Tormented by guilt, the maiden cried out, “Because I have become a bad daughter, I will abandon this body.” Overwhelmed by the weight of her sin, she turned to the Brahmin and pleaded, “O Brahmin, save me, whose mind is afflicted by sin.” The compassionate sage looked upon the slender maiden and gently reassured her, “Do not despair now. Your father, the increaser of the gods, will be born to you again.” With these words, the sage—his mind purified—addressed her further, saying, “Daughter, give up your sorrow. In ten months, a son will be born to you.” Hearing this, Citrāṅgadā’s heart filled with joy, and her face became radiant once more. Along with her, all the slender maidens remained together for the entire period, waiting in hope. When ten months had passed, the Apsarases themselves arrived. At the birth of the child, Viśvakarman was also summoned, for the event was remarkable, linked to the tale of a monkey. Suravarddhaki, filled with happiness, remembered him, and at this remembrance, Tvaṣṭṛ brought Śakra, who came surrounded by the Maruts. Soon, the gods, Gandharvas, and Apsarases all assembled for this auspicious occasion. In their presence, a request was made: “O Brahmin, let the cave of Jābāla’s daughter be given to the garlanded one.” At that moment, the bird, assuming its true divine form, sought to marry the delighted maiden. The sage, emboldened by the sacred gathering, gave his blessing to the king, son of Manu, saying, “So be it.” Gālava, the learned priest, officiated the ceremony and offered the oblations as prescribed. In proper order, the daughter of the Daitya first took the hand of Jābāli, and then the daughter of the Yakṣa took the hand of the bird. Thus, the marriages of these slender-waisted women were accomplished in due order. The sage then declared, “At this holy ford, you all should always bathe at the Seven-Godāvarī.” With the ceremonies complete, all the gods joyfully accepted the outcome and departed in order to heaven. The kings, with their wives, returned to their own cities. Addressing the lotus-eyed, best of women, the king entreated, “Therefore, accept me.” The doe-eyed maiden, praised gently in turn, responded with sweet words to the king. Yet, mindful of a curse, she protected herself, though her heart was overcome by desire. In her confusion, she brought about destruction. The king departed from the hermitage and returned to his city, while she, sorrowful, stood outside the hermitage, unhappy—like Rohiṇī, beloved of the Moon, scorched by a great eclipse. At that time, Śukra, the sage, rose from the netherworld and returned to his hermitage in the sky, appearing like a streak of twilight-colored cloud. Who, he pondered, would play with anger as one would with a venomous serpent? He knew that to destroy one pure in conduct was a deed of great evil. The maiden, weeping and filled with shame, spoke softly and slowly, “Helpless, by force, I am led away, weeping, to be claimed.” Śukra, having purified himself with water, became clean and spoke these words. He saw that, setting aside all respect, she had been made a queen fallen from righteousness. He then foretold, “After seven nights, there will be only ashes from a rain of stones. Remain here, daughter, practicing austerity for the sake of liberation from sin, O blessed one.