Despite his constant efforts and daily practice, when the Brahmin boy reached the age of twelve, he still could not properly perform the prescribed Vedic rituals or even the Sandhya prayers. Word of his inability spread far and wide among the people, and soon all the Brahmins and ascetics came to know that he had become foolish and dull-witted. Wherever the young sage went, people laughed at him openly; even his own father and mother reproached him, scolding their son harshly for his lack of understanding. Criticized by everyone—by people in general, by his parents, and by his relatives—the Brahmin boy grew dispassionate with worldly life. Eventually, he left home and went into the forest. His parents, in their disappointment, lamented, “A blind or lame son would be preferable; a foolish son brings no blessing.” With these words echoing in his mind, the boy entered the solitude of the woods. On the bank of the sacred Ganges, in a beautiful and tranquil place, he built himself a modest but fine hut. There he resolved to live on the fruits and roots of the forest, dedicating himself to a life of focused simplicity. He undertook strict discipline, making a firm vow: “I will not speak untruth.” In that pleasant hermitage, he observed celibacy and remained steadfast in his resolve. Now, the story of Satyavrata truly begins, as narrated by the sage Lomasha. Satyavrata knew nothing of Vedic study or recitation, nor of meditation on deities or their worship. He did not know the proper postures for worship, nor the practices of breath control or withdrawal of the senses, nor the rites of elemental purification. He was ignorant of the mantra’s seal, the correct way to recite, the sacred Gāyatrī, and the rules for purity, bathing, or sipping water. He did not know how to offer breath into the fire, nor how to give offerings, nor the duties of hospitality to guests. The twilight worship, the ritual kindling of sacred sticks, and the fire sacrifice were all unknown to him. In the mornings, he would clean his teeth in some fashion and bathe in the Ganges like a Śūdra, without uttering any mantras. He would gather wild fruits and, even at midday, eat whatever he pleased, making no distinction between what should or should not be consumed. Yet, while living there, he always spoke the truth and never uttered a falsehood. Because of this, people began to call this twice-born one “truthful and austere.” He never harmed anyone, nor did he ever do anything forbidden. He slept peacefully, free from fear, and reflected to himself, “When will death come to me? I live in misery in this forest; shame on the life of a fool—surely death would be better.” He thought, “By fate I have become a fool; there is no other cause for my condition. Though I have attained this excellent birth, it has now become wasted. Just as a beautiful woman who is barren, or a tree that bears no fruit, or a cow that gives no milk, so too have I become useless.” He continued to ponder, “Why should I blame fate? Surely my actions have led me here. In a previous life, I did not give a book, having created one, to a great-souled Brahmin. Nor did I give pure knowledge; thus, by the force of karma, I am now a deceitful and lowly twice-born. I did not perform austerities at holy places, nor did I serve the good. I did not honor Brahmins with wealth—therefore, I have become wicked-minded.” He lamented, “The sons of sages are present, accomplished in the meaning of the Vedas and scriptures, but I have become utterly deluded by some fate. I do not know how to perform austerity—what good thing can I do? My resolve here is false; surely I have no good fortune.” He concluded, “I consider fate supreme; shame on human effort, which is fruitless. Action done with effort is in vain; everything happens only by fate. Even Brahmā, Viṣṇu, Rudra, and the gods beginning with Indra—all are subject to Time, for Time is indeed insurmountable.” Thus, Satyavrata spent his days and nights in such thoughts, remaining in his hermitage on the pure bank of the Jāhnavī. Detached from worldly concerns, he calmly passed his time in the lonely forest. In this way, fifteen years went by as he wished, without engaging in worship, recitation, or any mantra—he simply lived quietly in the forest. People knew him only for his steadfast vow; even the sage himself would only speak his name and lineage. His fame spread among all people: “This Satyavrata never utters a false word, day or night.” One day, as Satyavrata dwelled in his hermitage, a Nishada hunter, fierce in form, skilled with bow and arrow, and adept at killing, arrived in the vast forest while out hunting. The hunter shot a boar with a sharp arrow, and the terrified, wounded animal, trembling with fear, fled and ran toward the sage’s presence. Its body wet with blood, the boar reached the hermitage, and Satyavrata, seeing the pitiable creature, was overcome with deep compassion. Moved and trembling, the sage spontaneously uttered the Sarasvata seed-syllable—a sacred sound never before known or heard, which came to his lips by divine will. Bewildered, Satyavrata did not recognize what he had spoken, and overwhelmed by sorrow, he grieved deeply. The boar, upon entering the hermitage grounds, slipped away into a thicket and hid, his path undetected, his mind in despair, trembling from the pain of the arrow. Soon after, the Nishada king—his form exceedingly fierce, bow drawn—arrived at the hermitage, having followed the trail in search of his prey. Seeing Satyavrata seated on a bed of kusha grass, the hunter approached, bowed respectfully, and stood before him, asking, “O lord of the twice-born, where has the boar gone?” He continued, “I know your renowned vow, O virtuous one; therefore I ask you today. My family, struck by hunger, must be supported, and I have come here with my arrow-wounded prey. This is the livelihood ordained for me by the Creator; there is no other. O best of Brahmins, I speak the truth. My family must be supported here, by whatever means, whether auspicious or not. Speak the truth today, for you are Satyavrata. My dependents are tormented by hunger. Where is that boar, struck by my arrow? I ask you, O sage—tell me quickly.