From the moment of his birth, he was naturally righteous and remained steadfast in his austerities at that very place. His unwavering devotion and penance pleased me deeply, even from his very first breath. O best of brāhmaṇas, those who behold me with supreme devotion are blessed indeed; wherever such devotees may go, they are forever free from sorrow by virtue of that connection. The three-eyed Lord, Śiva—the master of the hosts and the perfected beings—attended by accomplished Gandharvas, is ever present. Those who worship me with heartfelt devotion, offering fragrant flowers, are especially dear to me. Thus, when this was spoken, the great ascetic Mārkaṇḍeya, with that sacred liṅga, demonstrated the power that resided both in himself and in the Lord. O goddess, I have described to you the wondrous might of both Mārkaṇḍeya and the Lord. By the mere sight of the Lord, all forms of prosperity arise. In the age of Brahmā, there lived a king named Ripuṃjaya. He was devoted to the worship of the gods, performed sacred vows, gave generously in charity, practiced meditation, and diligently engaged in self-study. He cared for his subjects as if they were his own children, protecting them with great affection and ensuring their well-being. Under his rule, the people flourished—they had children, enjoyed abundant wealth and grain, and all their desires were fulfilled. Yet, as he governed the earth, O Pārvatī, King Ripuṃjaya found delight in nothing but journeying to the holy city of Ujjayinī. At that time, I, Gaṇeśa—known also as Śiva, chief of the hosts—spoke to my son, saying, “Go, my child, to my beloved.” Obediently, he replied with joined palms, “So be it.” When the host of Śiva departed, O fair-smiling one, I was filled with satisfaction. Then, adopting the form of a mendicant and carrying many healing herbs, I went forth. Whoever was afflicted by spirits, poison, or various ailments sought my aid. Those who were childless found themselves blessed with children, relying on the power of my mantra. Hearing my words, people’s curiosity was stirred, and they came to me seeking relief. I dispelled their most formidable diseases, accepting in return gifts of gold, jewels, fine garments, grain, villages, and towns. In this way, I dwelled there for fourteen years. Ah, what a supremely difficult task for a king! How devoted he was to the welfare of his people! As King Ripuṃjaya pondered these things, Śiva himself, in the guise of a mendicant and surrounded by his attendants, appeared before him. Meanwhile, among the king’s subjects was a woman of incomparable beauty, yet she was childless and yearned deeply for a son. Knowing that the mendicant was able to grant all desires, even the nāga women approached him with curiosity. Within the mendicant’s dwelling, the attentive queen, focused and undistracted, approached the mendicant, who was absorbed in thought and engaged in receiving alms. Bowing with joined palms, her heart free from anxiety but intent on her purpose, the queen—longing for a son though barren—wished to see the mendicant in secret. “You are indeed a source of compassion,” she said, “and you generally bestow the desired ends upon the people. You say you enter the king’s house unknown. Therefore, considering this, quickly go to your own inner chambers, O auspicious one.” But upon hearing the mendicant’s words, the queen’s mind became agitated. Listening to her companion’s advice, the distressed queen said, “Quickly bring the mendicant before he departs elsewhere.” Sunandā, her companion, spoke fittingly and advised her, “Therefore, reveal your troubled state of mind to the king.” At that very moment, as the queen longed for an audience, the king—his heart softened with affection—approached her and gently inquired, “What is this, O queen? Why do you appear so, and why do you speak as if your mind is disturbed?