Listen, as the tale unfolds of the sacred regions and the deeds of Purūravas, the illustrious king. Śṛṅgavān, the foremost of mountains, stands as the path of return for the ancestors, marking the boundaries of the nine regions of Bhārata, each vibrant and profound. These lands are inhabited not only by humans and gods, but also by spirits, both moving and still. Their growth and transformations manifest in countless forms, impossible to enumerate, yet worthy of faith for those who seek. Janārdana, I have heard the deeds of Budha’s son, Purūravas, and the sacred rite of Śrāddha, which cleanses all sins. I have learned of the merit gained by giving a cow at the time of her calving, the gift of a black antelope skin, and the release of a bull. Having heard of Purūravas, the king, Budha’s son, O Keśava, curiosity stirs within me. Tell me, I ask, by what actions and their results did Purūravas attain such a form and supreme fortune? Urvaśī, esteemed among the gods and the most enchanting in the three worlds, together with the Gandharvas, abandoned all for Purūravas, dedicating herself wholly to him. Hear now, by what deeds and their fruits King Purūravas achieved such a form and fortune. In a former birth, Purūravas, renowned by that name, was the lord of Madra land. He belonged to the lineage of Cākṣuṣa, during the interval of Cākṣuṣa Manu, endowed with royal virtues but lacking beauty. By what actions did Purūravas, lord of Madra, become king, and by what deeds did he gain handsomeness? In a village of twice-borns, there lived a foremost Brāhmaṇa named Purūravas, who in a previous birth had been a great king on the riverbank. That king of Madra, Purūravas, was born as a Brāhmaṇa, O sinless one, on the twelfth day. Desiring sovereignty, he fasted and worshipped Janārdana, performing the prescribed vow with bathing and anointing. From the fruit of his fasting, he won a kingdom in Madra without obstacles; but because he bathed with anointing while fasting, he was born lacking beauty. Therefore, O king, one who fasts should avoid bathing with anointing, for it destroys beauty. All this has been told—the deeds of the lord of Madra in a former birth. Listen now to the story of that king. Though the ruler possessed every royal virtue, he did not win the people's affection, for he lacked beauty. Desiring beauty, the lord of Madra resolved upon austerity; entrusting his kingdom to his ministers, he departed for the snowy mountain. With steadfast determination and renowned greatness, he journeyed on foot to see the sacred abode at the edge of his realm, his own river. He beheld the river named Airavati, exceedingly charming, born of the snowy mountain with mighty currents and waters as cool as the rays of the snowy peak. The king saw the river, radiant with golden hues like snow, its brilliance rivaling the snowy mountain. He saw the sacred river, divine and auspicious, the Haemavati, always frequented by Gandharvas and served by Indra. Splendid in every direction, sprinkled with the intoxication of celestial elephants, its surface always shining with the colors of Indra’s bow. Purūravas saw it—a refuge for ascetics, served by eminent Brahmins, glowing like gold. The river was covered with rows of white swans, adorned with Kashmiri fans, appearing as if consecrated by the virtuous; seeing it, he felt supreme delight. Sacred, pleasantly cool and delightful, it increased joy in the mind, its beauty waxing and waning, charming like another form of Soma. With cool, swift waters, served by groups of twice-born, the best daughter of Himavat, splendid with dancing waves. Its water tasted like nectar, beautified by ascetics, a stairway to heaven, destroying all sins. Foremost, queen of the ocean, served by hosts of great sages, enchanting and stirring curiosity in all the worlds. Beneficial to all beings, granting the path to heaven, its banks crowded by herds of cows, lovely and free from Shaivala grass. The river resounded with flocks of swans and cranes, adorned with water flowers, deep with swirling eddies, its banks broad like the hips of an island. Its waters were beautiful, with eyes like blue water, faces like blooming lotuses, clothed in snowy foam, bearing Chakravaka birds, lined with cranes, its moving fish forming arched brows. Its breasts swelled like the temples of elephants born from its own waters, resounding with the jingling of swan anklets, adorned with garlands of lotus-stalk bangles. There, intoxicated by their own beauty, hosts of Apsarases, accompanied by Gandharvas, played at midday, O King. The river carried away pure saffron washed from the bodies of Apsarases, fragrant with the diverse scents of flowers growing on its banks. Its surface, crowded with waves, made the sun’s disk hard to see, adorned with the tumult of the gods’ festive gatherings. Its waters, mingled with sandal paste from the breasts of divine women and water from Indra’s cheeks, were served by bees. On its banks grew trees adorned with fragrant blossoms, the air filled with the restless buzzing of bees, disturbed and excited. Thus, Purūravas, seeking beauty, beheld the sacred river, its splendor and divine presence filling him with joy and wonder.