O Narada, listen as I recount the sacred events that unfolded by the banks of the Ganga. There, after the fierce battle, Hari—his limbs still smeared with blood—washed himself in the holy waters. In that very place, a pool came into being, known as Varaha, sanctified by his touch. Before the assembled gods, the best of the immortals, Hari then placed the great sacrifice itself within his mouth. From his divine mouth, the yajna—the very essence of sacrifice—was born and given forth. From that moment onward, the principal ladle used in sacrifices has been known as the Varaha-form, for this was another reason for its sacred name. Because of these events, the Varaha tirtha became supremely holy, a place where all desires are fulfilled. Bathing in its waters and giving gifts there are said to bestow the merits of all sacrifices. Even those who simply remember their ancestors with a pure heart while staying at Varaha tirtha ensure that their forefathers, freed from all sins, ascend to heaven. Now, Narada, I must speak of Kushavarta, though its greatness is beyond words—merely remembering Kushavarta can fulfill a person’s deepest wishes. Among men, Kushavarta is renowned for granting all desires. It was here that the great sage Gautama, with his noble soul, formed a swirling pool with kusa grass. By this act, he brought the sacred river there. Bathing and offering gifts at this spot bring satisfaction to one’s ancestors. From the Nila mountain flows the Nila Ganga, the best of rivers. Whatever a devoted person does there—whether bathing or giving—becomes imperishable, bringing joy to their forefathers. And among all holy places in the three worlds, the Kapota tirtha is celebrated as the highest. Let me describe its form and merit, O sage. On Brahmagiri, there lived a hunter, exceedingly cruel in nature. He harmed Brahmins, virtuous men, ascetics, cowherds, and animals alike. This sinful soul was wrathful, deceitful, and terrifying in appearance: dark-eyed, with short arms, protruding teeth, missing nose and eyes, short legs, and a broad, small belly. His form was deformed, he brayed like a donkey, always carried a bow and a noose, and his mind was set on evil. His wife and children shared his nature. Urged by his wife, he entered a dense forest. There, the wicked man killed many creatures—animals and birds of all kinds. Some he caged alive, others he slew. Tormented by hunger and thirst, he wandered in confusion until, after a long time, he turned back towards home. But as afternoon arrived and the spring season ended, thunder and lightning suddenly filled the sky, and dark clouds gathered. A fierce wind arose, showering stones and torrents of water. The weary hunter, unable to find his way, could not distinguish water from land, pit from path, or even the directions. Exhausted and sinful, he found no shelter. In despair, he thought, “Where shall I go? Where can I stay? What should I do? I am the taker of life, just like Death itself. Now, my end has come with this shower of stones; I see no savior—no rock or tree nearby.” As he pondered thus, the hunter saw, not far off in the forest, a great tree, towering like the sage Atri among the stars. It stood as a lion among animals, a householder among hermitages, the mind among the senses—a true protector of living beings. The hunter took shelter under this excellent, radiant tree, its branches lush with fresh leaves, and sat there, his clothes drenched. As he sat, he thought of his wife and children, wondering if they would survive. At that very moment, the sun set. Upon that same tree dwelled a dove with his devoted wife, surrounded by their sons and grandsons—a happy, fearless, and contented family. The wife was faithful and ever-pleased with her husband. They lived in a hollow of that noble tree, protected from water, wind, and fire. Always surrounded by his family, the little dove lived joyfully. But on that fateful day, both the dove and his mate went out in search of food. The male returned to the tree, but by misfortune, the female was caught in a cage by the hunter and remained trapped. Seeing his children deprived of their mother, the male dove was struck by sorrow. As dreadful rain fell and the sun set, he found his nest empty of his beloved and began to lament. Unaware that she had been captured, he recalled her virtues: “My virtuous one, who brings me joy, who is the mother of my dharma and the mistress of my body, has not returned. She is my companion in dharma, wealth, desire, and liberation; smiling when pleased, soothing my sorrow when I am distressed. She is ever my confidante, always delighted by my words. Even now, she has not returned, though the sun has set.” “She knows not the ways of vows, mantras, destiny, or the deeper meanings of dharma and wealth. Her devotion, her life, her counsel, and her love are all for her husband. Even now, she has not returned. What shall I do, or where shall I go? Both my home and the forest are empty without her.” “With her, whether in prosperity or adversity, even the dreadful becomes beautiful. Even now, my beloved, who made our home delightful, has not returned.” Thus, under the sheltering tree, the dove mourned the absence of his cherished mate, while the hunter, too, sat beneath those same branches—both caught in the web of fate, their hearts filled with longing and sorrow.