After being spoken to by the sage Kaṇḍu, the celestial woman remained with him, enjoying pleasures together for a hundred years. When that time had passed, she gently requested, “Grant me leave, blessed one—I wish to return to the abode of the gods.” But Kaṇḍu, still captivated, pleaded with her to stay a while longer. More than another hundred years slipped by, and the woman, whose face shone with auspicious beauty, finally departed for heaven, her smile radiant with affection. Yet, even as she prepared to leave, Kaṇḍu addressed her again, urging her to remain in his company for a longer time. Fearing his curse, the lovely-hipped woman stayed with the sage, and together they lived for nearly two hundred years—just shy of that span. When the time for her departure to the realm of the king of gods arrived, the slender woman told Kaṇḍu, “Stay,” and thus she spoke, her words shaped by fear of his anger. Gentle and timid, she understood the pain of breaking affection and did not leave the sage, out of fear of his curse. With her, Kaṇḍu found his love ever renewed, his mind absorbed in passion, enjoying her company day and night. One day, compelled by urgency, the sage left his hut, and as he departed, the auspicious woman asked, “Where are you going?” Kaṇḍu replied, “The day has turned, O lovely one; I must perform evening worship, or else my ritual will be neglected.” Laughing joyfully, she teased him, “O knower of all dharmas, is it today that your day has passed? This does not cause wonder; to whom is it told?” She continued, “In the morning, O blessed one, you came to this beautiful riverbank. I saw you, lovely-hipped, and you entered my hermitage. Now evening is here, the day has passed; what is the reason for this jest? Tell me truly, what is this situation? At dawn you arrived, O Brahman, this is true, not false; but for that period, hundreds of years have passed for you.” The sage, trembling, questioned her, “Tell me, timid one, how much time has passed while you have been with me?” The wide-eyed woman replied, “Seven hundred and nine years have passed, and six months as well, and three more days have elapsed.” Kaṇḍu, astonished, asked, “Is this true, timid one, what you say, or is it a jest, O auspicious one? I think only a single day has been spent here with you.” She answered, “How could I speak falsehood here in your presence, O Brahman? Especially today, when you have questioned me, following the proper path.” Hearing her words, Kaṇḍu, foremost among the twice-born, reproached himself, saying, “Fie, fie upon me!” He condemned his own misconduct, lamenting, “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.” He reflected, “Brahman, which transcends the six waves, is to be known through self-mastery; this is the path I have made, by which I have overcome that great craving for desire—shame upon it. All vows, all the Vedas, and every cause—today, through the path leading to the village of hell, have been destroyed by desire.” Yet, Kaṇḍu declared, “I will not turn you to ashes with the fierce fire of anger, for I have shared the seven steps of friendship with you, 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 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 to the fair-waisted woman, she became trembling, drenched in sweat, and greatly agitated. Seeing her trembling, her vine-like body covered in sweat, the eminent sage, with anger, said to her, “Go, go!” Thus rebuked, she departed from the hermitage, moving through the sky, wiping her sweat with the leaves of trees. The young woman went from tree to tree, using the tender red leaves to wipe her body, which was dripping with sweat. Then, by the sage, a seed was placed in her body, and it emerged, in the form of sweat, from her limbs. The trees took hold of that embryo, and the wind made it one; nourished by Soma and by cows, it gradually grew. From this union, a maiden named Māriṣā, beautiful-eyed, was born of the trees. Māriṣā became the wife of the Prācetasa and the mother of Dakṣa, O twice-born. And Kaṇḍu, when his austerity was exhausted, O best of sages, went to the abode of Viṣṇu called Puruṣottama. He saw the supreme field, bestowing liberation, rare upon earth, on the southern shore of the ocean, granting all desired fruits. The place was delightful, covered with sand, adorned with ketakī groves, filled with various trees and vines, and resonant with the calls of many auspicious birds. Everywhere was easy to traverse, adorned with flowers of all seasons, granting happiness to people, blessed and the source of all virtues. It was formerly served by Bhṛgu and others, by sages, siddhas, gandharvas, kinnaras, yakṣas, and others desiring liberation. There Kaṇḍu saw Hari, adorned by all the gods, served by Brahmins and others of all castes, and by those dwelling in hermitages. Upon seeing that sacred field and the supreme Lord, Kaṇḍu regarded himself as one whose purpose was fulfilled. There, with his mind firmly concentrated, he began to worship Hari, performing the supreme Brahman-chant with single-pointed focus, standing with arms raised, that great yogi, the eminent sage.