All that exists in this world—whether moving or unmoving—is pervaded by the presence of Lakshmi. Among Brahmins, among the wise, among the patient and the virtuous, her energy permeates all. Wherever there is knowledge, whether it is pursued for enjoyment or for liberation, and wherever anything delightful or beautiful is found, it is Lakshmi’s manifestation. Why elaborate further? The whole universe is composed of Lakshmi’s essence. Wherever excellence is perceived, in whatever form, that too is her nature. Without Lakshmi, nothing can exist. So, it is said, how could anyone, even a beautiful goddess, feel no shame in competing with her? At that moment, Ganga herself addressed the goddess of poverty, saying, “Go, go.” From then on, the waters of Ganga became free from the influence of poverty. However, as long as Ganga is not served, poverty remains; but from that time, that sacred ford became a destroyer of misfortune and a source of auspiciousness. By bathing and giving charity at this holy place, one becomes endowed with both Lakshmi and merit. There, six thousand fords, honored by gods, sages, and ascetics alike, bestow all accomplishments upon the wise who visit. This place became known as Bhānutīrtha, famed for granting every attainment to those who come. Let me recount an event that took place there, one that destroys even the greatest of sins. There was a king named Śaryāti, renowned for his supreme righteousness. His wife, Sthaviṣṭhā, was unmatched in beauty upon the earth. The king’s royal priest was Madhucchandā, a Brahmin of the highest order and a descendant of Viśvāmitra, a brahmarshi and lord among ascetics. Together, the king and his priest set out to conquer the directions. When their campaign was complete and the regions subdued, Śaryāti, standing amidst his retinue, noticed his priest’s distress and addressed him with concern. He asked, “What is the cause of your sorrow? You alone are honored in my kingdom, possessing flawless knowledge of all the sciences. You are free from sin and untouched by grief, yet you appear distracted, though we have triumphed and joy abounds. Why are you emaciated? Tell me the truth.” The noble Madhucchandā replied with affection, “O king, listen to what my wife said to me. As the night was half gone and I lingered, she awaited my return. My beloved, the mistress of this body, waits for me; remembering her words, my body wastes away. When the agitation of love arises, the lotus-faced one, longing for life, withers in separation.” The king, conqueror of foes, laughed gently and said, “You are both my teacher and friend; why do you mock yourself? What use are my words? For souls as great as yours, what reliance is there on fleeting happiness?” Madhucchandā, wise and steadfast, responded, “Where there is harmony between husband and wife, the three aims of life flourish. O king, this is not a fault, but a great virtue.” Afterward, the king returned to his land with his great army. To test the love between couples, he sent news throughout the city. But as Śaryāti set out once more to conquer the quarters, the foremost of Rākṣasas attacked, slaying both the king and his priest, and then descended to the netherworld. Hearing this dreadful news from the messengers, the king’s wife, seeking certainty, approached her beloved Madhucchandā. In that very moment, she lost her life—an event both strange and sorrowful. The messengers, witnessing her condition, reported it to the king. Astonished and distressed by what had befallen the royal wives and the priest’s beloved, the king again addressed his messengers: “Go quickly and guard the body of the Brahmin lady; bring tidings, for the king and the priest will soon arrive.” As the king was troubled with anxiety, a bodiless voice spoke from the unseen, “O king, the Gaṅgā will accomplish all you desire. Gautamī, purifier of the earth and dispeller of all afflictions, will fulfill your wish.” Hearing this, Śaryāti went to the bank of the Gautamī river. There, he gave wealth to the Brahmins and satisfied the ancestors and the twice-born with offerings. He sent his chief priest, the best of Brahmins, to other holy places, instructing him to give gifts generously among travelers. Unaware of these actions, the priest departed. The king, meanwhile, approached the great-souled Viśvāmitra. Having sent away his forces, the king entered the fire on the bank of the Gaṅgā, declaring to the river, to the Sun, and to the gods, “If I have given, if I have offered oblations, if I have protected my people—by that truth, may this virtuous woman live with my lifespan.” Having spoken thus, the noble king Śaryāti entered the fire. At that very moment, the wife of the king’s priest returned to life. News spread quickly that the king had entered the fire—a wondrous event—and that the priest’s devoted wife, who had died, was restored to life. Because the king had abandoned his own life for her, the king’s guru remembered again his own duties. He resolved, “I too, having seen the fire, shall either go to my beloved or undertake austerities here.” With this determination, the twice-born acted. He thought, “This alone is the proper duty for me, and a virtuous act. I sustain the king, and then I return to my beloved. This alone is auspicious for me.” Then he praised the Sun, for truly no other god grants all desires as the Sun does. With reverence, he offered salutations: “Salutations to that Sun, the liberator, of immeasurable brilliance, the deity composed of Vedic meters, whose essence is Om—salutations to you.