The story begins with a moment of deep distress. A woman, wounded by harsh words, approaches her father and says, “Father, in her great and burning anger, my mother-in-law has called me the daughter of a killer, and again and again, she has called me a hunter’s child.” Hearing this, Dharmavyādha, the righteous hunter, is overcome with anger. With the people of his region following him, he goes straight to the house of Mataṅga. When he arrives, Mataṅga, renowned as the best among the victorious and a relative, greets him with honor. He offers Dharmavyādha a seat, water to wash his feet, and performs all the customary rites. Then, with respect, Mataṅga asks, “What is the reason for your visit? What can I do for you, now that you have come?” The hunter replies, “I wish to eat some food that is utterly devoid of consciousness. It is out of curiosity that I have come to your house.” Mataṅga responds, “I have wheat, rice, and barley, all properly prepared here at home. O best knower of dharma, O ascetic, eat as you wish.” But the hunter says, “Let me see what kind of wheat, rice, and barley you have. By their very nature, I will know, O noble one.” At this, Śrī Varāha explains, Mataṅga brings forth winnowing baskets—one filled with wheat, the other with rice—and shows them to Dharmavyādha. Upon seeing the grains, Dharmavyādha rises from his seat, intending to leave, but Mataṅga stops him, asking, “Why are you leaving without eating, O wise one? Excellent food is ready here, cooked by my own hands. Why do you not eat?” The hunter answers sternly, “Day after day, you kill thousands and millions of living beings. Who among the virtuous would eat the food of one so sinful? If, in your house, there is indeed food devoid of consciousness, then why do I see these aquatic creatures here now? They are raised by the thousands each year, O sage. For the sake of my family, I kill only one animal in the forest each day; after properly offering it to the ancestors, I eat it with my household. But you, along with your family and followers, having killed so many living beings, continually consume that which is unfit to be eaten—this is my view.” He continues, “Long ago, Brahma created all plants and herbs, and the Veda declares these are to be eaten by beings for the sake of sacrifice. The five great sacrifices—divine, elemental, ancestral, human, and Brahmanical—were established by Brahma in ancient times. These were set up for the welfare of Brahmins, and through them, for the benefit of the other classes; the auspicious rites for the other varnas are performed by Brahmins. If this order is maintained, then the food becomes pure; otherwise, even these grains are to be considered like the flesh of animals and birds, both for the giver and the eater—it is regarded as great meat.” Dharmavyādha then says, “I gave you my daughter, divine in form, for the sake of a son. She, who is now your wife, is the daughter of one who slays living beings. Therefore, I have come to your house to observe your conduct, your worship of the gods, and the offerings made to guests. But here, not even one of these is being performed. Thus, I wish to leave this house, desiring to perform the śrāddha for the ancestors. I do not eat in my own house, saying it is for the sake of the ancestors. I am a hunter, a slayer of living beings, but you are not one who harms the world.” He adds, “My daughter, who is the wife of a slayer of living beings, has been married to your son; thus, a great atonement has arisen, O ascetic.” Having spoken thus, the hunter rises and, in his anger, curses the woman, saying, “Let there never be trust between a mother-in-law and her daughters-in-law. And let there never be a daughter-in-law who wishes for her mother-in-law to live.” With these words, the hunter departs for his own house. After returning home, the wise hunter, with devotion, worships the gods and ancestors. He establishes his son Arjunaka in his lineage and, his mind set on righteousness, journeys swiftly to the renowned pilgrimage place called Puruṣottama. Arriving there with a focused mind, he practices austerities and recites this hymn to the earth: “I bow to Viṣṇu, destroyer of the enemies of the gods, whose broad chest is the abode of fortune, who is a good ruler, the supreme goal of the righteous, the three-stepping one, the upholder of Mandara, always. I bow to Viṣṇu, Dāmodara, who has adorned the earth, whose glory is radiant like the rays of the moon, whose limbs shine like the bee, the supporter of the earth, the enemy of hell, praised by the noble, the refuge of all, Janārdana. I approach that god, the man-lion, Hari, the Lord, master of three abodes, of endless glory, with well-formed speech, the supreme refuge of men, the imperishable one, always. Established in three forms, holding the blazing discus in hand, steadfast in righteousness, content with unsurpassed virtues, known as the highest good, the destroyer of others, the great teacher—I bow to Viṣṇu, the supreme person. Long ago, the two ancient demons Madhu and Kaiṭabha were slain; he always bears the earth upon his head. As the eternal one has been praised by me with force, may Viṣṇu grant me happiness and strength. May the great Boar, who enjoys the sacrificial offering, Janārdana, the benefactor, the one with a lotus-like face, the great upholder of the earth, who diminished the ocean, protect me, the one seeking refuge. May that Viṣṇu, Lord of the universe, by whom the three worlds are woven through illusion—just as all that moves and does not move is pervaded by a single fire, and who himself is present everywhere in all that moves and does not move—may he be my refuge. He who, in every cycle of existence, creates beings, from whom this world of moving and unmoving things is born, and into whom, when it is possessed by the spirit of Rudra, it is dissolved—he is called Hari, Viṣṇu, and Hara. He from whom space, the moon, earth, wind, fire, sun, and water arise as forms—may that eternal, blessed Viṣṇu, bearer of inconceivable form, always grant me well-being.” At this point, the Earth herself asks, “O Lord, what did Nārāyaṇa, the universal form, do at the beginning, in the Kṛta Yuga? I wish to hear all that in truth.” Śrī Varāha replies, “In the beginning, there was only Nārāyaṇa; nothing existed apart from Hari. He alone found delight, but did not act according to his own will. Desiring a second, a thought arose in him, consisting of intellect and self; it was called ‘Asu,’ and for a moment shone like the sun. That thought also became twofold, becoming the reasoning of Brahman; what is known by the name ‘Umā’ is always established among mortals. Having become the single syllable ‘Om,’ she then created this earth; Bhūḥ created Bhuvaḥ, and he created Svaḥ, and then Mahaḥ. Then Jana and Tapa, and the self is dissolved; all this is woven and threaded together like a string of gems on a thread. When the universe, uttered by the sacred syllable, existed as emptiness, that form of the Blessed One—Śaṅkara—was himself Hari.” Thus, the tale weaves together the drama of human conduct, the importance of righteousness, and the profound mysteries of creation, all under the watchful gaze of the Supreme Lord.