He was a king devoted to all the noble duties: he worshipped the gods with reverence, observed sacred vows, gave generously in charity, practiced meditation, and engaged in the uplifting pursuit of self-study. His rule was marked by compassion; he protected his subjects as if they were his own children, caring for their well-being in every way. Under his just and loving governance, the people flourished—they had children, enjoyed abundant wealth and grain, and possessed all that they desired. Yet, even as he ruled the earth, O Pārvatī, the king found true pleasure only in journeying to Ujjayinī. It was then that I, Gaṇeśa—known also as Śiva, the chief of the hosts—spoke. I instructed Gaṇeśa, saying, “Go, my son, to my beloved.” Gaṇeśa, thus addressed, humbly bowed with joined palms and replied, “So be it.” When the host of Śiva departed, O fair-smiling one, my heart was filled with satisfaction. Assuming the form of a mendicant, I took with me many potent herbs. Wherever someone was afflicted by spirits, poisoned, or beset by various ailments, I brought relief. Those who were childless gained children, relying on the power of my mantra. Hearing my words, people were filled with curiosity and hope. I dispelled even the gravest diseases, accepting in gratitude gold, jewels, fine garments, and gifts of grain, villages, and towns. In this way, I dwelled there for fourteen years. Ah, what a supremely difficult task for a king! How steadfast was his devotion to the welfare of his people! As the king reflected on these matters, I, Śiva, appeared once more in the form of a mendicant, accompanied by my attendants. At that time, there lived a woman of incomparable beauty, yet she was childless and yearned for a son. Knowing that the mendicant could grant all desires, even the nāga women approached him, curious and hopeful. Within the mendicant’s dwelling, the queen herself—attentive and focused—approached the mendicant, who was deep in thought and engaged in his alms. She bowed with joined palms, free from anxiety and intent on her purpose, and, though barren, longed for a son and wished to meet the mendicant in secret. “You are indeed a source of compassion,” she said, “bestowing the fulfillment of desires upon the people. You say you enter the king’s house unseen. Therefore, quickly go to your inner chambers, O auspicious one.” Yet, upon hearing the mendicant’s words, her mind became agitated. Distressed, she turned to her companion and said, “Quickly bring the mendicant before he departs elsewhere.” Sunandā, ever wise and fitting in her speech, advised her accordingly: “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 asked, “What is this, O queen? Why do you appear so, and why does your speech betray a disturbed mind?” Hearing the king’s gentle inquiry, the queen spoke her heart: “For those without sons, play is only suffering; for one without a child, there is no refuge, especially when deprived of both son and grandson. Happy are those in the world who have a child, even if covered in dust. Because of this, I have reached the height of despondency. Here, a mendicant has arrived, appearing as an eternal god. Women, children, and people seek refuge with him; I have no doubt that we too should do the same.” Hearing her words, the king went to the old garden. As soon as he saw the mendicant, he himself assumed the appearance of a mendicant and offered worship to that sacred emblem, the image of the mendicant. He declared, “I am without a son; blessed is my queen.” Thus addressed by Rājasiṃha, the mendicant, in the form of a liṅga, then began to act, setting in motion the fulfillment of their deepest longing.