In the ancient city of Pratishthana, there lived a Brahmin named Kaushika. Owing to sins from his previous lives, Kaushika was afflicted with the terrible disease of leprosy. Despite his condition, his wife, a woman of great virtue and devotion, served him with unwavering dedication, honoring him as a god. She cared for his every need: massaging his feet, rubbing his limbs, bathing him, clothing him, and feeding him with her own hands. Her service did not end with these acts. She would gently clean away his phlegm, urine, feces, and blood, tending to his private needs with compassion and never a word of complaint. She spoke to him with affection, soothing him in every possible way. Yet, despite her humility and the honor she showed him, Kaushika was often consumed by intense anger. He would rebuke her harshly, his words sharp and unkind. Still, his wife saw him as her highest deity, considering him the greatest of all, no matter how dreadful his appearance or temperament had become. One day, Kaushika, unable to walk on his own, spoke to his wife and said, “Take me to her dwelling.” He explained, “There is a courtesan whom I saw on the royal road, living in a house nearby. Take me to her, O knower of dharma! She alone dwells in my heart. The girl I saw at sunrise has now arrived in my thoughts at night; her image does not leave my heart. If that beautiful woman, with full hips and breasts, does not embrace me, O slender one, you will surely see me dead. Desire is fickle among men, and she is sought by many. My inability to go makes the path seem impossible for me.” Hearing her husband speak in this way, overwhelmed by desire, his wife—born of a noble family, greatly fortunate, and steadfast in her devotion—girded her garments, took extra payment for the courtesan, and, lifting her husband onto her shoulder, set out gently along the road. It was night; the sky was covered with clouds and lit by flashes of lightning, but the devoted wife, intent on pleasing her husband, walked the royal road without hesitation. On their path, they encountered a terrible sight: a thief, suspected of theft, had been impaled on a stake. This was Māṇḍavya, a twice-born sage, suffering greatly in the darkness. As Kauśika’s wife passed by, carrying her husband, her foot brushed against Māṇḍavya, causing him pain. Angered, Māṇḍavya cried out, “Who has caused me such distress, shaking me with their feet, and brought me to this wretched state? That sinful, vile person—at sunrise, he will lose his life, without doubt. Merely by seeing the sun, he will meet his destruction.” Hearing this dreadful curse pronounced upon her husband, the wife was filled with distress. In her anguish, she declared, “Then the sun will not rise.” By the power of her chastity and devotion, the sun indeed did not rise; night continued unbroken for many days. The gods became fearful, for without the sunrise, all recitation of sacred texts, oblations, and offerings to ancestors and gods ceased. The world stood on the brink of destruction. Without the division of day and night, months and seasons could not be completed; without their completion, the southern and northern courses of the sun could not be known. Without this knowledge, the year—time itself—could not be understood, and without the year, no other measures of time could proceed. Because of the devoted wife’s word, the sun did not rise, and thus bathing, giving gifts, and other sacred acts could not be performed. Without the movement of fire, sacrifices could not be made, nor could the gods receive their proper share of offerings. The gods reflected, “We are nourished by mortals with their sacrifices; in turn, we send rain for their crops and well-being. Mortals worship us with offerings from the plants they grow, and, honored thus, we grant them their desires. We send rain below, and mortals offer upwards; each gives in their own way. But those who neglect the rites and greedily consume the sacrificial portion themselves, for their destruction, we corrupt their water, sun, fire, wind, and earth. By consuming these corrupted elements, evildoers suffer fierce calamities and death. But those who please us and partake only of the remainder, we grant them blessed worlds, for they are noble souls.” The gods lamented, “None of this can exist without the day. How, then, can the creation of the day occur?” Thus they spoke among themselves, deeply troubled by the cessation of sacrifice. As the assembled gods pondered these words in fear, Prajapati, the Lord of Creatures, addressed them: “Power is subdued only by greater power, and austerity by greater austerity. Therefore, listen well. By the greatness of this devoted wife, the sun does not rise; and because he does not rise, hunger afflicts mortals and you as well. Therefore, approach this devoted and ascetic wife, and propitiate the wife of Bhanu, so that the sun may rise once more.” The gods heeded Prajapati’s counsel. They went to the devoted wife and entreated her: “Let the day be as before. Let the sunrise occur as before.” Anasuya, the wife of Bhanu, replied, “How could the greatness of a devoted wife be diminished? Therefore, honoring that virtuous woman, I shall restore the day, O gods.” And so, just as the cycle of day and night returned, so too was it affirmed that the husband of a virtuous woman would never come to ruin. Having spoken thus, the auspicious Anasuya returned to her abode. When asked about her well-being, she inquired in turn about the righteousness of her husband and herself, thus upholding the dharma of a devoted wife and the harmony of the cosmos.