Sūta spoke: King Shantanu, a royal sage devoted to the hunt, often ventured into the forest, pursuing deer, buffaloes, and antelopes. For four years, he enjoyed deep happiness with his son, much as Shiva delights in the company of his own child. One day, while hunting and shooting arrows at boars and wild pigs, Shantanu wandered into a particular forest and arrived at the banks of the Kalindi, that most sacred river. As he moved through the woods, an indescribably exquisite fragrance drifted to him, captivating his senses. Eager to discover its source, the king roamed the forest, marveling at the scent. He pondered, “This fragrance is not from mandāra flowers, nor musk from the deer, nor campaka, mālatī, or ketakī blossoms—none of these are so delightful. Never before have I experienced such a pure and enchanting breeze. From where does this wondrous wind come, so bewildering to my sense of smell?” Driven by desire and curiosity, Shantanu followed the wind deeper into the forest. There, on the riverbank, he beheld a woman of remarkable beauty and modesty, standing with a steady grace. Her garments were soiled, yet her form shone with youth and loveliness, her dark eyes enchanting. At once, the king realized the marvelous fragrance emanated from her very body. The radiance of her form and her alluring scent, renowned throughout the world, left him truly astonished. He wondered, “Who is she, and whence has she come? Is she a celestial maiden, a human woman, a daughter of the Gandharvas, or perhaps a Nāga maiden? How does she possess such beauty and fragrance?” Despite his musings, the king could not discern her origin. Remembering the river goddess Gaṅgā, and overcome by desire, he approached the lovely maiden and asked, “Who are you, dear one? Whose daughter are you? Why do you stand alone in this deserted place, O beautiful-thighed one? Tell me, charming-eyed one, are you married or unmarried?” He continued, “Desire has arisen in me, O wide-eyed maiden, seeing you so enchanting. Tell me, dear, what you intend to do, where you are going—tell me everything in detail.” Hearing the king’s words, the sweet-smiling, lotus-eyed maiden replied with gentle composure: “Know me, O king, as the daughter of a ferryman, a maiden who always abides by her father’s command. I am ferrying this boat here on the water as my duty. My father has gone home today—this is the truth I speak before you, O lord of wealth.” After she spoke, the maiden fell silent. But Shantanu, still overcome by longing, pleaded, “Make me, O noble lady, the foremost of the Kurus, your husband—let not your youth go to waste in vain. I have no other wife; be my lawful wife, doe-eyed one. I am your servant, always under your control. O dear one, the god of love torments me. My beloved has left me and gone away; I have chosen no other, and I am forlorn, O beautiful one. Seeing you, so lovely in every limb, my mind is utterly captivated.” Hearing the king’s words, sweet as nectar, the ferryman’s daughter—endowed with purity and courage—composed herself and replied, “O king, what you have said to me, I accept as you have spoken; but know truly, I am not independent—my father is the giver. Seek his consent quickly. Though I am the daughter of a ferryman, I am not free; I always act under my father’s authority. If my renowned father gives his consent, take my hand—I am yours to command. O king, why does the god of love trouble you as he does me, now that I am in the bloom of youth? Even in such matters, one must preserve self-control and uphold the traditions of the family.” Sūta continued: Hearing her words, the king, still burning with desire, went straight to the house of the ferryman to make his request. The ferryman, seeing the king approach, was greatly astonished. Bowing with joined palms, he addressed the king respectfully, “I am your servant, O king; your arrival has fulfilled my wishes. Command me, great king—what is the purpose of your coming here?” Shantanu replied, “O sinless one, if you give her to me, I will make your daughter my lawful wife. I speak this truthfully to you.” The ferryman answered, “O king, if you desire my precious daughter, I am indeed ready to give her; but she is not to be given to you under ordinary terms. Her son, O great king, must become king after you; he alone must be anointed as your successor—no other son of yours.” Hearing the ferryman’s words, the king was filled with anxiety. Remembering Gāṅgeya, his beloved son, he found himself unable to reply. Tormented by desire and troubled in heart, the king returned home. Upon entering his house, he neither bathed, nor ate, nor slept. Seeing his father so distressed, Devavrata approached him and gently inquired about the cause of his sorrow. “Who is this unconquerable enemy, O king, whom I should subdue for you? What is your worry, tiger among kings? Speak the truth, best of rulers. What is the use, O king, of a son who neither knows suffering nor removes it? He has come to take on the debt from a previous birth—there is no doubt about this. “Even Rāma, son of Daśaratha, gave up the kingdom at his father’s command and went to the forest with Lakṣmaṇa and Jānakī, to the mountain called Citrakūṭa. The son of King Hariścandra, Rohita, was sold by his father, offered as a slave, and given to a brāhmaṇa’s house. Similarly, the most excellent son of Jīgarta, Śunaḥśepa, was bought by his father, bound to the sacrificial post, and later released by the son of Gādhi. It is well known that Jāmadagnya, at his father’s command, once cut off his mother’s head. Though it was a wrongful act, he did it, for the guru’s command is weightier. “O king, this body of yours—I am surely not worthy of it. Tell me, what shall I do? While I am here, you need not grieve; I will accomplish even the impossible for you. Tell me, king, what is your worry? Today I will remove it, taking up my bow. If my body can fulfill your purpose, let your wish not go in vain.” Thus, Devavrata spoke, ready to bear any burden for his father’s happiness.