From the Supreme Being were born the Vālakhilyas—those great-souled ascetics, steadfast in their vows, and accomplished in their austerities. From Him also arose the divine forms of Umā, Sītā, Sinīvālī, Kuhū, and Gāyatrī. O Lord of the gods, even Sandhyā and Night themselves have their origin in You. With reverence, salutations were offered to the bearer of the thunderbolt and the Pināka bow, to the god adorned in gold. Again and again, praises were sung: to the god of golden seed, to the one clad in gold, to the god of a thousand wondrous eyes, to the golden hero, and the giver of gold. Salutations resounded for the holder of the Pināka bow, for Shankara, the blue-throated one. He was hailed as the God of gods, the origin of all worlds, radiant with the brilliance of millions of suns. His form, vast and awe-inspiring, seemed to possess thousands of mouths, as if devouring the very sky. Adorned with dazzling gems, decked in diverse garlands and fragrant ointments, he wore serpents as his sacred thread—a terror to the enemies of the gods. Then, the whole world was filled with the radiance of his smile. Mahadeva spoke with compassion: “I am pleased with you, O best of gods. In ancient times, you two were born from my own limbs. My left arm is Vishnu, ever undefeated in battle.” With hearts brimming with joy, they bowed low at the feet of the Lord, praying, “May our devotion to you, O Lord of the gods, ever endure.” Having thus spoken, the blessed one vanished from their sight. This, they understood, is the supreme and subtle knowledge known as Shiva. With devotion, they offered salutations to Mahadeva, to Maheshvara, to Shankara, the great-souled one. Whoever worships him thus attains all desires and is freed from every sin. All this—the mighty power of Maheshvara—was thus revealed. Yet, a curiosity remained: the desire to hear further of Mahadeva’s greatness. It was said that he assumed a strange and bewildering form, confounding even the greatest sages. Though they worshipped him to win his favor, he was not pleased. The wise were eager to know the reason behind this. Out of compassion for his devotees, the Lord of gods created the delightful Devadāru forest, lush with many trees and creepers. There, ascetics lived in various ways: some sustained themselves on algae, some dwelled within the water, others used their teeth as mortars, and some crushed their food with stones. These great-minded ones devoted themselves to intense austerities. One day, a mysterious figure appeared. His body was smeared with pale ash, he was naked, and bore strange marks. In his hand he held a flaming torch, and his eyes shone red and tawny. His face bore both coal-black and white colors. Sometimes he danced with wild abandon; sometimes he cried out repeatedly. He would come again and again to the hermitage, begging persistently. He roared like a bull and made loud, braying noises like a donkey. At last, the sages, unable to understand and angered by his strange behavior, became tainted by wrath.