The Creator, beholding the Gandharva’s son, spoke with authority: “Go now, take birth among the Śūdras, and relinquish your celestial Gandharvī form. Know this, my child—without adversity, there can be no true greatness among men.” Having thus pronounced his decree, the Creator departed from the sacred lake of Puṣkara, returning to his own divine abode. In the wake of this pronouncement, the subtle energies of the body stirred: the Mūlādhāra, Svādhiṣṭhāna, Maṇipūra, and Anāhata centers, along with the vital channels—Iḍā, Suṣumnā, Medhā, and Piṅgalā, the carrier of the life-breath—became active. The Viśuddhā and Niruddhā, the channel of circulating air, and the channel of intellect that expands knowledge—all these sixteen nāḍīs, as well as the haṃsa, were pierced and awakened. In this state, the Gandharva lingered for a moment, merging his individual self with the Supreme Self. Then, he took up his rare and precious three-stringed vīṇā, resting it upon his left shoulder. With reverence, he uttered the supreme Brahman—the very essence of the Vedas, the highest of all truths. Placing his head towards the east and his feet towards the west, the king of the Gandharvas lay down. At that moment, his wife and all his relatives witnessed this scene. A great wailing arose among his kin; all the wives and family members wept bitterly. Among fifty women, the chief queen was overcome with grief. Crying out in anguish, she embraced her beloved tightly to her breast. This was Mālāvatī, who lamented: “Grant me a vision, my dearest, for I am submerged in an ocean of sorrow.” She recalled their joyful times together: in the delightful sandalwood forest, adorned in beautiful garments, in the most intimate of places; near the sandalwood mountain, amidst the enchanting woods; in a lovely spot on Mount Gandhamādana, by the riverbank; in the sacred mountain’s divine forest, with Śrīnivāsa attending them. She remembered the secret, playful acts they shared in the springtime, and the sweet, nectar-like words he once spoke to her. “Association with the virtuous,” she cried, “is rarer even than Vaikuṇṭha itself. Therefore, the pain of separation from them is the greatest sorrow known to the good. The loss of a child, in fact, is even more agonizing than death. “Whether lying down, eating, bathing, dreaming, or awake—a woman forgets all sorrow in the union with her husband. Without him, I see no relative as dear. O guardians of the directions, O Dharma, O Lord of creatures!” So lamenting, tormented by separation, the daughter of Citraratha fainted, still holding her beloved close. At dawn, Mālāvatī regained consciousness, only to be swept again by waves of grief. She wept bitterly, over and over, and cried out: “You alone are the protector of all worlds—how is it, Lord, that you do not protect me? By your illusion, this one is the husband, I am the wife, and this belongs to me. By actions, he is a Gandharva and my beloved; by actions, I am his beloved. O Lord, who truly is the husband of whom? Who is the son of whom? Who is dear to whom? The Creator alone unites and separates beings according to their deeds. “In union there is supreme joy; in separation, there is the very distress of life itself. All objects of enjoyment, and even relatives on earth, are perishable. Therefore, the wise, by their own discernment, renounce even the highest prosperity that is so ardently desired.