Once, moved by deep affection for his daughters, the king wondered if they were truly happy in their new lives. His heart full of concern, he journeyed to the sage Saubhari’s hermitage. There, he beheld a wondrous sight: a radiant row of crystal palaces, each adorned with gleaming garlands, surrounded by delightful gardens and lotus ponds abloom. Entering one of the palaces, the king embraced his daughter and took a seat beside her. Tears of love filled his eyes as he spoke gently, “My dear, are you happy here, or is there any discomfort? Is the sage affectionate? Or do you long for our home?” His daughter replied warmly, “Father, this palace is charming, its gardens are delightful, the birds sing sweetly, the lotus ponds are blooming, and all comforts—food, delicacies, ointments, garments, ornaments, beds and seats—are pleasing. My household life here is complete in every way. Yet, who does not remember their birthplace? All this splendor is due to your favor. But there is one cause of sorrow: my husband, the great sage, does not leave our house out of special affection only for me, while he visits my sisters, his other wives. My co-wife is exceedingly distressed because of this.” Hearing her sorrow, the king moved to a second palace, embraced his daughter there, and questioned her in the same way. She too described the pleasures and comforts she enjoyed, saying, “Out of special affection only for me, he stays near me and not with my sisters.” The king visited each palace, questioning each daughter, and all spoke similarly. Filled with satisfaction and wonder, he approached the venerable Saubhari, paid him homage, and said, “O venerable one, I have witnessed your immense power of accomplishment; never have I seen such prosperity displayed by anyone else. This, I understand, is the fruit of your austerity.” The king spent some time enjoying the pleasures of the sage’s company, then returned to his own city. As time passed, he had a hundred sons with those royal daughters. Day by day, his affection deepened, and his heart grew intensely attached by love. He began to wonder, “Will these sons of mine, who now babble like calves, ever walk on their own feet? Will they reach youth? Will I see them married? Will they have sons? Will I see my sons surrounded by their own sons?” Such thoughts grew daily, and he neglected all else. He lamented, “Alas, how vast is the expanse of my delusion! There is no end to desires, not even in ten thousand or a hundred thousand years; even when some are fulfilled, new desires arise again and again. Even when they walk on their own feet, reach youth, are united with wives, and have children, my inner self still longs to see the birth of their sons. If I think, ‘I will see their children,’ then another desire will arise; even if that is fulfilled, yet another will be born—by whom can the arising of desires be prevented? I have now realized that desires do not end even with death; the mind attached to desires does not attain true reality. My meditation, gained through the company of water-dwelling fish, was suddenly lost; this attachment I have created, and from this attachment, my excessive craving has arisen. The suffering that began with a single body has now, through the birth of a hundred sons, been multiplied by attachment to the daughters of kings and many sons. Through sons, grandsons, and their sons, and through further attachments to them, this possessiveness will expand and become a great cause of sorrow. The austerity I practiced in the water has been only half completed; this attachment has become an obstacle to my asceticism. From association with the fish, my passion for sons and the like arose, and by that I have been robbed. For the renunciants, freedom from attachment is the path to liberation; from attachment, all faults arise. Even one established in yoga falls by attachment—what then of one with little understanding?” Resolving, he said, “I will act for the sake of that Self, with understanding freed from attachment to possession and acquisition. For when a person is no longer afflicted by faults, he will not be made miserable by sorrows. I shall worship Viṣṇu, the creator of all, whose form is inconceivable, subtler than the subtlest, immeasurable, both white and black, the Lord of lords, by means of austerity alone. May my mind, free from faults, always remain steadfast in Viṣṇu—who is all-radiant, of every form, whose unmanifest and manifest body is infinite—so that I may attain liberation again. I seek refuge in Viṣṇu, the supreme teacher of teachers, from whom nothing else exists apart—who is the pure, infinite, lord of all, without beginning or middle.” Having thus spoken to himself, Saubhari abandoned all his possessions—sons, home, seat, and everything else—together with all his wives, and entered the forest. There, he daily performed the duties of a hermit, destroyed all his sins, matured his mind, established the sacred fires within himself, and became a mendicant. Renouncing all actions and their branches, attaching himself to the Blessed One—who is pure, unborn, without beginning or end, unchanging, and beyond death—he attained the supreme, endless, immutable state of Acyuta. Thus is the account related to Māndhātṛ’s daughter. Whoever remembers, recites, teaches, listens to, causes to be heard, holds in mind, understands, writes, causes to be written, studies, teaches, or instructs this story of Saubhari—such a one, for six births, will not have bad offspring, false dharma, or attachment to unworthy causes, nor will his speech or mind stray from the right path. Now, the lineage of Māndhātu’s sons is described. Yuvanāśva was the son of Ambarīṣa, Māndhātu’s son. From him came Hārīta; from Hārīta descended the Hāritas of the Aṅgiras lineage. In the netherworld, there were Gandharvas called Mauneyas, numbering sixty crores. They seized the sovereignty and chief jewels of all the Nāga clans. Beset by these Gandharvas, who possessed great power, the Lord of all gods—reclining on the waters, with lotus eyes half-open in sleep and awakening—was approached with reverence by the serpent kings. They said, “Lord, we are afflicted by fear of these Gandharvas—how will it be pacified?” The Blessed One, the supreme and eternal Person, replied, “I will enter Purukutsa, son of Yuvanāśva, Māndhātu’s descendant, and through him I will bring about the destruction of all those wicked Gandharvas.” Hearing this, the serpent kings, after paying homage to the Lord reclining on the waters, returned again to the realm of the Nāgas and urged the Narmadā river to bring Purukutsa.