Datta, filled with humility and resolve, approached the sacred Gaṅgā, his heart pure and his senses restrained. With hands folded in reverence, he worshipped Śaṃkara, the great Lord, pouring forth his devotion. Standing before the divine, Datta cried out from the depths of his suffering: “O Lord of the gods, I have fallen into the well of worldly existence. Covered by delusion, sunk in the mire of pain, and enshrouded in the darkness of ignorance, I cannot find the supreme truth.” He continued, his voice trembling, “O Somanatha, I am wounded by the trident of fate, torn by the blade of sinful anxiety, scorched by the fierce afflictions of the five senses, and utterly exhausted. Rescue me, O Lord! Chains of poverty bind me, fires of disease strike me, the serpent of death overtakes me, and fear overwhelms me—O Shambhu, what can I do?” His lament deepened: “Existence and non-existence, thirst and hunger, passion and darkness, decay and old age—all these assail me. O compassionate Lord, look upon my suffering today. Desire, anger, envy, hypocrisy, pride, and more have pierced me one by one. O Lord, like a true protector, drive away these enemies from me.” Datta acknowledged his helplessness: “Indeed, someone may become the remover of suffering for the fallen, but without you, O Somanatha, I find no word of compassion anywhere. As long as I do not utter ‘Salutations to Shiva,’ anger, fear, delusion, suffering, ignorance, poverty, disease, desire, and even death persist.” He confessed his shortcomings: “I have no righteousness, nor devotion, nor wisdom—how could I possess compassion? O refuge of all, quickly plant the word ‘Soma’ in my heart. I do not seek rulership over the gods; O Somanatha, I ask only for your auspicious lotus feet to be present in the lotus of my heart—grant me this alone.” With humility, he pleaded: “Though known to you as sinful, still, hear my request. Wherever the name ‘Shiva’ is heard, O Somanatha, may that be my abode. O Lord of Gauri, Shankara, Somanatha, Lord of the universe, ocean of compassion, soul of all—wherever you are praised as ‘the true one,’ there may the abode of the virtuous be.” Hearing this heartfelt praise from Atri’s line, the blessed Hara was pleased. Smiling upon the yogi, he declared, “I am the giver of boons, the creator of the universe. To you I grant self-knowledge, liberation, abundant enjoyment, and the greatness of this holy place—a boon worshipped even by the gods.” With these words, Shambhu vanished from sight. From that moment onward, the wise have known this sacred spot as the 'self-holy place.' Bathing and giving charity there, one attains liberation, O Nārada. Thus, the Ashvattha holy place was described, followed by the Pippala. Now, listen to the tale of the Mandatirtha in the north and its greatness. Long ago, the revered Agastya, lord of the southern quarter, was sent by the gods to fulfill the request of the mountain Vindhya. Slowly, Agastya approached, surrounded by a thousand sages. When he reached Vindhya—the chief of mountains, adorned with countless trees and rivaling Meru and the Sun—he beheld its towering peaks. Welcomed as a guest by the twice-born, Agastya praised the mountain and spoke for the accomplishment of the gods’ purpose: “O foremost of mountains, with sages who perceive the truth, I am undertaking a pilgrimage to holy places, proceeding south. Grant me a path and offer the hospitality I request; until I return, I must remain here.” Vindhya, the excellent mountain, agreed, saying it could not be otherwise. Thus, accompanied by the sages, Agastya advanced toward the southern region. Eventually, they reached the river Gautamī, consecrated for a great sacrificial session, and there, for a full year, Agastya performed the sacrifice, surrounded by the sages. But trouble arose from two evil sons of Kaitabha—rakshasas named Ashvattha and Pippala, notorious even in the abode of the gods for obstructing righteousness. Ashvattha assumed the form of an ashvattha tree, while Pippala took the guise of a brahmin. Both sought to disrupt the sacrifice, adopting these forms to infiltrate the holy ritual. These two wicked danavas tormented the brahmins, who were rich in austerity. Anyone who approached Ashvattha, the tree, would be devoured. Pippala, taking the role of a Sāma Veda singer, consumed his disciples as a rakshasa; hence, even today, brahmins regard a Sāmaga as exceedingly merciless. As the brahmins were diminished, the sages realized the true nature of these two as rakshasas and sought refuge on the southern bank. All the groups of sages approached Sauri, the slow-moving Saturn, steadfast in his vow and deep in austerity, and reported the rakshasas’ deeds. Sauri assured them, “When my austerity is complete, O twice-born, I will slay the rakshasas; but if it is incomplete, I am unable.” The sages replied, “We will grant you great austerity.” Sauri accepted, saying, “It is done.” Disguised as a brahmin, Sauri approached the rakshasa who had become Ashvattha. He performed circumambulation around the tree. As he did so, the rakshasa, deceived by illusion, saw only a brahmin and began to devour him. Entering the rakshasa’s body, Sauri beheld its eyes and entrails; in that instant, the wicked one was reduced to ashes, as if struck by a thunderbolt. Having destroyed Ashvattha, Sauri then approached Pippala, who was reciting as a brahmin. Disguised as a humble disciple, Sauri allowed himself to be consumed. As before, inside the rakshasa’s belly, Sauri’s mere gaze reduced Pippala to ashes. Having slain both rakshasas, the son of the Sun emerged and addressed the sages, “Now tell me, what should I do?