Hearing the king’s heartfelt words, the queen replied with sorrow. She spoke of the suffering endured by those who have no sons, lamenting that for one without a child, there is no true refuge—especially when both son and grandson are absent. She reflected that those people in the world who have a child—even a child simply playing and dust-covered—are indeed fortunate. Because of this deep yearning and emptiness, she confessed, she had fallen into the depths of despondency. At that moment, she observed, a mendicant had arrived—one who appeared as if he were an eternal god. She noted how women, children, and people from all around sought refuge with this holy one, and she expressed her certainty that they too should do the same. Moved by her words, the king went to the old garden. There, as soon as he saw the mendicant, the king himself assumed the form of a mendicant and worshipped the emblem, the image of the holy one, with due reverence. The king spoke humbly, saying, “I am without a son; blessed is my queen.” Thus addressed by Rājasiṃha, the mendicant—who was in truth the divine in the form of a liṅga—acted in response. From that time on, the wise king, together with all his wives, devoted themselves to worship. By the greatness 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. By my yogic power, I created a city for myself; that eternal abode of Śiva was established by me at that time, O goddess. O beautiful one, it was situated to the north of the god Mārkaṇḍeyāśvara. Those who constantly worship the supreme lord Śiveśvara, and those who, knowing the revered teacher of the world, come to see Śiveśvara, do so with the understanding that liberation is extremely difficult to attain and worldly existence is very terrifying. Whatever his condition, any mortal who seeks refuge in that Lord Shiva—or who, with devotion and purity, narrates or causes this story to be heard—will be blessed. This, O Devi, is the power I have told you, which destroys all sin. O Devi, the god who grants heaven and destroys even the greatest of sins—long ago, in the Vaivasvata cycle, during the era known as Vārāha—while I was delighting in the beautiful and great Kāla forest, O Pārvatī, I was questioned after hearing a sound that was exceedingly unbearable. There, the Gaṇeśas were at play, and among them was the Gaṇa named Vīraka. He was being struck with flowers in sport, worshipped with heaps of blossoms. Vīraka possessed many wondrous qualities and was revered by hundreds of Gaṇeśvaras. The lotus-face of your son, O Pārvatī, cannot be seen except by those with great merit. I wondered when I would see such a son, a giver of joy. It was then declared: “O Pārvatī, this son, Vīraka, is now given.” Indeed, this is the son who brings delight to the eyes. Hearing my words, O goddess, you sent Vijayā. Vijayā approached the Gaṇa who was among the Gaṇas and asked, “Why are you, as if mad, so absorbed and enchanted by the dance and music?” Thus addressed, Vīraka, adorned with flowers and trembling with fear, stood before her. Seeing Vīraka thus, you called out, “Come, come! You have now become my son, given by the god; you are now Vīraka.” With motherly affection, you inhaled the fragrance from his head, gently smoothed his limbs, and adorned him with your own divine ornaments. With tender, variegated, and beautiful divine leaves—born from mantras, pure and shining—you decorated him. After arranging a garland upon his head, marking him with bright gorocana and fragments of leaves, you spoke your blessings. Vīraka, surrounded by throngs of Siddhas on the Gaṇḍa mountain, amidst nets of gems and thick clusters of great vines, stood resplendent—honored, adorned, and cherished as your own divine son.