As the seasons shifted, the great mountain underwent a wondrous transformation. Through noble care and auspicious events, it became suddenly fulfilled—like a person of questionable intent who, by fortune, attains his heart’s desire. Its peaks, now veiled in layers of brilliant white snow, shone resplendently, resembling a mighty lord of the earth shaded by magnificent white parasols. Gentle breezes stirred, carrying with them the passions of the gods and celestial women. These winds played over clear ponds brimming with pure water, their surfaces adorned with blooming lotuses and water-lilies. Into this enchanting scene, the season of spring arrived, coinciding with the marriage of the guru’s daughter. The women present, their beauty enhanced by the gentle swelling of youth, appeared even more radiant. The lakes, neither too hot nor too cold, reflected the golden hue of lotus pollen drifting on the breeze. All around, priyangu shrubs and mango trees, heavy with blossoms, seemed to vie with each other in brilliance, their clusters shining in mutual rivalry. On the snowy white peaks, clusters of tilaka flowers glowed, gathered together like elders assembling for an important purpose. Amidst this splendor, aśoka creepers, heavy with blooms, clung lovingly to the sturdy śāla trees, evoking the image of passionate women entwining their arms around their beloveds’ necks. The mountain was further graced by a multitude of trees: aśoka, sarja, arjuna, kovidāra, puṃnāga, nāgeśvara, karṇikāra, clove, tāla, aguru, saptaparṇa, banyan, śobhāñjana, and coconut trees. Other trees, laden with fruit and flowers, added to the delight, while the golden-hued lakes teemed with chakravāka, kāraṇḍava, and swan birds. Lakes filled with lotuses, water-lilies, and lively fish were graced by ducks, dātyūha, and cranes. In the branches of the trees, birds of many colors, their wings splendidly hued, sang and played, challenging one another in joyous sound, their bodies stirred by the season’s passion. Over all of this, gentle, pleasantly cool breezes drifted, blessing the mountain during the wedding of its daughter. Soft winds from Mount Malaya scattered pure white flowers from the trees, and all the auspicious seasons appeared, their forms blending together in celebration. Jasmine vines flourished, supporting each other amidst the humming of intoxicated bees and clusters of stone flowers. The waters of the lakes shimmered with blue lotuses, white lotuses with white stalks, and red lotuses, their leaves alive with swarms of intoxicated bees. In some broad waters, golden lotuses bloomed everywhere; in others, beautiful beryl stalks rose; and in yet more, groves of lotuses sprang up all around. Delightful ponds, blooming with lotuses and blue water-lilies, were filled with the calls of many birds and lined with rows of golden steps. The mountain’s peaks, adorned with abundantly blossoming karṇikāra trees, rose like golden pillars into the sky. All directions were colored by pāṭala trees, their slightly split, red petals swaying gracefully in the wind. On the mountain, flourishing kṛṣṇa, arjuna, and blue aśoka trees, all in full bloom, seemed to compete in beauty. The lovely forests of kiṃśuka trees, echoing with their melodious calls, shone on every slope. At that time, Himavat’s grandeur was enhanced by tamāla and gulma trees, their dark blue clusters resembling clouds hidden in the mountain’s crevices. Wide-branched, tall sandalwood and campaka trees blossomed lavishly, and the air was filled with the intoxicated calls of male cuckoos, making Himālaya shine even more brilliantly. Hearing the sweet, melodious songs of cuckoos from every side, blue-throated birds fluttered their wings and sang even more beautifully. Stirred by these calls, Kāmadeva, the god of love, readied his bow to pierce the hearts of the divine maidens. As the sun’s heat grew intense and water became scarce, the summer season arrived at Himālaya, coinciding with the time of the goddess’s wedding. Still, the mountain’s peaks remained beautifully adorned with clusters of blossoms from countless trees. Delightful breezes continued to blow, carrying the fragrance of pāṭala, kadamba, and arjuna trees far and wide. The ponds, their surfaces covered with masses of blooming lotuses and red filaments, resounded with the calls of fruit-eating geese and flocks of waterfowl along their banks. Kurabaka trees, pale with blossoms, were attended by swarms of bees on every peak, and bakula trees scattered their charming flowers across the mountain’s broad slopes. Thus, all six seasons, filled with trees bearing diverse blossoms and alive with the songs of many birds, arrived together for the wedding of the daughter of the snowy mountain. At that auspicious moment, all beings gathered and the sounds of various instruments filled the air. I too was present there, O twice-born sages. Having adorned the mountain’s daughter with fitting ornaments, I personally led her into the city. Then, standing as the officiating priest, I addressed the Lord: “I offer the oblation into the fire for you.” Śaṃkara, the god of gods, lord of the world, replied, “If you grant me permission, this ritual must be performed.” To this I responded, “O lord of the gods, whatever you have prescribed, do as you desire. I shall carry out all your commands, O Brahman, sovereign of the universe.” With a delighted heart, I quickly took up the sacred kuśa grass and, through yogic union, joined the hands of the god and the goddess. There, Agni himself appeared, palms joined in reverence, accompanied by Vedic hymns and great mantras, manifest in visible form. I offered the clarified butter as oblation into the fire, as prescribed, making Agni the witness and leading the divine couple in circumambulation. Then, releasing their joined hands, and surrounded by all the gods, the mind-born sons, and the accomplished sages, I rejoiced inwardly at the fulfillment of this sacred union.