At the dawn of creation, a wondrous event unfolded. The great goddess, seeking to resolve a dispute of seniority between Viṣṇu and myself, Brahmā, declared, “He will be the elder; therefore, you should not argue.” At her words, Viṣṇu journeyed downward to seek the root of the infinite column of light that had appeared before us, while I soared upward, searching for its summit. Viṣṇu swiftly descended and sat beside the radiant light, but even he could not find its end. As for me, I traveled farther and farther upward, O sage, but the limit of that glorious Lord remained beyond my reach. Weary from my search, I returned, unable to see the end of that divine presence. Yet, in my heart, I convinced myself that I had truly witnessed the end. “Thus, my seniority over this god Viṣṇu is clear,” I thought again, my mind clouded by pride. But how could I, whose mouths are meant for truth, utter a falsehood, even when pressed? For among all sins, none is greater than falsehood. Still, the desire for seniority led me astray. I wondered, “How can I, with truthful mouths, speak an untruth?” So I created a fifth mouth, terrifying in the form of a donkey, with which I resolved to speak the lie. After much deliberation, I addressed Hari, the Lord of the worlds, who was seated nearby. “I have seen its end; therefore, Janārdana, my seniority is established,” I declared. At that moment, both Hari and Śaṅkara stood at my side. The two assumed a single, dazzling form, radiant like the sun and the moon together. Astonished and fearful, I beheld them as they, angered, spoke to that mouth which had uttered the falsehood: “You, wicked one, become a river, for there is no sin greater than falsehood.” Thus, the mouth took the form of a distraught goddess and became a river. Witnessing this transformation, I was filled with awe and fear, and I spoke to her: “Because you have spoken falsely while standing in the speech of Brahmā, though you are virtuous, you shall become invisible and take a sinful form, without doubt.” Understanding the curse, those two deities, Hari and Hara, bowed down to me, seeking release from it and praising me again and again. Pleased by their devotion, the two gods of gods, worshipped by the immortals, spoke affectionately: “O auspicious one, when you unite with Ganga, purifier of the worlds, your form will be restored, for you are indeed pure and radiant.” Accepting their words, the goddess joined with Ganga, and thus Bhagirathi and Gautami regained their own forms. O Brahman, that goddess attained what is difficult even for the gods; in Gautami she is renowned as Vani, bestower of merit. In Bhagirathi, she is called Sarasvati. In both places, the confluence is famous and worshipped by the world. The confluence of Sarasvati and the confluence of Vani—there, the goddess Vani, Sarasvati by speech, joined with Gautami. Everywhere, that holy place is revered. There, having worshipped Shiva, the Lord of speech, the curse was removed. Freed from the fault of false speech, I, Brahmā, returned again to my own abode. Therefore, one who bathes at that pure confluence is cleansed of all sin. Whoever beholds the Lord of speech there attains liberation; there is no further need for gifts, sacrifices, or austere rites. Anyone performing rites at the sacred confluence is freed from rebirth; and on both banks are one hundred and nineteen sacred places, which destroy all sins accumulated over many lifetimes. That place is known as Viṣṇu’s holy site. Hear now what happened there. A sage named Maudgalya, son of Mudgala, was renowned. His wife was Jabala, famed for her good children; her father, too, was the venerable sage Mudgala, celebrated throughout the world. Maudgalya’s wife was also known by the auspicious name Bhagirathi. Maudgalya, steadfast in his vows, bathed in the Ganga every morning. This was his daily practice, O best of sages: on the sacred bank, with kusa grass, clay, and Sami flowers, he performed his rituals day and night. Following the path taught by his guru, Maudgalya always invoked Viṣṇu in the lotus of his own mind. Summoned by his devotion, the Lord of Lakshmi, Master of the universe, would hasten to his side, mounted on Garuda and bearing the conch, discus, and mace. Honored with great care by Maudgalya, the Lord of the world would recount wondrous stories to him. Then, in the afternoon, Viṣṇu would say, “Go, child, to your home; you are weary,” repeating this with affection. Thus addressed by the Lord, the twice-born sage would depart, and Viṣṇu, accompanied by the gods, would return to his own abode. Maudgalya would likewise return home, bringing whatever he had earned, and give it to his beloved wife. She, devoted to her husband, received it with joy. Whatever vegetables, roots, or fruits Maudgalya brought, she carefully prepared for guests, children, and her husband. After serving them all, the disciplined Jabala would eat only afterwards; and when all had eaten, Maudgalya would take his meal at night. The wondrous stories of Viṣṇu, heard by the family, Maudgalya would joyfully share. After much time had passed, Maudgalya’s wife, amazed by these divine events, spoke privately to her husband: “If Viṣṇu, worshipped by the gods, comes near you, why does our hardship remain so great?” She questioned him further: “Ask, O wise one, when Viṣṇu comes, and when merely remembering him destroys old age, birth, pain, and death—why, then, does seeing him not do so? Therefore, ask the Lord of the world.” Maudgalya, ever devoted, replied, “So be it.” After honoring Hari, with humility and joined palms, he prepared to ask the Lord this profound question.