As the king beheld the radiant maiden standing upon the riverbank, his mind was awash with curiosity and wonder. Who was this enchanting woman, he pondered—was she a celestial maiden, a human, perhaps a daughter of the Gandharvas, or even a Nāga maiden? Her beauty and fragrance captivated him, but her origin remained a mystery. Unable to resolve his questions, the king’s thoughts turned to Gaṅgā, and an overwhelming desire stirred within him. Gathering his resolve, he approached the lovely woman, who stood alone by the river, and addressed her with gentle words: “Who are you, dear one? Whose daughter are you, and why do you stand here alone in this deserted place? Tell me, charming-eyed maiden, are you married or unmarried?” The king’s heart was aflame with longing. “Desire has arisen in me, O wide-eyed one, upon seeing your enchanting form. Please, tell me what you intend, where you are going, and all that you wish to do.” The maiden, her eyes like lotuses and her smile sweet, replied with calm grace: “O king, know me as the daughter of a ferryman. I am a maiden who abides by her father’s command. Today I ferry this boat upon the waters as my duty, for my father has gone home. I speak the truth before you, O lord of wealth.” Having spoken thus, the maiden fell silent. Yet the king, his heart overcome with yearning, entreated her further: “Make me your husband, O noble lady, and let not your youth go to waste. I have no other wife; be my lawful consort, doe-eyed one. I am your servant, always under your control. The god of love torments me, for my beloved has left me, and I have chosen no other. Seeing your beauty, my mind is utterly captivated.” Hearing these words, sweet as nectar, the ferryman’s daughter—whose name was Sugandhā and whose heart was pure—gathered her courage and responded: “O king, your words are just, but know truly: I am not independent. My father is my giver; seek his consent swiftly. Though I am but a ferryman’s daughter, I act only under my father’s authority. If my renowned father grants his consent, take my hand—I am yours.” She continued, “O king, why does the god of love trouble you as he does me, now that I am in the bloom of youth? Yet even in such matters, one must preserve self-control and uphold the traditions of the family.” At this, the narrator Sūta says, the king, still overwhelmed by desire, went at once to the ferryman’s house to make his request. Seeing the king approach, the ferryman was astonished and, bowing with joined palms, welcomed him: “I am your servant, O king. Your arrival fulfills my wishes. Command me, great king—what brings you here?” The king 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 ready to give her. But she is not to be given under ordinary terms. Her son alone must inherit your throne and be anointed as your successor—no other son of yours.” Upon hearing these words, the king was filled with anxiety, for he thought of Gāṅgeya, his beloved son, and could not reply. Tormented by desire and worry, he returned to his palace, abstaining from bathing, eating, or sleeping. Observing his father’s distress, Devavrata approached and inquired, “Who is this unconquerable enemy, O king, whom I should subdue for you? What is your worry, best of rulers? Speak the truth. Of what use is a son who neither knows his father’s suffering nor removes it? A son is born to discharge debts from a previous birth—there is no doubt.” Devavrata reminded his father of the great sons of the past: “Even Rāma, son of Daśaratha, renounced the kingdom at his father’s command and went to the forest with Lakṣmaṇa and Jānakī. King Hariścandra’s son, Rohita, was sold as a slave by his father. Śunaḥśepa, the son of Jīgarta, was bought and bound to a sacrificial post, then released by the son of Gādhi. Jāmadagnya, at his father’s command, once cut off his mother’s head, though it was a wrongful act—for the guru’s command is the highest.” He continued, “O king, this body of mine is at your service. Tell me your wish, and I will accomplish even the impossible. If my body can fulfill your purpose, let not your wish go in vain. Shame upon that son who, though capable, does not fulfill his father’s desire. What use is such a son who does not relieve his father’s anxiety?” Hearing these words, King Śantanu, his heart filled with embarrassment, replied, “My son, my anxiety is great, for you are my only child. You are brave and strong, yet you turn away from battle. My life depends on you alone. If you were to die in battle, what would become of me? This is my great concern; there is no other worry.” Gāṅgeya, perceiving his father’s unease, sought counsel from the aged ministers: “The king does not speak to me, overwhelmed by embarrassment. Please, learn the cause of his worry and tell me everything, so I may act without hesitation.” The ministers approached the king, learned the truth, and conveyed it to Gāṅgeya, who pondered the matter deeply. Then, together with them, he went swiftly to the ferryman’s house. Bowing respectfully, the son of Jahnavi spoke: “Give your daughter to my father today, I request the fair-waisted one. Let her be my mother, and I will be her servant, O scorcher of foes.