Devayānī, her voice steady yet edged with distress, addressed the king who stood above her. "I am the daughter of Shukra," she declared, "whose wisdom brings the Daityas back from death at the hands of the gods. Surely, you do not recognize me." She extended her right hand, copper-colored nails glinting. "Here is my hand, O king. Lift me out, for I consider you noble." With humility and trust, Devayānī continued, "I know you to be calm, powerful, and renowned. Therefore, you ought to lift me out of this well, where I have fallen." Recognizing her as a Brahmin woman, the son of Nahusha—King Yayāti—took her by the right hand and gently raised her from the pit. Swiftly, he lifted her out, addressed the lovely-hipped Devayānī with kind words, and then returned to his own city. Left behind, Devayānī, wounded by insult and grief, turned to her companion Ghūrṇikā, who had come back to her side. "Quickly, Ghūrṇikā," she said, "go and tell my father everything. I will not enter the city of Vṛṣaparvan again." Ghūrṇikā hurried to the palace of the asuras. Trembling and distraught, she found Kāvya—Shukra—and spoke: "Devayānī has been killed in the forest by Śarmiṣṭhā, the wise daughter of Vṛṣaparvan." Upon hearing that his daughter had been slain by Śarmiṣṭhā, Kāvya was overcome with grief. He rushed into the forest, searching desperately for his beloved child. When he found Devayānī at the hermitage, Kāvya embraced her tightly and, sorrowful, spoke to her: "All people experience happiness and sorrow due to their own faults. I think you have committed a misdeed, and this is the expiation for it." Devayānī replied, "Whether there is expiation or not, listen carefully to what Śarmiṣṭhā, the daughter of Vṛṣaparvan, said to me. She declared, 'I am the singer of the Daityas.' With eyes reddened by anger, she spoke harsh and cutting words: 'You are the daughter of one who praises, of one who begs and receives. I am the daughter of one who is praised, who gives but does not receive.' Thus Śarmiṣṭhā, daughter of Vṛṣaparvan, spoke to me, her face full of pride and anger. She said, 'If I am the daughter of one who is praised, and you are the daughter of one who receives, then I will appease Śarmiṣṭhā.' Such were the words of my friend." She continued, "Vṛṣaparvan himself knows this, as do Śakra and King Nahusha. My power is divine, beyond duality, and inconceivable like Brahman." Kāvya, full of wisdom and compassion, said to his daughter, "O Devayānī, know that the one who always endures the harsh words of others conquers the world. He who restrains rising anger, as a skilled charioteer holds the reins of a horse, is truly wise—not one who merely holds the reins. He who subdues anger with non-anger conquers all. He who sheds wrath with forgiveness, as a serpent sheds its worn skin, is truly a man. The one who contemplates righteousness, endures beyond measure, and does not suffer greatly when afflicted—he is a vessel for prosperity. Of one who performs a hundred horse sacrifices every month for years, and one who never becomes angry with anyone, the one free from anger is superior. Boys and girls who are thoughtless may harbor enmity, but the wise do not, for they understand the strength and weakness of actions." He went on, "Even as a child, I understood the coming and going of actions, and the force or weakness of anger and speech. A disciple's undisciplined conduct should not be tolerated by one who seeks virtue, nor do I find pleasure among those of bad or mixed behavior. Those who do not honor a man for his conduct or lineage—the wise should not dwell among such people. Where people recognize a man for his conduct and lineage, there among the virtuous one should dwell; that is the best dwelling. The harsh and terrible words of Vṛṣaparvan's daughter burn my heart, as fire kindled in wood. Nowhere in the three worlds, dear one, do I think there is anything more difficult than serving a rival's blazing fortune while lacking prosperity oneself." With his heart heavy, Kāvya, foremost among the Bhṛgus, approached King Vṛṣaparvan, who was seated in his court. With a mind full of anger but words carefully considered, Kāvya spoke: "Unrighteousness, O king, does not yield fruit at once, like a cow; but slowly, as it turns, it even cuts off the roots. If one does not see the evil deed in oneself, one's sons, or grandsons, that act surpasses the three aims of life. Sin surely bears fruit, just as food eaten by a teacher does in the belly; when you killed the Brāhmaṇa Kaca, the son of Aṅgiras, so it was. He was blameless, a knower of righteousness, eager to serve, devoted in my house—unworthy of death; and my daughter as well, for her suffering. Know this, Vṛṣaparvan: I will abandon you and your kin. I cannot remain in your realm, nor stay with you." Vṛṣaparvan, alarmed and desperate, replied, "Today I recognize the demon as a false speaker, for you neglect your own daughter, though she is afflicted." But then, with humility, he addressed Kāvya: "I know in you, Bhārgava, neither blame nor falsehood; in you are truth and righteousness—may you be gracious to me. If you abandon us and depart from here, I will enter the ocean; there is no other refuge for me." Thus, the words and actions of Devayānī, her father Kāvya, and the house of Vṛṣaparvan unfolded, shaped by sorrow, anger, and the search for righteousness.