A gentle, fragrant breeze, imbued with the scents of Mount Malaya, began to stir, softly scattering pure blossoms—both lofty and lowly—across the land. In this tranquil setting, Kāma, the bearer of flower-arrows, drew near and, with his subtle power, disturbed even the steadfast mind of the sage Kaṇḍu. As the sage listened, he heard the sound of singing, and, astonished, he felt the arrows of love pierce his heart. Drawn by this enchantment, he went to where the beautiful-browed maiden was, his mind unsettled and his senses overwhelmed. Upon seeing her, his eyes widened with wonder; his upper garment slipped from his shoulders, his body trembled, and the hair on his skin stood on end. Agitated, he addressed her: “Who are you, and to whom do you belong, O lovely-hipped and fortunate one with a charming smile? You have stolen my mind, beautiful-browed lady. Speak the truth, slender-waisted one.” With humility, she replied, “I am your servant, come here to gather flowers. Give me your command quickly—what would you have me do?” Hearing her words, the sage, abandoning all restraint and bewildered by desire, took the young woman by the hand and led her into his hermitage. With their purpose accomplished, Kāma, Vāyu, and Spring departed as they had come, returning to the heavens. They went before Hari and reported all that had transpired between the sage and the maiden. Hearing this, Śakra and the gods were filled with pleasure and joy. Within his hermitage, Kaṇḍu assumed his highest and most resplendent form, resembling the god of love himself. He appeared in the fullness of youth, exceedingly handsome, adorned with divine ornaments, and radiant like a sixteen-year-old. Clad in celestial garments, garlanded with heavenly flowers, and anointed with divine fragrances, he enjoyed every delight, all made possible by the power of his austerity. The maiden beheld his vigor and was filled with wonder. “Ah, such is the power of his austerity!” she exclaimed, delight shining in her eyes. Yet, from that moment, Kaṇḍu abandoned his daily disciplines—bathing, twilight rites, recitation, oblation, study, worship, vows, fasting, self-restraint, and meditation. Captivated by love, he spent his days and nights in pleasure with her, unaware that his hard-earned austerity was slipping away. So enthralled was he that he lost all sense of time: twilight, night, day, fortnights, months, seasons, and years passed unnoticed, his mind wholly absorbed in enjoyment. The maiden, skilled in the arts of love, enticed him with clever words and gestures, deepening his attachment. Thus, Kaṇḍu lived as a householder with her in the valley of Mandara for more than a hundred years. One day, she spoke to him, “Blessed one, I wish to return to heaven. Be gracious, O Brahman, and permit me to depart.” But the sage, his heart bound to her, pleaded, “Stay a few more days, dear one.” She agreed, and they continued to delight in each other’s company for another hundred years. Again she said, “Grant me leave, blessed one—I wish to go to the abode of the gods.” Yet again he replied, “Stay a while longer.” More than a hundred years passed, and finally, the woman of auspicious face prepared to depart for heaven, her smile radiant with affection. The sage, still reluctant, entreated her, “Remain here, beautiful-browed one; you may leave after a long time.” Fearing his curse, the lovely-hipped woman stayed with the sage for nearly two hundred years more. Though she longed to return to the gods, out of timidity and fear of breaking his affection, she did not leave him. The sage, for his part, continued to enjoy her company day and night, his love ever renewed, his mind absorbed in passion. One day, compelled by necessity, the sage left his hut. Seeing him depart, the auspicious woman asked, “Where are you going?” He replied, “The day has turned, lovely one; I must perform my evening worship, or else neglect my ritual duties.” She laughed joyfully and said, “O knower of all dharmas, is it truly today that your day has passed? This is no surprise—who would believe it if told? This morning, blessed one, you arrived at this beautiful riverbank; I saw you, lovely-hipped, and you entered my hermitage. Now evening is here, and the day has passed—what jest is this? Tell me truly, what is this situation?” She continued, “At dawn you came, O Brahman, this is true, not false; but for that single day, hundreds of years have passed for you.” The sage trembled and questioned her, “Tell me, gentle one, how much time has passed while you have been with me?” She answered, “Seven hundred and nine years have passed, and six months as well, and three more days have elapsed.” The sage, astonished, asked, “Is this true, gentle one, or is it a jest? It seems to me that only a single day has been spent here with you.” She replied, “How could I speak falsehood in your presence, O Brahman? Especially today, when you have questioned me according to the proper way.” Hearing her words, the sage, foremost among the twice-born, was filled with remorse. He reproached himself, saying, “Fie, fie upon me!” He condemned his own misconduct: “My austerities are destroyed, the wealth of the knowers of Brahman is lost, discernment has been stolen by someone, and a woman has been created for delusion.