Satyavrata, a twice-born sage, dwelled on the pure banks of the Jāhnavī, his mind troubled and heavy with regret. He reflected, “I did not practice austerities at sacred places, nor did I serve the virtuous. I failed to honor Brahmins with wealth; because of this, I have become wicked-minded.” He saw the sons of sages around him, accomplished in the meaning of the Vedas and scriptures, yet he lamented, “I am utterly deluded by some fate.” He confessed, “I do not know how to perform austerities—what good can I do? My resolve is false; surely, I have no good fortune.” Satyavrata considered fate to be supreme, declaring, “Shame on human effort, which is fruitless. Action done with effort is in vain; everything happens only by fate.” He thought of the gods—Brahmā, Viṣṇu, Rudra, and those beginning with Indra—and recognized that all are subject to Time, for Time is insurmountable. With such thoughts, Satyavrata passed his days and nights in the hermitage, detached from worldly concerns, calmly enduring the solitude of the forest. Fifteen years slipped by as he wished, with neither worship nor recitation, nor knowledge of any mantra—he simply passed the time in the forest. People knew only of his extensive vow; even the sage himself spoke only his name and lineage. His fame grew among all: “This Satyavrata never utters a false word, day or night.” One day, as Satyavrata sat in his hermitage, a Nishada hunter, skilled with bow and arrow, fierce in form, his body resembling Yama, entered the vast forest, seeking prey. The hunter struck a boar with a sharp arrow; terrified and trembling, the wounded boar fled and ran to 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. Trembling with emotion and filled with compassion, Satyavrata spontaneously uttered the Sarasvata seed-syllable—a sound never before known or heard, which came to his mouth by divine will. Bewildered, the sage did not recognize it, and, overwhelmed by grief, was plunged into sorrow. The boar slipped away into a thicket within the hermitage, hiding itself, its path undetected, trembling from the pain of the arrow. Soon after, the Nishada king, fierce and holding his drawn bow, arrived at the hermitage, seeking his quarry. He saw Satyavrata seated on a bed of kusha grass, approached him, bowed, and asked, “O lord of the twice-born, where has the boar gone?” The hunter explained, “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. 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.” Thus questioned, the sage was plunged into deep thought: “Let not my vow of truthfulness be broken today; but if I say he is not seen, what is the point of such speech? The boar, his body pierced by arrows, has come here—how can I speak falsely or truly today? This man, tormented by hunger, is asking; if he sees the boar, he will surely kill it.” Satyavrata pondered, “Truth is not truth where there is violence; and that which is compassionate, though untrue, is indeed truth. That which brings benefit to people is truth here, not otherwise. How can there be benefit for both, when their interests are opposed? What answer can there be, other than a lie?” Caught in a dilemma of dharma, the sage could not utter a fitting reply. At that moment, seeing the boar struck by arrows and filled with compassion, the auspicious Goddess was pleased with him and granted him rare knowledge, arising from her own seed. By the utterance of the seed-syllable of the Goddess, all knowledge manifested within him; and just as before, he became a poet like Vālmīki. Satyavrata then addressed the hunter standing before him, armed with a bow. Righteous and compassionate, he spoke a single verse: “She who sees does not speak, and she who speaks does not see; O hunter, intent on your own purpose, why do you ask again and again?” Thus addressed, the animal-slayer departed, disappointed with the boar, and returned to his home. The brāhmaṇa became a poet, another like the son of Prachetas, renowned everywhere by the name Satyavrata, the twice-born. He performed the proper rites and recited the Sārasvata seed-mantra; the learned twice-born became exceedingly famous on earth. At every festival, brāhmaṇas sang his fame, and the sages praised his extensive narrative. Hearing of his renown, people gathered at his dwelling and ashram; he who was once abandoned was now brought home with great honor. Therefore, O King, the supreme Goddess, the primal power, the cause of the worlds, should always be served and worshipped with devotion. O great King, perform her sacrifice according to Vedic injunction; it is always said to grant all desires. Remembered, worshipped with devotion, meditated upon, uttered, or praised, she grants the desired objects; thus she is called the fulfiller of purposes. This effect must always be accomplished by the wise, seeing those afflicted with disease, misery, hunger, poverty, and deceit; and seeing people who are distressed, ignorant, always tormented by enemies, servants who obey commands, the lowly, the disabled, and the agitated; those unsatisfied in food and enjoyment, always suffering, unable to control their senses, overwhelmed by desire, powerless, and constantly oppressed by others. Likewise, those endowed with wealth, increasing sons and grandsons, those with strong bodies, enjoying pleasures, and versed in the Vedas. Thus, the story of Satyavrata reveals the compassion of the Goddess and the power of truth tempered by wisdom.