Chāyā, her lips trembling and her hands unsteady with anger, was overcome by emotion and cursed Yama, O twice-born sage. She spoke with a voice edged with wrath: “Because you, disregarding what is proper, threaten me—your father’s wife—with your foot, today your own foot will fall to the earth.” Hearing this terrible curse pronounced by his mother, Yama was filled with fear. Seeking solace, he went to his father. Bowing down before him, he spoke with deep humility: “Father, this is a great wonder, something unheard of—that a mother, abandoning all affection, should lay a curse upon her own son. As Manu has declared, and I too believe: even if her sons are at fault, a mother herself never becomes faulty.” Markandeya continued the tale: Hearing Yama’s words, the blessed dispeller of darkness summoned Chāyā and questioned her about where she had gone. She replied, revealing her true identity: “I am Saṃjñā, daughter of Tvaṣṭṛ, wife of Vivasvat; these children of yours were born from me.” Yet, when Vivasvat pressed her again and again for the truth, she would not reveal everything. At last, angered, the radiant Vivasvat prepared to curse her. Sensing his wrath, Saṃjñā told Vivasvat everything as it had truly happened. When the blessed one understood, he set out for the house of Tvaṣṭṛ. There, the sun—revered throughout the three worlds—was received with supreme devotion by Tvaṣṭṛ upon his arrival. When Vivasvat inquired about Saṃjñā, Viśvakarman, the creator, told him, “She has come here to my house, sent by you.” The sun, absorbed in meditation, saw Saṃjñā in the distant northern Kurus, where she, taking the form of a mare, was practicing severe austerities. He understood her intention in those penances: she desired that her husband might have a gentle form and auspicious appearance. Moved by her devotion, the radiant one spoke to Viśvakarman, Saṃjñā’s father: “Let my brilliance be diminished today.” And so, praised by the gods, Viśvakarman, after a year of effort, reduced the sun’s overwhelming brilliance. Now, Markandeya continued: “Hear from me in detail the origin of Sāvarṇi, the eighth Manu, son of the sun, as it has been recounted. By the power of great Māyā, Sāvarṇi, illustrious child of the sun, became the lord of a Manvantara.” In the previous Svārociṣa Manvantara, there was a king named Suratha, born in the noble lineage of Citrā, who ruled the entire earth. He protected his subjects as if they were his own children, but enemies soon arose—kings who destroyed his lineage and power. A fierce battle was fought between Suratha and these destroyers of his line. Though they were fewer, he was defeated. Returning to his city, Suratha became its ruler once more, but soon powerful enemies beset him again. There, in his own city, his treasury and army were seized by his own ministers—men who were strong but wicked, and others of evil mind who took advantage of his weakness. Stripped of his sovereignty, Suratha, under the pretext of hunting, mounted a horse alone and departed into the dense forest. In that forest, he came upon the hermitage of the illustrious sage Medhas—a place peaceful, free from wild beasts, and adorned by the presence of the sage and his disciples. There, Suratha stayed for some time, honored by the sage, wandering within the hermitage’s tranquil bounds. Yet his mind, drawn by attachment, was restless. He reflected: “The city once protected by my ancestors and by me is now lost. Those servants of mine, with their wicked conduct, may or may not be protecting it righteously. I do not know whether my chief—the brave, ever-proud elephant-warrior—now under the power of my enemies, will enjoy any pleasures. Those who always followed me, receiving my favor, wealth, and food, surely now serve other kings. Because of their constant wastefulness and improper spending, the treasury, accumulated with great difficulty, will soon be depleted.” Thus, the king’s mind was troubled with many such thoughts. One day, near the sage’s hermitage, he saw a merchant. Approaching him, Suratha asked kindly, “Who are you, sir, and what brings you here? Why do you appear so sorrowful and troubled in mind?” The merchant, bowing respectfully, replied: “I am a merchant named Samadhi, born in a wealthy family. But I have been cast out by my own sons and wife, who, greedy for wealth, have acted unrighteously. Deprived of my wealth, wife, and sons—my wealth taken away—I have come to the forest, sorrowful and abandoned by my relatives and friends. Here, I do not know what my sons are doing, whether they are well or not, nor do I know about my family or my wife. Are things now secure or insecure in their home? How are they? Are my sons of good conduct or bad?” The king responded, “You have been cast aside by those greedy for wealth—your sons, your wife, and others. Why, then, does your mind still cling with affection to them?” Samadhi replied, “It is just as you have said; your words about me are true. But what can I do? My mind does not become hard-hearted toward them. Though they, greedy for wealth, have abandoned their filial affection and rejected me, my heart remains attached to them alone—my wife, my kin, and my own people. I do not understand this, O wise one—even knowing it, I cannot grasp why the heart is drawn with love to relatives, even when they are without virtue.