In the heart of the forest, the air was alive with the presence of karandava ducks, graceful cranes, elegant swans, tortoises basking by the water, and madgu birds, along with countless other creatures of the lakes and rivers, all spread throughout the tranquil wilderness. Amidst this wondrous scene, the beautiful apsaras wandered step by step, taking in the marvels of the forest, her companions the birds and water-dwellers, her eyes wide with astonishment at the delightful sights around her. Overcome by awe, the excellent woman turned to the gods—Vayu, the Wind; Kama, the god of Love; and Vasanta, the Lord of Spring—and addressed them with reverence: “All of you, each in your own way, help me.” The gods replied, “So be it.” She then declared, “Today I will go to where that sage, steadfast in his penance, abides. I will make him, who restrains his senses as a charioteer controls his horses, who is emaciated by austerities, yet radiant with the power of love’s missile—I will make him the charioteer of desire. Whether he be Brahma, Janardana, or even Nilalohita, today I will wound him with the arrows of love.” Having resolved thus, she proceeded to the sage’s hermitage, a place rendered peaceful and free of wild beasts by the power of his penance. Standing on the riverbank, sweet-voiced as a male cuckoo, she lingered a short while before she began to sing, her melodious voice filling the air. At that moment, Vasanta, the god of Spring, unleashed his power, making the cuckoos call out with enchanting sweetness, though it was out of season. The fragrant wind from Mount Malaya began to blow, scattering pure, fresh flowers from the treetops and undergrowth alike. Then Kama, the bearer of flower-arrows, drew near and began to disturb the sage’s mind with desire. Hearing the sweet singing, the sage—his mind astonished and unsettled—rose and went toward the beautiful-browed woman, already afflicted by the arrows of love. Upon seeing her, his eyes widened in wonder, his upper garment slipped from his shoulders, his body trembled, and his hair stood on end. Agitated, he spoke to her: “Who are you, and whose are you, O lovely-hipped, fortunate one with a charming smile? You steal my mind, beautiful-browed lady. Speak the truth, slender-waisted one.” She replied humbly, “I am your servant, come here for flowers. Give me your command quickly—what shall I do at your order?” Hearing her words, the sage, abandoning his self-control and bewildered by desire, took the young woman by the hand and led her into his hermitage. With their purpose accomplished, Kama, Vayu, and Vasanta all departed as they had come, returning to heaven. There, they reported everything to Hari. Hearing this, Indra and the other gods were pleased and joyful. Within the hermitage, Kaṇḍu, the sage, assumed his highest and most radiant form, resembling the god of love himself. He appeared endowed with youthful beauty, enchanting as a sixteen-year-old, adorned with divine ornaments, garlands, and fragrances, his form shining with the fruits of his austerity. Seeing his vigor and splendor, the apsaras marveled, exclaiming, “Ah, such is the power of his austerity!” and was filled with delight. But Kaṇḍu, abandoning his daily practices—bathing, twilight rites, recitation, oblation, self-study, worship, vows, fasting, discipline, and meditation—became absorbed in pleasure. Delighted, he enjoyed the company of the apsaras day and night, his heart seized by love, unaware that his penance was fading. Time slipped away unnoticed: twilight, night, day, fortnights, months, seasons, and years all passed, but his mind, attached to pleasure, did not perceive their passing. The apsaras, skilled in the arts of love, enticed him with clever, affectionate words in private, her beauty and charm ever fresh. Thus, Kaṇḍu, now devoted to household life, dwelt with her for more than a hundred years in the valley of Mandara. Eventually, she said to the blessed sage, “I wish to return to heaven. Be gracious, O Brahman, and permit me to depart.” But Kaṇḍu, his mind still attached to her, pleaded, “Stay a few more days, dear one.” She remained with him, and together they enjoyed pleasures for another hundred years. Again she asked, “Grant me leave, blessed one—I will go to the abode of the gods.” Yet again, he replied, “Stay a while longer.” So, even after more than a hundred years had passed, the woman of auspicious face lingered, her smile radiant with affection, before finally preparing to depart for heaven. Kaṇḍu, still not ready to let her go, pleaded once more, “Remain here, O beautiful-browed one; you may depart after a long time.” Fearing a curse from the sage, the lovely-hipped apsaras stayed with him for nearly two hundred years, slightly less, always mindful of his power. Each time she prepared to leave for the abode of the gods, she was told, “Stay,” and, timid and gentle, she obeyed, knowing the pain of severed affection and fearing the sage’s wrath. With her, the great sage spent his days and nights in enjoyment, his love ever new, his mind fully absorbed in passion. One day, compelled by necessity, the sage left his hut; as he was about to go, the auspicious woman asked, “Where are you going?” He replied, “The day has turned, O lovely one; I must perform the evening worship, else my ritual would be neglected.