At that very moment, Paulomī, the radiant and most beautiful queen, adorned in all her ornaments, entered the house. When she saw Śakra—Indra, the lord of all the gods—there, Paulomī was overcome with anger. Though she was graceful and well-featured, her words were sharp as she addressed her husband. "O lord," Śacī said, "what are you doing, beloved, you who are master of all the gods? Why do you offer a golden betel box to a woman who is but a servant to me? All the gods bow their heads and touch your feet, yet you, O lord, touch the feet of Padmagandhā—a mere servant! Even a bee, if asked, would gain fragrance but lose its fame; and you, the husband of countless beauties and the lord of all radiance, how can you perform such an utterly disgraceful act? Cast aside this servant Padmagandhā, who is devoid of qualities. You are the king, and I am the queen upon the couch, yet Śakra is at your feet!" Thus, the virtuous Paulomī rebuked Padmagandhā in many ways. Padmagandhā, noble and dignified, responded in anger: "Only the master knows my virtues and faults. By what authority do you insult me, calling me devoid of qualities? Even those with just two eyes can see both virtue and fault. One with a thousand eyes, if ill-intentioned, will not see the truth; for people’s faults are always spread, not their virtues. At first, the blemish of the moon is seen by those who value virtue; but one who speaks harm, is cruel, and has a wicked form, is truly devoid of virtue. If I am not virtuous, then let your husband worship you instead." Having spoken thus, her lotus-like eyes blazing with anger, Padmagandhā rose from the golden couch and began to lament loudly. Indra, distressed, called out to her: "Beloved, mistress of my life, best of women, where are you going, leaving me? What wrong have I done? Speak, beautiful one. I am surely your servant, and I perform the duties of a servant for you. The wife of a servant becomes a servant; why do you not listen to my words?" Then Śakra, his mind confused by delusion, rose and once again placed the most beautiful Padmagandhā upon his lap. Śacī, however, spoke bitterly: "The life of a Krauncha bird is blessed; surely my life is wasted. You are always fortunate, O mistress, while I am unfortunate. As long as the merit of the Krauncha lasts, that merit will be exhausted. Born in the Krauncha lineage, you will again experience sorrow. Until then, enjoy pleasure with the king of gods as you wish. How many days, O Krauncha, will you not be, O one without virtue?" Hearing these words, Padmagandhā was greatly astonished. She set aside her anger, bowed respectfully, and addressed Paulomī with humility: "O daughter of Puloma, O exalted one, what you have said is truly remarkable. O Krauñcī, tell me—who are you? Where do you dwell, and how did you come here? I wish to hear this from you in detail. And how long will it take for my merit to be exhausted?" Śacī replied: "In the past, you were Krauñcī, born among birds, with the fragrance of lotuses. On earth, you lived eating impure flesh and insects. There was a single banyan tree on the charming bank of the Gaṅgā. There, after building your nest, you made your home. One day, a black serpent entered that banyan tree, entered your nest, and suddenly bit you, taking your life. The serpent, enraged, devoured all your flesh, leaving only your bones. Later, a great wind cast the serpent down, breaking the banyan tree, which fell into the Gaṅgā with roots and all. As the banyan drifted in the river, your excellent bones were washed by the sacred waters. As long as your bones remain in the Gaṅgā, so long does your merit last—and so long will you be dear to your lord. Thus, O Padmagandhā, I have told you everything. By the power of this merit, even Śakra is under your sway. Blessed indeed is the goddess Jāhnavī (Gaṅgā), by whose grace, O Krauñcī, you are untouched by outcastes, even among the hosts of Indra. Yet Pulomajā, the virtuous one, was also insulted by him." As Śacī finished, her lotus face faded, and she departed as she had come. Padmagandhā, the lovely one, remained in Indra's abode. Yet Śacī’s words lingered in her heart, always present in her thoughts. Then, one day, the lord of the gods, pleased by Padmagandhā’s virtues, said to her, "Choose a boon, O beautiful-hipped one, whatever you wish." Padmagandhā replied, "You are lord of all the gods, master of countless women—yet you are under my power, lord; what need have I of other boons? Still, if you wish to grant me a boon, O best of gods, make a vow before me by deed, thought, and word." Indra responded, "Life, wealth, kingdom, and retinue—command me, O beautiful one, and I will give it to you. Truly, truly, again truly—there is no doubt in this. Whatever you desire, O doe-eyed one, I will surely give you." Padmagandhā said, "If you, lord of the gods, are truly pleased, then let my birth be in the womb of an elephant; grant me this boon once more." Indra, keeping his promise, said, "I have made a vow, O lovely-hipped one, and I surely grant you this boon. Yet many sorrows have passed through my heart; O beautiful one, not seeing you, I find no joy even for a moment." Thus, the story unfolds—of Padmagandhā, Śacī, and Indra—woven with the threads of merit, destiny, and divine love.