The Dānava, overjoyed, welcomed his guest with the warmth and affection one might show a brother. Filled with delight, he implored, “Gladden me now with the refreshing embrace that is like water to my soul.” He spoke with pride of his father’s formidable power, declaring that, in his wrath, his father could burn even the gods themselves. He continued, “By dharma, you are my sister, and I am your father’s disciple. But today, O slender-waisted one, a fire of longing consumes my body. If you desire this union, ask your guru directly—he will surely grant your wish. If the right moment is missed, obstacles will arise, O beautiful one. Understand, women are not independent to give themselves away, even if they are willing.” He advised her, “Go, by Shukra’s command, with your attendants, kin, and relatives.” Then, as if to illustrate the importance of propriety, he recalled an ancient tale: “Remember what happened to Citrāṅgadā in the auspicious age of the gods, long ago. Endowed with beauty and youth, she was like a lotus plant separated from its pond.” Citrāṅgadā, whose eyes shone like lotuses, once journeyed to the sacred place called Nemiṣa to bathe. There, a handsome and lovesick man beheld her slender form. The son of a king, he was struck deeply by love at first sight. Her companions, seeing her hesitation, said, “Child, you are not bold, O beautiful one. Your father is righteous and skilled in all the arts.” Meanwhile, King Suratha, steadfast in truth and wisdom, was captivated. “You, innocent one with intoxicating eyes, bewilder me with just your glance,” he confessed. “Therefore, you ought to lie with me upon this couch, at my breast.” But the lotus-eyed maiden, graceful in every limb, spoke to the king. Thus, in those former times, the king was saved by that virtuous woman, Tainvi. Later, Arajaska spoke to Daṇḍa about all that had happened to her. By that slender-limbed woman, Suratha, lord of the earth, learned a lesson: abandoning righteousness, swayed by womanhood and a weak mind, brings only sorrow. Without marriage, she was told, happiness with a husband could not be found. When the king rejected her, she fell into a state of delusion. Despite being sprinkled with cold water, she did not revive. Her friends, realizing she was dead, departed quickly. Left alone, she entered the excellent forest. Not finding the king nor her affectionate friends, she, golden-eyed and desperate, rushed with great speed into the great river. She, understanding what fate awaited him, accepted her condition. “Thus have I heard of her state—being independent led her here,” the narrator reflected. Then, another voice questioned, “For what purpose have you come to this forest, devoid of people and full of wild animals?” Hearing this, a sage became angry and cursed the sculptor’s form, declaring, “He was not united with her as a husband; therefore, let him become a branch-dwelling deer.” Meanwhile, having worshipped at twilight, the maiden honored Śaṅkara. The great lord spoke: “Let the beautiful-browed, lovely-toothed woman, longing for her husband, approach.” There, having worshipped the mighty Hāṭakeśvara, she sought solace and fulfillment. Thus, the ancient story unfolded, weaving together the destinies of those bound by desire, dharma, and the mysterious workings of fate.