The beautiful woman, laughing with delight, turned to the great sage Kaṇḍu and spoke with a playful gleam in her eyes: “O knower of all dharmas, has your day already passed? This is hardly surprising—whom would it astonish, really?” She continued, “O blessed one, this morning you arrived at this lovely riverbank. I saw you, graceful-hipped, as you entered my hermitage. Now evening has come, the day has ended—so why do you jest thus? Tell me truly, what is this situation?” With gentle clarity, she explained, “O Brahman, you indeed arrived at dawn. This is no lie. But for you, in this single day, hundreds of years have slipped by.” At these words, the sage began to tremble. He asked the wide-eyed woman, “Tell me, gentle one, how much time has truly passed since I have been with you?” She replied, “Seven hundred and nine years have gone by, along with six months and three days.” The sage, bewildered, pressed her, “Is this truly so, gentle one? Or is it a jest, O auspicious lady? To me, it feels as if only a single day has passed in your company.” She answered sincerely, “How could I speak falsely here before you, O Brahman? Especially now, when you have questioned me according to dharma.” Hearing her words, the sage—foremost among the twice-born—reproached himself bitterly, exclaiming, “Fie, fie upon me!” He condemned his own failings, lamenting, “My austerities are ruined, the wealth of the knowers of Brahman lost. My discernment has been stolen, and a woman has been created for delusion. Brahman, which transcends the six waves, is to be realized through self-mastery; that is the path I had chosen, by which I had overcome the great craving of desire—shame upon it now! All my vows, all the Vedas, every cause—today, by following the path that leads to hell, have been destroyed by desire.” Yet, Kaṇḍu tempered his anger, saying, “I will not reduce you to ashes with the fierce fire of wrath, for I have shared with you the seven steps of friendship, as is the custom among the virtuous. Besides, what fault is yours? What could I do to you? The fault is wholly mine, for I am one who has not conquered his senses. Just as, for Śakra’s sake, my intoxicated austerity was wasted, so now, by your glance and great delusion, I have become contemptible.” As the sage spoke thus, the fair-waisted woman began to tremble, sweat breaking out over her body, and she was greatly agitated. Seeing her thus—her vine-like body covered in sweat—the eminent sage, now angered, said to her, “Go, go!” Rebuked, she departed from the hermitage, gliding through the sky, wiping her sweat away with the leaves of trees. The young woman moved from tree to tree, using the tender red leaves to dry the sweat that ran from her body. Then, by the sage’s power, a seed was placed within her, which emerged from her limbs in the form of sweat. The trees received this embryo, and the wind made it one. Nourished by the essence of Soma and by cows, it gradually grew. From the trees was born a maiden of beautiful eyes, named Māriṣā. She would become the wife of the Prācetasa and the mother of Dakṣa, O twice-born one. And as for the blessed Kaṇḍu, when his austerity was spent, he journeyed to the sacred abode of Viṣṇu called Puruṣottama. He beheld the supreme field, rare upon earth, situated on the southern shore of the ocean—a place that grants all desired fruits and bestows liberation. It was a delightful land, covered with sand, adorned with ketakī groves, filled with many kinds of trees and vines, and resounding with the calls of countless auspicious birds. Everywhere was easy to walk, adorned with flowers of every season, granting happiness to all, a blessed source of all virtues. This holy place had once been served by Bhṛgu and other sages, by siddhas, gandharvas, kinnaras, yakṣas, and others who yearned for liberation. There, Kaṇḍu saw Hari, adorned by all the gods, served by Brahmins and people of all castes, as well as those dwelling in hermitages. Upon seeing that sacred field and the Supreme Lord, the best of sages felt that his purpose in life was fulfilled. There, with unwavering mind, he began to worship Hari, chanting the supreme Brahman-chant with single-pointed focus, standing with arms raised—the great yogi, the eminent sage. O sage, we wish to hear of that supreme and auspicious Brahman-chant, by which Kaṇḍu worshipped Keshava. Know that Viṣṇu is the supreme beyond the beyond, limitless and transcending all. He is the supreme self, the ultimate Brahman, the highest among the high, and even beyond what is beyond. He is the cause, yet abides in the cause of causes; he is the reason for even that, the ultimate cause of all causes. Though he is the effect, he manifests in many forms here as the doer of all actions. He is Brahman, the Lord, the essence of all beings, the imperishable master of creatures, unfailing and eternal. He is the unborn Viṣṇu, unattached to all that is subject to decline. Just as he is the imperishable, unborn, eternal Brahman, the supreme person, so may passions and other faults be calmed within me. Hearing the sage’s recitation of the supreme Brahman-chant, and recognizing his steadfast and highest devotion, the Supreme Person—Hari—was filled with affection for his devotee. The Lord approached him and spoke, his voice deep as thunder, resounding in all directions, as he ascended Garuḍa, the son of Vinatā. “O sage,” he said, “speak your highest wish, whatever lies within your heart. I have come as the granter of boons; choose your boon, O steadfast one.” Hearing the words of the Lord of gods, the wielder of the discus, Kaṇḍu suddenly opened his eyes and beheld Hari standing before him.