Thus, when Śakra addressed Pūtanā—she who was endowed with remarkable beauty—she made her way not far from the hermitage, where a gentle river flowed. Pūtanā, graceful and lovely in form, descended into the great river to bathe. As she did so, the aquatic being within the waters drank the semen that had been discharged by the ascetics. Because of this, the ascetics lost the merit of their austerities and, as a consequence, went to the kingdom of the Six. After a long time had passed, that aquatic being, known as the Grāhī, assumed the form of a great conch. One day, a fisherman saw this wondrous conch lying on the land and approached it. At that very moment, great-souled yogis—masters of yoga—also came to that place. Then, the conch-woman gave birth to seven children. These children, born without a mother or father to nurture them, moved about in the water. Comforting them, someone said, “Do not weep,” and these sons came to be known as the Maruts. After this, the speaker gathered all the Maruts and took them to the deities. Thus, the Maruts were present during the Svārociṣa Manvantara of Manu. In the lineage of Uttama, there was a king, the lord of Niṣadha. His son was Jyotishman, renowned for his virtues and steadfast in righteousness. Jyotishman’s wife was fair-hipped, auspicious, and the noble daughter of the preceptor of the gods. She herself would gather fruits, flowers, water, sacred sticks, and kusa grass for their rituals. In her devotion to serving her husband, she became thin, her veins visible from the rigors of austerity. One day, seeing her—her beauty undiminished in every limb, yet emaciated from her penance—she spoke: “For the sake of a child, we both must undertake austerities.” In response, it was foretold, “Go forth; seven sons will be born to you, but not one who is auspicious.” With this pronouncement, all the great sages departed. After a long time, the beloved queen of the king conceived. Yet, while she was pregnant, the lord of men, her husband, died. Though his ministers tried to restrain him from his chosen path, he did not desist. O sage, from the midst of the sacrificial fire, a piece of flesh fell into the water. Thus, O Maruta, the children were born in the interval between Uttama and Manu. These children, who would delight in song, dance, and play, I shall recount. Desiring a son, the king offered his own flesh and blood into the sacrificial fire. For the sake of a son, he also offered semen and variegated cows, as tradition tells us. At that moment, a voice was heard: “Do not cast me,” yet the king passed away. The children were born, O sage, and they wept at their birth. When they came together, he restrained and then acted upon the sons of Marut. Now, O sage devoted to austerity, hear of those who were born in the period of Raivata. There was one known as Ripujit, but he had no son. He took the maiden Surati, and, seizing her, brought her home. Surati, afflicted by sorrow in her body, resolved to abandon her own form. Yet all the ascetics became deeply attached to her in their minds. Absorbed in thought of her, the sages beheld her. When they departed, seven sons were born from the sacrificial fire. Thus, through cycles of devotion, loss, longing, and divine intervention, the Maruts and their lineages came into being, each birth woven with austerity, sacrifice, and the mysterious workings of fate.