In deep self-reproach, he condemned himself, reflecting on his own faults as one who had corrupted virtue. “Born in the family of a Niṣāda,” he thought, “I have eaten what is both fit and unfit to eat. I have drunk what is proper and improper, and have traded in things that should never be bought or sold. In my own house, I have consumed both permitted and forbidden foods—there is no doubt about this.” He pondered further, wondering what other offense might have been committed, or by whom. Meanwhile, on earth, the Niṣāda, overwhelmed by anger, began searching for his wife, who was devoted and auspicious in appearance. “Where have you gone, dear one, leaving behind our children and me at home?” he lamented, asking those nearby, “Have you seen my wife, who came to the bank of the Ganges?” He saw that people had gathered at the sacred Māyā-tīrtha, and on the riverbank, her garment and water pot remained. Then he learned that as she was bathing, the ascetic woman had been seized by a crocodile. “My heart has never spoken a harsh or unpleasant word to her,” he mourned. “Or perhaps she was devoured by a piśāca or evil spirits. What sinful deed did I commit in the past, what terrible act?” He called out, “Come to me, O fortunate and beloved one, who always followed 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 that I am hungry and thirsty.” Thus, the Niṣāda wandered, lamenting here and there in his grief. One spoke to him, saying, “She, who lived with you in happiness and union, has now departed, never to return.” To the Niṣāda, he said, “Go; why do you torment yourself? These sons must never be abandoned, not at any time.” Overwhelmed by sorrow, the Niṣāda answered with gentle words, “I have been comforted by you, O brāhmaṇa, by your sweet and soothing words.” Hearing the Niṣāda’s words, the sage of firm vows replied, “Do not weep—I say to you, may good be yours; she who was dear to you has become me.” Hearing this from the wandering ascetic, the Niṣāda’s distress was eased, yet confusion remained. “What is this you say, O brāhmaṇa, that is so indistinct and strange?” he asked. Hearing this, the brāhmaṇa fell into a faint from sorrow. Regaining himself, he urged, “Go quickly to your own place, taking these your children.” Even so, the Niṣāda did not understand. He pressed, “What evil deed was done by you in the ancient past? By what fault have you come to be a woman, having formerly been a man?” The sage of firm vows listened to these questions and said, “Nishada, listen attentively as I recount my story. I practiced taking only one meal a day, avoided forbidden foods, and performed many acts, all desiring a divine vision. After a long time, I beheld Janardana. Since I did not seek any boon, the boon offered was not desired by me. Then Vishnu spoke to me, saying, ‘Having seen the illusion, enough, O twice-born.