Moved by deep compassion, the sage Gobhila spoke to Devadatta, who was overwhelmed with sorrow over his child’s fate. Gobhila assured him, “Though your son may become foolish, in time he will also become wise.” Receiving this boon, Devadatta, foremost among the twice-born, was filled with joy. He completed the ritual with care and, following proper custom, respectfully dismissed the assembled Brahmins. In due course, Devadatta’s wife—graceful and virtuous—conceived. At the proper time, just as Rohini had once done, she gave birth to a son. Devadatta performed all the prescribed rites for conception and related ceremonies, including rituals for begetting a male child and acts of adornment for the expectant mother. He also joyfully carried out the ceremony of parting the hair, as enjoined in the Vedas, distributed generous gifts, and felt assured that the ritual had borne fruit. On an auspicious day, his wife gave birth to a son possessing Rohini’s own qualities. At a most favorable hour and under a propitious star, Devadatta performed the birth rites with devotion. When he first beheld his son, he conducted the naming ceremony, bestowing upon the child the ancient and noble name: Utathya. In the child’s eighth year, on another auspicious occasion, Devadatta performed the sacred thread ceremony for Utathya, as tradition dictated. Thereafter, a teacher began to instruct Utathya in the Vedas, and the boy undertook the student’s vow. Yet Utathya did not recite as he was taught; he remained silent, as if bewildered. Despite his father’s repeated efforts to teach him, the boy stubbornly failed to grasp the lessons, standing mute and dull-witted. His father’s heart ached with grief. Even after continual practice, by the time Utathya reached twelve years of age, he was unable to properly perform the prescribed Vedic rituals or even the daily Sandhya prayers. Word of his folly spread far and wide among Brahmins and ascetics alike. Wherever the sage went, people laughed at him. His own parents scolded him harshly, lamenting their son’s foolishness. Criticized by all—by the people, his parents, and his relatives—the Brahmin boy grew weary of the world. Dispassion arose in his heart, and he resolved to leave. His parents mourned, saying, “A blind or lame son is preferable; a foolish son is no blessing.” With these words echoing in his mind, Utathya departed for the forest. On the tranquil banks of the Ganges, at a beautiful spot, he built himself a simple but fine hut. Resolving to live only on forest produce, he remained there with a focused mind. He undertook strict discipline, declaring, “I will never speak untruth.” In that pleasant hermitage, he observed the vow of celibacy. At this point, the narration of Satyavrata begins, as Lomasha relates: Utathya knew nothing of Vedic study or recitation, nor of meditation upon deities or their worship. He did not know the proper posture for worship, the practice of breath control, the withdrawal of the senses, or the rites of elemental purification. He was ignorant of the mantra’s seal, the method of recitation, the Gāyatrī, the rules of purity, bathing, or sipping water. He did not know how to offer breath into the fire, nor how to make offerings, nor how to properly welcome guests. The twilight worship, kindling of sacred sticks, and the fire ritual were all unknown to him. Each morning, he would clean his teeth in whatever way he could, and bathe in the Ganges like a Śūdra, without reciting any mantras. He would gather wild fruits and eat as he pleased, even at midday, not knowing what should or should not be consumed. Yet, though ignorant of sacred rites and customs, he always spoke the truth and never uttered a falsehood. People began to call this twice-born one “truthful and austere.” He did not harm anyone, nor did he ever violate what was forbidden. He slept peacefully, free of fear, reflecting often on his condition: “When will death come for me? I live in misery in this forest. Shame on the life of a fool—death is surely better. By fate I have become a fool; there is no other cause for my plight. I have wasted this excellent birth. Just as a beautiful barren woman, a fruitless tree, or a cow that gives no milk, so too have I become useless.” He pondered further, “Why blame fate? My own actions must be the cause. In a previous life, I did not give the gift of a book to a worthy Brahmin. I did not impart pure knowledge, and so, by the force of karma, I am now a deceitful and lowly twice-born. I performed no austerities at holy places, nor did I serve the good or honor Brahmins with wealth—thus I am now wicked-minded. The sons of sages thrive, accomplished in the Vedas and scriptures, but I am utterly deluded by fate. I do not even know how to perform austerity—what good can I possibly do? My resolve is fruitless; surely I am bereft of good fortune.” He concluded, “I consider fate supreme; shame on human effort, which is fruitless. All action done with effort is in vain; everything happens only by fate. Even Brahmā, Viṣṇu, Rudra, and the gods beginning with Indra are subject to Time, for Time alone is insurmountable.” Thus, day and night, Utathya’s mind was filled with such thoughts. He remained in his hermitage on the pure banks of the Jāhnavī, detached from worldly pursuits. He calmly passed his days in the lonely forest. So, living with only pure water as his companion, fifteen years went by as he wished. He did not engage in worship, nor recitation, nor did he know any mantra—he simply passed the time in the forest. People knew only of his great vow; even learned sages spoke only of his name and lineage. Yet his fame spread among all: “This Satyavrata never utters a false word, day or night.” One day, as fate would have it, a fierce Nishada—skilled with bow and arrow, formidable in appearance, his body like Yama, and highly adept at killing—arrived in the vast forest, delighting in the hunt.