King. Forgive my impertinence. What caste do you belong to?
Postomani. I have heard from the sage that my parents were Kshatriyas.
King. May I ask you whether your father was a king, for your uncommon beauty and your stately demeanour show that you are a born princess.
Postomani, without answering the question, went inside the hut, brought out a tray of the most delicious fruits, and set it before the king. The king, however, would not touch the fruits till the maid had answered his questions. When pressed hard Postomani gave the following answer: "The holy sage says that my father was a king. Having been overcome in battle, he, along with my mother, fled into the woods. My poor father was eaten up by a tiger, and my mother at that time was brought to bed of me, and she closed her eyes as I opened mine. Strange to say, there was a bee-hive on the tree at the foot of which I lay; drops of honey fell into my mouth and kept alive the spark of life till the kind Rishi found me and brought me into his hut. This is the simple story of the wretched girl who now stands before the king."
King. Call not yourself wretched. You are the loveliest and most beautiful of women. You would adorn the palace of the mightiest sovereign.
The upshot was, that the king made love to the girl and they were joined in marriage by the Rishi. Postomani was treated as the favourite
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