As time passed, in the tenth month, a fisherman happened to catch a remarkable fish. When he cut open its belly, to his utter astonishment, he found within a pair of human children: a handsome boy and a beautiful-faced girl. Overwhelmed by wonder, he immediately reported this miraculous event to the king, declaring that two children had emerged from the fish. The king, equally amazed, took the auspicious boy for himself. This king was Matsya, son of Vasu—a mighty and righteous ruler, steadfast in truth, and equal in valor to his illustrious father. The girl, named Kālikā, was given by Vasu to the fisherman. She came to be known as Kāli and also as Matsyodarī. Among the people, she became famous as Matsyagandhā, the one with the scent of fish, and this auspicious child, Vāsavī, grew up in the fisherman’s household. The sages then explained the origin of these events. Adrikā, a celestial nymph, had once been cursed by a sage and transformed into a fish. When the fisherman split her open and she died, her body was consumed. The sages, curious, asked, “What became of that apsarā? How was her curse lifted, O Sūta, and how did she return to heaven?” Sūta recounted: When Adrikā was cursed, she was overcome with sorrow. Weeping in distress, she praised the sage who had cursed her. Moved by compassion, the brāhmaṇa spoke gently to her: “Do not grieve, O blessed one. I shall tell you the end of your suffering. By the force of my angry curse, you have entered the womb of a fish. But after giving birth to two humans, you will be freed.” Thus consoled, Adrikā took the form of a fish in the river’s waters. When she gave birth to the boy and girl, her life ended, and she was released from the curse. Abandoning her fish form, she regained her celestial radiance and, freed from the curse, ascended once more to the realm of the immortals. Thus was born the excellent daughter Matsyagandhā, beautiful-faced and radiant. Raised as the fisherman’s own child, Vāsavī grew up in his home, performing her tasks with a brightness that shone through her humble circumstances. In time, another wondrous event unfolded. Once, during a sacred pilgrimage, the great sage Parāśara, filled with energy and wisdom, arrived at the banks of the Kālindī river. Wishing to cross, he approached the fisherman, who was then preparing food, and asked to be taken to the far shore by boat. Hearing the sage’s request, the fisherman called his charming young daughter Matsyagandhā and said, “Child, take the sage across the river in the boat; this pure and noble ascetic wishes to go.” Obediently, Matsyagandhā—also known as Vāsavī—helped the sage into the boat and began to row him across the river’s gentle waters. As they traveled together, fate intervened. The sage Parāśara, beholding her youthful beauty and shining eyes, was overcome by desire. He reached out and touched her right hand. Matsyagandhā, dark-eyed and smiling, addressed him with gentle reproach: “Is this conduct befitting your noble lineage, your learning, and your austerity? You are the heir of Vasiṣṭha, a knower of dharma and foremost among the twice-born. Why, afflicted by desire, do you seek such an act with me, a woman of fish-scent?” She continued, “Human birth is rare, and among humans, Brāhmaṇahood is especially sacred. You, who are so noble in conduct and learning, how have you come to this, intent on me? What virtue do you see in my body, O sage, that you desire me so? Surely, your mind is clouded by desire, pierced by the five arrows of Kāma, and none here can restrain you.” Despite her words, she composed herself and said, “O fortunate one, restrain yourself. I will indeed bring you to the far shore.” Hearing her wise and gentle words, Parāśara released her hand and stood quietly as they reached the opposite bank. Yet, his longing did not subside. Overcome by desire, he again approached the fish-scented maiden. Trembling, she protested, “O best of sages, I am foul-smelling—how do you not hesitate? Happiness comes from union of equals.” At that moment, Parāśara, by his yogic power, transformed her. Instantly, she became fragrant as musk, her scent spreading for a yojana, and her face shone with even greater beauty. Now radiant and fragrant, Matsyagandhā—soon to be known as Satyavatī—addressed the sage, “O revered one, my father and the people are watching from the riverbank. I cannot consent to a union openly, as animals do. Wait until night falls, for such things are not fitting by day. Public censure is hard to endure.” Hearing her reasonable and modest request, Parāśara, by the power of his merit, conjured a deep mist. The riverbank was enveloped in darkness, concealing them from all eyes as destiny prepared to unfold the next chapter in their lives.