Through the power of illusion, a woman gave birth to sons and daughters. In that world, living beings were constantly being killed here and there. Ensnared by the net of illusion, a man became so deluded that he could no longer discern what should or should not be done. One day, the woman took a pot, intending to wash soiled clothes. She went to the waters of the holy Ganga to bathe and entered the sacred river Jahnavi. There, by the workings of fate, a sage devoted to austerity was born again, holding a staff and a water-pot in his hands. The cloth and other items that had been left on the bank before were there, just as they had been, observed by a brāhmaṇa who sought to understand Viṣṇu’s illusion as before. Overcome with shame, he put on his garment, reflecting deeply upon the discipline of yoga. Through the power of the austerities he had performed in the past, realization dawned upon him. He began to reproach himself, condemning his own faults as one who had corrupted virtue. He lamented, “Born in the family of a Niṣāda, I have eaten both what is fit and unfit to eat. I have drunk what is proper and improper, and I have traded in things that should not be bought or sold. In my house, I have consumed both permitted and forbidden foods—there is no doubt of this. Now I wonder: what other offense, or by whom, might have been committed?” Meanwhile, on earth, the Niṣāda, overcome by anger, began searching for his wife, who was devoted and of auspicious appearance. He cried out, “Where have you gone, dear one, leaving behind our children and me at home? Have you seen my wife, who has come to the bank of the Ganges?” All the people had gathered at the sacred Māyā-tīrtha, and there on the riverbank her garment and water pot remained. As she was bathing, the ascetic woman had been seized by some crocodile. The Niṣāda lamented, “Never have I spoken a harsh or unpleasant word to her. Or perhaps she was devoured by a piśāca or by evil spirits. What sinful deed did I commit in the past, what terrible act? Come to me, O fortunate and beloved one, who always follows my heart. Look upon me, O fair-hipped one, and these three sons of mine, still but young children. My sons are weeping here, these children who are dear to you. Surely, you will know me as hungry and thirsty.” Thus, the Niṣāda cried out in grief, wandering here and there. Someone spoke to the Niṣāda, saying, “Go; why do you torment yourself? These sons must never be abandoned, not at any time.” Overwhelmed by grief and sorrow, the Niṣāda spoke gentle words in reply: “I have been comforted by you, O brāhmaṇa, by your words of sweet syllables.” Hearing the words of the Niṣāda, the sage of firm vows responded, “Do not weep—I say to you, may good be yours; she who was dear to you has become me.” Hearing these words from the wandering ascetic, the Niṣāda felt his distress ease. Yet, bewildered, he asked, “What is this you say, O brāhmaṇa, that is so indistinct and strange?” Upon hearing the Niṣāda’s words, the brāhmaṇa, overcome with sorrow, fell into a faint.