caused by the one who gave the poison. By those men who narrated the story, the sin of killing a Brahmin has been committed by you.” Thus, the tale unfolds, weaving together longing, fate, and the consequences of actions, as told faithfully in the sacred verses.