O noble sage, listen as the story unfolds. It began when a group of people noticed that a dead snake had been thrown upon a great sage. When the words reached the ears of the sage’s son, he was seized with blazing anger. Consumed by wrath, he took water in his palm and uttered a curse: “The one who placed a dead snake on my father’s neck today—let Takshaka, the serpent-king, bite that sinful man within seven nights!” The sage’s disciple, hearing this, went at once to the king who was then staying in his own house. He informed the king of the curse pronounced by the sage’s son. Upon hearing that the curse had come from a brahmin, King Parikshit, son of Abhimanyu, realized that the decree was inescapable. He turned to his senior ministers and spoke, “A brahmin has cursed me, surely out of enmity. What should I do, O wise ministers? Consider some means, for the Vedic teachers declare that death is inevitable.” He continued, “Nevertheless, the wise must always make efforts as prescribed by scripture. Some thinkers say that means should be sought, for with proper means, tasks are accomplished—never otherwise. The powers of jewels, mantras, and herbs are difficult to fathom. If nothing can be done by those who possess well-prepared jewels, then why did a sage’s wife, once bitten by a snake and dead, return to life?” The king recounted, “A celestial nymph was revived by a sage, who gave half his own life to restore her. Yet, when fate is strong, the wise should never trust solely in effort. Let the ministers see this example directly: is there anyone, in heaven or on earth, who escapes fate? Fixing one’s mind on destiny, one may remain without effort—or, becoming detached, a mendicant may wander, seeking alms. In the houses of householders, whether invited or not, whatever comes by chance or is placed in the mouth—how could food enter the stomach without effort? Effort must be made. If success does not come, then one should rely on destiny, so say the wise.” The ministers, intrigued, asked, “Which sage revived his beloved by giving half his life? How did she die, O great king? Tell us in detail.” The king replied, “The wife of Bhrigu, beautiful and lovely, was named Puloma. From her was born the renowned sage Cyavana. Cyavana’s daughter by Sharyati was the beautiful Sukanya. From her came a famous and prosperous son, Pramati. Pramati’s beloved wife was the renowned Pratapi. Their son was Ruru, a supreme ascetic. At that time, there was also a celebrated sage named Sthulakesha, devoted to austerity, righteousness, and truthfulness. Meanwhile, the honored apsaras Menaka, the delight of the three worlds, was playing on the riverbank. Having conceived by Vishvavasu, the radiant one departed. “The apsaras left the beautiful maiden, delight of the three worlds, at the hermitage of Sthulakesha, leaving her on the riverbank. Seeing the abandoned girl, the eminent sage took her in, raised her, and named her Pramadvara. “In time, Pramadvara reached youth, adorned with all auspicious marks. When Ruru saw her, he was struck by the arrows of love. “Tormented by love, Ruru returned to his own hermitage while his father slept. Seeing his son so downcast, Pramati asked, ‘Why are you so troubled, Ruru?’ Greatly afflicted, Ruru replied, ‘In the hermitage of Sthulakesha is a maiden named Pramadvara. May she become my wife.’ “Pramati at once went to the great sage Sthulakesha and, humbly with a pleasant face, requested the radiant maiden for his son. Sthulakesha gave his word, ‘I will give her on an auspicious day.’ Both families began making preparations for the wedding in the forest. Pramati and Sthulakesha, both great souls, eagerly arranged everything, remaining nearby in the forest hermitage. “At that moment, as Pramadvara delighted in the house courtyard, she accidentally touched a sleeping serpent with her foot. Bitten by the snake, that excellent woman died. A great commotion arose when Pramadvara was found lifeless. “All the sages gathered, overcome with grief, and wailed. Seeing her fallen on the ground, her father was overwhelmed with sorrow. He wept over her, lifeless yet radiant. Hearing the lamentation, Ruru came to see. He found her lying as if alive—his beloved. Seeing Sthulakesha and the other eminent sages weeping, Ruru went out, stricken with grief, and cried, ‘Alas, by fate this serpent was sent—truly astonishing! This is the cause of my misery, the destroyer of my happiness. What shall I do, where shall I go—my beloved is dead.’ ‘Truly, I do not wish to live, separated from my beloved. She of lovely form has not been embraced or kissed by me. By my misfortune, I have not obtained her hand in marriage, nor performed the sacred rites with her. Fie upon this human life, for today my very life departs. For one who suffers, even death does not come though it is desired. How, then, can the happiness I long for, whether heavenly or earthly, be attained? I will plunge into a dreadful river, or cast myself into fire.’” Thus, O sage, did the king recount the tale of love, loss, and fate, reflecting on the mysterious interplay of destiny and human effort.