Taking on dark, mosquito-like forms, these beings moved about, their appearance shadowy and strange. At that moment, delusion overcame the place, and no vow or recitation was performed as was customary. Only a fourth part of the day remained. From the eastern and western directions, as well as from the south, others arrived, joining the gathering. Joyful and satisfied, their bodies well-nourished, they moved in groups toward the heavens. Adorned with beautiful garments and ornaments, strong and delighted, they traveled together. Some departed as they had come, returning again in cycles. They gathered, departed, and arrived, wishing blessings upon each other with joy. Among them, those with slender bodies and sunken bellies were honored, carried upon fine palanquins. Witnessing this spectacle, the sage rose in amazement, perceiving it as a grand festival. The solitary, constant holy place now seemed encircled, as if bordered by a shore. The sage himself trembled, his eyes hollow, his body thin and his back sunken. No words escaped him, his speech faint like the cry of a small bird. He lamented, saying, “You do not return to your proper place, having come here without effort. Today, my daily act at this holy site is lost, both night and day. Seeing you in this form, my ritual has gone to you.” Then, one of the creatures spoke: “Whoever performs the śrāddha ritual again at this fixed holy place, offering water mixed with sesame seeds, by that act, the ancestors who are satisfied with sesame attain heaven through their offspring. If there is a fault of mixed lineage, one is subjected to hell. For me, there is no path or movement; I am afflicted by threefold suffering. Those endowed with strength have reached heaven—how can the powerless have any path? The highest state is attained by sons who honor their ancestors with offerings of svadhā. You have seen them, O knower of the three times, with divine vision—those who have gone to heaven. Among those who perform śrāddha, even among śūdras, whether born in direct or reverse lineage—” Thus questioned by the brāhmaṇa, the creature began to explain: “O dear one, your lineage too does not exist as prescribed by fate. Tell me everything; I will do it, if my word is true. These thin mosquitoes that are in my body—I am their thread-mantra; once, I was made of thread for them. For sending messages to the queen, there is always a maid named Prabhāvatī. Our lineage is the thread of hers; for the sake of śrāddha, we remain only for this period, then we go to the ocean.” Hearing this, the sage—knower of the three times—overwhelmed by delusion, spoke: “What is the rule here for her, by which you all, with sons, exist?” The creature replied, “By the result of previous actions, whichever downward path one attains, offerings of śrāddha, food, water, gifts—both regular and occasional—are important. Perhaps someone in our lineage may exist who would give us a handful of water. Especially, in the midst of a sacred place, a handful of water mixed with sesame seeds, holding darbha grass in hand, reciting the three gotras and the names of the ancestors. One handful is taken first, then two, and three are remembered for the act of tarpaṇa.” Thus, the sage learned the mysterious ways of lineage, ritual, and the journey of souls, witnessing the interplay of fate, action, and devotion in the sacred place.