As the tale unfolds, the auspicious goddess, steadfast in her austerity, is approached by the Grandfather. She gently reminds him, “O Grandfather, you already know the reason for which I undertake these penances; why then do you ask me again?” To this, I replied, “O auspicious one, for the very purpose for which you perform your austerities, he himself will come to you here and choose you.” I continued, “Śarva alone is the supreme Lord, the lord of all lords in all the worlds. We are always under his command, O auspicious one, his servants indeed. That god of gods, the supreme lord, the self-born, will himself come to you, O goddess, noble in form, unique and manifold in appearance, like none other. Maheśvara, the dweller of the mountain realm, lord of the moving and unmoving, the first and immeasurable, shining like the moon and Indra, will come, perhaps even in a fearsome form.” Then, the gods themselves came and spoke to the goddess, saying, “O beautiful goddess, soon Dhūrjaṭi, blue and red in hue, will come. He, the lord of the gods, will become your husband; do not continue your austerity.” With these words, the gods and sages circumambulated the daughter of the mountain and departed, becoming invisible to her. She, too, ceased her recitation of hymns and remained quietly in her own auspicious hermitage. Standing at the doorway near an aśoka tree, she awaited her destiny. It was then that Hara appeared—the remover of the gods’ distress, adorned with the crescent moon. But he had assumed a deformed form: short, with small arms, a broken nose, hunchbacked, and tawny hair at the ends. With a distorted face, he spoke, “O goddess, I choose you as my bride.” Yet Uma, accomplished in yoga, recognized that it was Śaṅkara who had come, despite his disguise. With a pure heart and filled with compassion, she welcomed him with the traditional offerings: water for washing the feet, water for welcome, and a honeyed beverage. She worshipped him with fragrant flowers, for she was ever devoted to brahmins and dear to them. She then said, “O lord, I am not independent; my father is the head of the household. He alone has the authority to give me away. I am a maiden, O best of brahmins. Go and ask my father, the imperishable lord of mountains. If he gives me to you, O Brahmin, then that will be proper for me.” The blessed god, still in his altered form, went to the king of mountains and spoke, “O king of mountains, give me your daughter.” Recognizing him—even in his strange guise—as the imperishable Rudra, the king, afraid and troubled by the threat of a curse, replied, “O Lord, I do not disregard brahmins or gods on earth. But listen, O wise one, to what was decided before. A svayaṃvara will be held for my daughter, with brahmins honored. Whomever she chooses herself there, he will be her husband.” Hearing these words, the bull-bannered Lord, great of mind, returned to the goddess and said, “Devi, your father has permitted a svayaṃvara, so it is said. There, you will choose your own husband; whoever you select will become your spouse. So, after taking leave, I will go. O beautiful-faced one, how could you abandon one so handsome and choose someone unworthy?” She reflected on his words and on the feeling Rudra had placed in her heart, and replied, “Let your mind not waver. I will choose you; there is nothing surprising in this. Or, if you have any doubt about me, O Brahmin, right here and now, O greatly fortunate one, I choose you in my heart.” With these words, she took a garland in her hands, stood there, placed it on Śambhu’s shoulder, and declared, “You are chosen by me.” The blessed god, chosen by the goddess, then spoke to the ashoka tree as if reviving it with his words: “Because I have been chosen by you with this most auspicious garland, you will be free from old age and become immortal. You will have any form you wish, bear flowers at will, grant desires, be dear to me, adorned with all ornaments and flowers, and bear all flowers and fruits. You will be able to consume all foods, taste like nectar, possess all fragrances, and be firmly beloved among the gods. You will be fearless and content in all worlds. Your hermitage, renowned as Citrakūṭa, will be greatly revered. Whoever comes here seeking merit will obtain the fruit of an aśvamedha sacrifice. And whoever dies here will go to the world of Brahma. And whoever here, endowed with discipline, properly relinquishes the life-breaths, he, united with the austerity of the Goddess, becomes the great Lord of Hosts.” Having spoken thus, the Lord, creator of the worlds and master of all beings, took leave of the daughter of Himavat and vanished. The goddess, after the departure of that divine, immeasurable-souled one, became intent from that very place and manifested herself upon a rock. Yet, though intent upon that great ruler of the worlds, she shone not, like the moonless night, dispirited in his absence. Then, near her hermitage, by a lake filled with water, the daughter of the mountain heard the cry of a distressed child. There, in the middle of the lake, the god of gods, Śiva himself, had assumed the form of a child for the sake of play and was seized by a crocodile. Resorting to his yogic illusion, the cause of the world’s manifestation, he took that form in the midst of the lake and cried out, “Save me, someone!” His mind, seemingly overcome by the crocodile, he lamented, “Alas, what misery! I am but a child, my hopes and desires unfulfilled.