With deep reverence and her heart set on a singular purpose, the queen—though long barren and yearning for a son—bowed with joined palms and sought a secret audience with you. Her longing was sincere, for she knew you to be a fountain of compassion, renowned for granting people their heartfelt desires. She recalled your words: that you, in your kindness, would enter the king’s palace unseen. Considering this promise, she was advised to return quickly to her private chambers, for the moment was auspicious. Yet, when the queen heard the words of the wandering mendicant, her mind was thrown into turmoil. Distressed, she turned to her companion and pleaded, “Go swiftly—bring the mendicant before he leaves for another place!” Sunandā, wise and understanding, counseled her in fitting words, urging, “Reveal your troubled heart to the king.” At that very moment, as the queen’s longing for an audience grew, the king—his heart softened with affection—approached her and gently inquired, “What troubles you, O queen? Why do you appear so distraught, and why does your speech betray such inner agitation?” Listening to the king’s concern, the queen poured out her sorrow: “For those without sons, even play brings suffering; for one without a child, there is no refuge, especially when deprived of both son and grandson. How fortunate are those in this world who have a child, even one covered in dust from play! Because I lack such joy, I have fallen into the deepest despair. But now, a mendicant has arrived who seems like an eternal god. Women, children, and all people are seeking refuge with him; surely, we too should do the same.” Moved by her words, the king made his way to the old garden. There, upon seeing the mendicant, he himself assumed the humble form of a mendicant and offered worship to that sacred emblem—the image of the mendicant. He spoke his heart: “I am without a son; blessed is my queen.” The mendicant, thus addressed by King Rājasiṃha, responded in the form of a liṅga, enacting a divine rite. From that moment onward, the king, wise and devoted, together with all his wives, worshipped with faith. By the grace of the God of gods, a son of great strength was born to them. Then, O goddess, I myself came from Mount Mandara, drawn by curiosity. Through my yogic power, I created a city for myself—an eternal abode of Śiva, which I established at that time, O beautiful one, to the north of the sacred Mārkaṇḍeyāśvara. Those who constantly worship the supreme Lord Śiveśvara, and those who recognize the revered teacher of the world and behold Śiveśvara, understand that liberation is exceedingly difficult to attain, and worldly existence is fraught with fear. Yet, regardless of his condition, any mortal who seeks refuge in Lord Shiva—or who, with devotion and purity, narrates or listens to this sacred story—will have their sins destroyed by this power I have described to you, O Devi. O Devi, this god—giver of heaven and destroyer of even the gravest sins—long ago, in the Vaivasvata Manvantara during the Vārāha period, while I delighted in the beautiful, great Kāla forest, I heard a sound so unbearable that I was compelled to inquire about it. There, the Gaṇeśas were at play, and among them was a Gaṇa named Vīraka. He was struck with flowers in sport and worshipped with heaps of blossoms, possessed of many wondrous qualities and adored by hundreds of Gaṇeśvaras. The lotus-like face of your son, O Pārvatī, can only be seen by those who have earned great merit. I wondered, “When will I behold such a son, a bringer of joy?” It was then declared: “O Pārvatī, this son, Vīraka, is now given to you.