Honored by the assembled gods and seated beside mighty Shakra, the sage Narada exchanged warm greetings and delightful conversation with the Lord of Heaven. In the midst of their pleasant discourse, Shakra, wishing to please the great sage, addressed him graciously: “Tell me, O Narada, which of these celestial dancers you desire to command. Whether it be Rambha, Karkasha, Urvashi, Tilottama, Ghritachi, or Menaka—whichever pleases you, let her dance before you.” Hearing Shakra’s words, Narada, foremost among the twice-born, paused in thoughtful consideration. He then turned to the apsaras who stood before him, their bearing humble, and addressed them: “Among you all, let her who considers herself truly superior in beauty, generosity, and noble qualities step forward and dance before me. For one who lacks virtue and beauty, success in dance is not possible—just as a dance without proper foundation is but an imitation.” At once, each apsaras bowed and proclaimed, “I am superior in qualities—not you, nor you.” Thus, each declared her own excellence, and a gentle rivalry arose among them. Witnessing their agitation, the blessed wielder of the thunderbolt, Shakra, spoke: “Let the sage himself be asked; he will declare which of you is truly superior in qualities.” At Shakra’s bidding, the apsaras approached Narada and asked him to judge among them. Narada, responding to Indra’s wish, spoke thus: “She among you who can forcibly disturb the great sage Durvasa, who even now is engaged in fierce austerity atop the mountain, I will consider her superior in qualities.” Hearing Narada’s challenge, the apsaras trembled, their necks quivering in anxiety. “This is impossible for us,” they whispered among themselves. Yet among them was Vapu, an apsaras proud of her power to disturb even the mightiest sages. With confidence, she declared, “Today I will go to where that sage is residing. With the help of the god of love, whose arrows drip with the essence of passion, I will make that sage, subduer of the senses, yield to desire. Whether it be Brahma, Janardana, or even the blue-throated Shiva himself—today I would make even them wounded by the arrows of desire.” So resolved, Vapu departed for the snowy mountain, to the hermitage of Durvasa, where, by the power of his austerity, even the wild beasts dwelled in peace. There, standing a short distance away, Vapu, sweet-voiced as the male cuckoo, began to sing. The melody drifted through the forest, and hearing it, the sage Durvasa, his mind astonished, went to see the beautiful-faced maiden. Beholding her, lovely in every limb, Durvasa recognized her purpose. Restraining his mind, and knowing she had come to disturb his penance, the sage was filled with righteous anger and indignation. With eyes blazing, he spoke: “O sky-roaming one, maddened by pride, you have come here to hinder my hard-won austerity and have caused me suffering. Therefore, tainted by my wrath, you shall be born among the race of birds, O foolish one, for sixteen years. Abandoning your own form, assuming the shape of a bird, you will have four sons, O lowest of apsarases. Without finding joy among them, purified by this ordeal, you will again attain residence in heaven—but you must not speak a word in reply.” Having pronounced this unbearable curse, the sage departed, leaving Vapu trembling and agitated as the waves of a restless river. Thus afflicted, she took birth among the birds, famed for their many virtues. Time passed, and in the Treta age, there was a royal sage named Harishchandra, a king whose noble fame shone forth across the earth, steadfast in righteousness. During his reign, there was neither famine nor disease, nor untimely death among the people, nor were the citizens inclined toward unrighteousness. None were intoxicated by wealth, strength, or asceticism, and no women were born who had not attained youth. One day, the mighty-armed king was hunting in the forest, pursuing a deer. Suddenly, he heard the cries of women calling, “Save us!” Leaving the deer, the king called out, “Do not fear! Who, while I rule, would dare commit such wickedness and injustice?” Following the sound of their cries, Harishchandra came upon the cause of all obstacles—a fierce being—who began to ponder: “This is Vishvamitra, possessing unmatched ascetic power and strength, striving through his vows for the knowledge once attained by the gods. As he seeks this with patience, silence, and control of mind, these women, terrified, cry out—what should I do?” The fiend continued to muse: “The powerful Kaushika is protected by horses, while we are exceedingly weak; these frightened ones cry out, and it seems impossible for me to cross. Or perhaps this king has arrived, repeatedly saying ‘Do not fear’; I will quickly enter him and accomplish whatever I desire.” So resolved, the fierce lord of obstacles possessed King Harishchandra. Seized by anger, the king spoke: “Who is this wicked man, blazing with strength and energy, burning fire at the edge of his garment, while I, the master, am present? Today, pierced by arrows from my bow, which illuminate all directions, he will enter a long sleep, his body shattered.” Upon hearing these words, Vishvamitra grew angry, and as the sage’s wrath flared, the knowledge he had gained vanished in an instant. The king, seeing Vishvamitra—the very treasure of asceticism—was suddenly seized by fear and trembled like the leaves of an ashvattha tree. When the sage declared, “You are wicked,” and stood before him, the king, humbled, bowed low and addressed the sage with reverence.