Arise, I go to the great asura’s sacrifice, for the welfare of the gods, O brāhmaṇa,” declared the divine one. With that resolve, he departed playfully from the lord of mountains and made his way to the region of Kurujāngala. As he arrived, a strange turmoil swept through the world. The oceans were agitated; in the sky, the circle of stars shone, but their courses were disturbed, O great sage. Amidst this unrest, a question arose: “Just as I was burned by Maheśvara, why does Vāsudeva not burn me as well?” Even the offerings made with devotion by the best of the twice-born were not accepted by the Lord, out of fear. Seeking answers, he approached Śukra, the wise son of Uśanas. Bowing with joined palms, he questioned him: “Why do the fires here not accept the offerings, even when the Asuric shares are well presented? Why are the directions enveloped in darkness? Tell me today, O teacher, whose fault is this?” Understanding the reason, Bali spoke these words: “Wherever oblations are offered with mantras into the fire, Vāsudeva himself is present. When the ocean, abode of makaras, is agitated, the sons of Diti are born with the swelling tides. Righteousness, truth, and what is proper—all are expressed with utmost effort. Whatever must be said for Murāri’s benefit, or for the benefit of his own, let that which is true, proper, and dear to me be spoken; I will do that, and nothing else.” Having reflected, Nārada, who knows the past, future, and all directions, spoke: “The authority of the scriptures lies outside the sacrificial enjoyers; for that purpose, Hari approaches. O Lord, nothing at all should be given in the sacrifice—not even a blade of grass or a speck of gold from the earth. In whose belly the earth, the guardians of the worlds, and the nether regions always dwell—even when Janārdana, lord of the world, comes in a humble form and asks for something insignificant, how can it be so? Indeed, it is seen to be so, and this is true, O best of brāhmaṇas.” He continued, “Here, even those actions that are hidden within speech, body, and mind—that conduct which formerly occurred on Malaya, concerning the son of the weaver—I have a great curiosity for the ancient, meritorious tale. Indeed, O best of Bhṛgu’s line, it is bound by previous practice and is true. There was a brāhmaṇa known as the weaver, devoted to austerity. His wife, the daughter of Vātsyāyana, was virtuous and devoted to her husband. He spoke like one mute and saw like one blind. Thinking thus, on the sixth day, she abandoned him at the doorway of the house. Taking her own emaciated child, she, named Sūrpākṣī, led him away. Having taken him, she went to eat on the mountain called Śālodara. The one without sight spoke: ‘What have you brought, dear?’ ‘The son of the basket-maker brāhmaṇa has been brought, lord,’ she replied. ‘That foremost of brāhmaṇas is a great knower; angered, he will curse,’ he warned. ‘Quickly bring the child of someone else, O beautiful one.’ She came swiftly, leaping into the sky. She cried out in a clear voice, O brāhmaṇa, placing her thumb on her face: ‘See for yourself, O best of sages: your son is making sound.’ And that best of brāhmaṇas saw that child. Then, smiling, the basket-maker spoke to his beloved: ‘Someone handsome is present on earth to deceive us.’ He bound the child, marking the earth with sacred grass and his hand. Thus, the tale unfolds, revealing the subtle interplay of karma, devotion, and divine presence.