In days long past, a hunter spoke with humility to a sage, saying, “I do not eat in my own house, for I dedicate it to the ancestors. Though I am a hunter and a slayer of living beings, you are one who does no harm to the world.” He continued, “My daughter, married to your son, brings together the wife of a slayer of living beings and the lineage of one who is pure. Thus, a great atonement has arisen, O ascetic.” Having spoken thus, the hunter rose and, in a moment of anger, cursed the woman: “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, he departed for his own house. The sage, wise and devoted, then worshipped the gods and ancestors, and established his son Arjunaka in his lineage. The righteous hunter, meanwhile, journeyed swiftly to the renowned pilgrimage site called Puruṣottama. Arriving there, he practiced austerities with a focused mind, reciting a 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, 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.” Then, the Earth herself asked, “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 replied: “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 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. Seeing these worlds as void, wishing to create the highest form, he stirred the realm of mind, and there formed a shape from his own measure. When he stood in that stirred state, then the cosmic egg came into being; when it was divided, the Bhūloka was established. Another world appeared in the middle, shining like the sun; the Ancient Person, pervading it, was established within the lotus sheath. That god Nārāyaṇa, with the brilliance of the progenitor, produced the first vowel ‘a’ from his navel, and also the consonant ‘ha.’ At the creation of the formless, he sang forth the scriptures to the directions; having created them, the immeasurable self again contemplated support. As he contemplated, from his eyes arose a great radiance: from the right, like fire; from the left, like the coolness of the moon. Seeing that, the supreme lord fashioned the moon and the sun; then breath arose, and from the supreme lord, the wind. That very wind, the blessed one, even now moves within the heart, pervading all; from him arose fire, and from fire, the great water. That very fire is indeed the divine radiance, the supreme cause of the Brāhmaṇas; and from his arms, he also created the radiance of the Kṣatriyas. From his thighs, the mighty one created the Vaiśyas, and from his feet, likewise, the Śūdras; then he created the Yakṣas and Rākṣasas as well. With these four kinds of beings, he filled the earth-world, the atmosphere-world with beings moving in the sky, and the heaven-world with other celestial beings. He likewise filled the Maharloka with those beings and with Sanaka and the others; and then he filled the Janaloka with the Vairājas. After that, the god filled Tapoloka with those devoted to austerity, and then filled Satyaloka with gods who are free from death. Having thus created creation, the blessed Lord, the originator of beings, remains awake in his own cycle of time called a kalpa, as the Supreme Lord. In that world, the earth-world, the atmosphere-world, and the heaven-world are born; all these three indeed come into being—there is no doubt about this. But when the god sleeps at the end of a kalpa, that is considered to be his night; then these three worlds become dormant, as if submerged in dissolution. Then, when that night had passed, the lotus-eyed one arose and contemplated those Vedas and their mothers in all four; yet, though he pondered, the Lord of gods did not find those Vedas. Desiring to establish the path and order of the worlds, but confused by the sleep of ignorance, the Lord of gods reflected: ‘Here, the Vedas are not present.’ Then, seeing them merged in his own form called ‘water,’ the Lord of gods, wishing to recover them, thought to become a fish and entered the waters. Thus meditating, a great fish instantly appeared; and the god entered the water, as if stirring it all around.