Kaṇḍu, the sage, appeared suddenly before her, radiant with youthful beauty and divine charm. He seemed a boy of sixteen, enchanting to behold, adorned with celestial ornaments and garments, his form wreathed in heavenly garlands and fragrances. All pleasures seemed his to command, and he stood there, a vision brought forth by the power of his austerity. When she beheld his vigor and resplendence, wonder filled her heart. She marveled aloud, “Ah, such is the power of his austerity!” Delighted and astonished, she gazed upon him. Kaṇḍu, devoted to his daily disciplines—bathing, twilight rites, recitation of sacred texts, oblations, self-study, worship of the deities, vows, fasting, discipline, and deep meditation—was the very image of ascetic practice. Yet, O sage, in the presence of this enchanting woman, he abandoned all these duties. Overcome with joy, he surrendered to love and pleasure, his heart utterly captivated, unaware that his hard-won austerity was slipping away. Time itself seemed to vanish for Kaṇḍu. Days, nights, twilights, fortnights, months, seasons, even years passed unnoticed as he remained lost in pleasure, his mind wholly absorbed. The lovely-hipped woman, skilled in the arts of love, enticed him further in private, speaking words laced with desire. Thus, Kaṇḍu, once devoted to the ascetic’s path, dwelt with her for more than a hundred years in the valley of Mandara, embracing the life of a householder. Eventually, she approached him and said, “Blessed one, I wish to return to heaven. Grant me leave, O Brahman, and let me depart.” But so attached was Kaṇḍu that he pleaded, “Stay a few more days, dear one.” She consented, and together they indulged in pleasure for yet another hundred years. Again, she asked permission to go: “Grant me leave, blessed one—I will go to the abode of the gods.” But again he replied, “Stay a while longer.” After more than a hundred years had passed, the woman, her face radiant with affection, prepared to depart for heaven. Kaṇḍu, still unwilling to let her go, begged, “Remain here, O beautiful-browed one. You will depart after a long time.” Fearing his curse, the lovely-hipped woman remained with him, and together they spent nearly two hundred years more, slightly less, in each other’s company. When the time came for her to leave for the abode of the king of gods, she timidly asked to depart, but, out of fear and knowing the pain of separation, she stayed with the sage. With her, Kaṇḍu delighted in pleasures day and night, his love ever fresh, his mind entirely absorbed in passion. One day, compelled by an urgent need, Kaṇḍu left his hut. The auspicious woman asked him, “Where are you going?” He replied, “The day has turned, O lovely one; I must perform my evening worship, or my ritual duties will be neglected.” She laughed joyfully and said, “O knower of all dharmas, is it only today that your day has passed? This is not surprising; but to whom is this told? In the morning, O blessed one, you came to this beautiful riverbank; I saw you, and you entered my hermitage. Now evening is here and the day has passed—what is the meaning of this jest? Tell me truly, what is this situation?” Kaṇḍu replied, “At dawn I arrived, O Brahman, this is true, not false; but today, for that period, hundreds of years have passed for you.” Trembling, the sage questioned her, “Tell me, gentle one, how much time has passed while you have been with me?” She answered, “Seven hundred and nine years, six months, and three days have elapsed.” He asked, “Is this true, gentle one, what you say, or is it a jest? I feel only a single day has passed with you.” She replied, “How could I speak falsehood in your presence, O Brahman? Especially today, when you have questioned me according to dharma.” Hearing her words, the sage, foremost among the twice-born, was overcome with remorse. He reproached himself, “Fie, fie upon me! My austerities are destroyed, the wealth of the knowers of Brahman is lost, discernment has been stolen, and a woman has been created for delusion. Brahman, which transcends all suffering, is to be realized through self-mastery; that is the path I had chosen to overcome desire, but now—shame upon me. All vows, all the Vedas, all causes—today, through the path leading to ruin, have been destroyed by desire.” He continued, “I will not turn you to ashes with the fierce fire of my anger, for we have shared the seven steps of friendship, as is the custom among the virtuous. Or else, what fault is yours? What could I do to you? The fault is entirely mine, for I am the one who has not conquered the senses. Just as, for the sake of pleasing Śakra, my intoxicated austerity was wasted, so by your glance, accompanied by great delusion, I have become contemptible.” As the sage spoke thus, the fair-waisted woman began to tremble, sweat pouring from her body, greatly agitated. Seeing her distress, her vine-like form covered in sweat, the sage, now angry, said, “Go, go!” Thus rebuked, she departed from the hermitage, moving through the sky, wiping her sweat with the leaves of trees. She went from tree to tree, using the tender red leaves to dry her sweat-drenched body. Then, from the sage, a seed was placed within her, and it emerged from her limbs in the form of sweat.