She agreed, saying, “So be it,” and departed—her form radiant and divine, her heart full of passion. In due course, a son was born to her. After narrating all that had transpired, the king once more addressed his own son, instructing him with affection: “Desire her, O splendid one; you should take that enchanting woman as your lawful wife, and happiness will be yours.” Thus, with a joyful heart, the king guided his son, bestowing upon him all the royal splendor. Having completed this, the king renounced his worldly life and entered the forest. There, by his own spiritual power, he relinquished his body and ascended to heaven. Throughout his reign, the king had upheld righteousness, protecting his subjects with unwavering justice. Now, Sūta continued: The king, who was fond of hunting, often roamed the forests, slaying tigers and deer. On one such occasion, he wandered along the dreadful banks of the Ganges. There, he beheld a woman of extraordinary beauty, and in that moment, the words of his father echoed in his heart. Captivated by her, he approached her, and, drinking the water from her lotus-like mouth, he found no satisfaction—his longing only grew. She, too, upon seeing him, felt her heart fill with love, for she recognized in him the soul of Mahābhiṣa. Her eyes, dark at the corners, enchanted him further, and his heart overflowed with joy. “O slender-thighed one,” he said, “whether you are a goddess or a woman, O beautiful-faced lady, whoever you may be, become my wife, O lovely-hipped one.” Gāṅgā, knowing well that the king was indeed Mahābhiṣa reborn, remembered their former union. Hearing his plea, she replied, “What beautiful woman would not wish for a worthy husband, having reflected upon it? By a sacred bond of words, O best of kings, I will indeed become your wife. But know this: whatever deed I may do, whether auspicious or inauspicious, and whenever, O best of kings, you do not follow my word, remember the birth of the Vasus—I keep their request in my heart.” The king agreed, saying, “So be it,” and thus, the goddess Gāṅgā became his wife. Radiant and fortunate, she entered his palace, understanding his heart and delighting him. With her eyes like those of a gentle fawn, she brought him joy, as Śacī does to Indra. Together, they reveled in the splendor of the palace, their happiness akin to that of Lakṣmī and Nārāyaṇa. In time, Gāṅgā, whose eyes shone with beauty, gave birth to a son, a child of the Vasus. In the years that followed—the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth—the king’s mind became troubled. “What shall I do today?” he pondered. “How will my lineage endure upon this earth? If I restrain her, she will certainly leave me and go. But if I do not restrain her today, she will surely cast this child into the water. Even if a child is born, she acts with such cruelty—she may protect it, or she may not. For the sake of preserving my lineage, I must make every possible effort.” He remembered the tale of Nandini, the sage’s cow, taken by Strijit, and resolved to act. Approaching Gāṅgā, he pleaded, “I am your servant, O slender-waisted one; I beseech you, O pure-smiling lady. O beautiful one with thighs like elephant trunks, my seven sons have been harmed by you. Ask for something else today; I will grant even what is most difficult to obtain. For those learned in the Vedas say that a man without a son has no path to heaven.