The Brahmani, her face shadowed with sorrow, approached the noble Anasuya and revealed the heavy burden she carried: “By the curse of Mandavya, O revered lady, my husband has been condemned in anger. The words of doom were spoken—‘Without sunrise, you shall meet your end.’” Compassion filled Anasuya’s heart, and she replied gently, “If it pleases you, blessed one, I shall, at your request, restore things as they were and grant you a new husband. In every way, O lovely one, I honor the greatness of women, and above all, the devotion of a faithful wife.” When the Brahmani agreed, Anasuya, steadfast in her ascetic power, performed a sacred invocation to the Sun. She offered arghya at night on the tenth day, her mind unwavering and her heart pure. In response, the blessed Vivasvat, radiant as a blossoming red lotus, rose over the mountain king, his great orb illuminating the world before its time. At that very moment, the Brahmani’s husband’s life departed; he fell to the ground, but she caught him as he collapsed. Anasuya spoke to her, her voice both soothing and powerful: “Do not grieve, O blessed one! Witness my power—by serving your husband, what fruit of austerity have you not earned?” Anasuya then invoked the truth of her own unwavering devotion: “I have never seen any man equal to my husband in beauty, character, wisdom, or sweetness of speech. By that truth, may this Brahmin be freed from disease, restored to youth, and live a hundred years with his wife. As I see no deity equal to my husband, by that truth, may this Brahmin regain youth and health. As my constant effort in deed, thought, and word has been to serve my husband, so may this Brahmin live on.” By the force of her truth and virtue, the Brahmin rose up—disease-free, youthful again, his form radiant like an immortal child among the gods. In that moment, a shower of flowers rained down from the heavens, divine music filled the air, and the gods themselves rejoiced. They addressed Anasuya with reverence: “Choose a boon, O blessed one! You have accomplished a great task for the gods. Therefore, O ascetic, the gods grant you a boon.” Anasuya replied humbly, “If the gods, led by the Grandfather, are pleased with me, and if I am worthy to receive a boon and regarded favorably by you all, then let Brahma, Vishnu, and Maheshvara become my sons. And may I attain yoga together with my husband, for freedom from suffering.” The gods—Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva, and the others—replied, “So be it.” Honoring the ascetic woman, they departed as was proper. — Time passed, and in another place, the two sons spoke: “That prince, swiftly reaching his own city, bowed at the feet of his parents, his heart longing to see Madalasa. But as he entered, he saw the people anxious, their faces joyless. Then, as if by magic, their expressions shifted to astonishment and joy. He witnessed someone, eyes wide with delight, exclaiming, ‘By fortune! By fortune!’ and embracing another with great excitement. Others called out, ‘Long life to you, O greatly blessed one! Your enemies are slain. Gladden the hearts of your parents and remove our troubles as well.’ Surrounded by citizens speaking thus, he entered his father’s house, joy arising in that very moment. His father embraced him, as did his mother and other relatives, all giving him auspicious blessings and wishing him long life. Bowing down, amazed, he asked his father, ‘What is this?’ And his father recounted everything that had transpired. Hearing that his beloved wife Madalasa had died, and seeing his parents before him, the prince was overcome by a sea of shame and grief. He thought, ‘That young woman, hearing that I had died, gave up her own life—virtuous one! Shame on me, with my harsh heart. I am cruel, I am ignoble, living without her, the doe-eyed one, who died because of me—how utterly pitiless I am!’ Steadying his mind, he reflected further, casting off the surge of delusion, though sighs and deep breaths betrayed his distress. ‘If, because of me, she died and gave up her life, what worthy deed have I done for her? This is truly praiseworthy among women. If I, miserable, weep again and again, crying, “Ah, my beloved!”—even so, this is not praiseworthy, for we are men, after all. Or, dulled by grief, dejected, unclean and wretched, I would become a laughingstock for my enemies, a target for their scorn. I must destroy the enemies, serve the king, my father; his life depends on me—how, then, could I abandon it?’ He reasoned further, ‘However, I think here the duty is to renounce the share belonging to the woman; and this too is not for her benefit, O slender one, but in every way. I must perform this act of compassion, not for reward or harm; she gave up her life for my sake—this small thing is for her.’ Having resolved his mind, he performed the water-offering for Madalasa, and after completing the subsequent rites, Ṛtadhvaja spoke solemnly: ‘If that slender-limbed woman, Madalasa, is not my wife, then in this life I shall have no other companion. Except for her, the fawn-eyed daughter of the Gandharva, I will not enjoy any other woman—this is the truth I declare. Leaving aside that elephant-gaited wife, who walks in righteousness, I will not accept any other—this is the truth I declare.’ The sons concluded: “Having renounced all pleasures with women, father, he lives, playing with his peers of equal virtue, without her. This is his highest duty, father! Who is able to accomplish it? It is extremely difficult to attain, even for the gods, let alone others.