In those solemn moments, he uttered the supreme Brahman—the very essence of the Vedas, the highest of the high. With reverence, he placed his head toward the east and his feet toward the west, aligning himself with cosmic order. The king of the Gandharvas, accompanied by his wife, was seen at that very moment, and a wave of sorrow swept through his household. All the wives and relatives gathered, their hearts heavy, and they wailed and wept bitterly. Among the fifty women present, the chief queen stood out in her grief. She cried aloud in anguish, pressing her beloved to her breast, unable to bear the pain of separation. This was Mālāvatī, who, overwhelmed by sorrow, pleaded, “Grant me a vision, O friend, for I am submerged in an ocean of grief.” Her mind wandered to happier times—in the delightful sandalwood forest, adorned with beautiful garments, in the place of their intimacy. There, near the sandalwood mountain, within the enchanting forest, on a lovely spot by the riverbank on Mount Gandhamādana, in the sacred mountain and divine forest, attended by Śrīnivāsa, they had spent joyous moments together. She recalled the playful acts he performed with her in secret during springtime. Once, he had drenched her with words as sweet as nectar, filling her heart with bliss. She reflected, “Association with the virtuous is more difficult to obtain than even Vaikuṇṭha; therefore, separation from them brings the greatest sorrow to the good. The loss of a child surpasses even death in pain. Whether lying down, eating, bathing, dreaming, or awake, a woman forgets all sorrow merely by union with her husband. Without my husband, I see no relative as dear.” In her despair, she cried to the guardians of the directions, to Dharma, and to the Lord of creatures. Tormented by separation, Mālāvatī, daughter of Citraratha, stood there unconscious, clutching her beloved to her breast. When dawn broke, she regained consciousness, only to weep bitterly again and again. She lamented, “You alone are the protector of all worlds—how is it, Lord, that you do not protect me? By your illusion, this is the husband, I am the wife, and this belongs to me. By action, he is a Gandharva and my beloved; by action, I am his beloved. O Lord, who is truly the husband of whom, who is the son of whom, or who is dear to whom? The Creator unites and separates beings according to their deeds. In union there is supreme joy; in separation, the distress of life itself. Indeed, all objects of enjoyment and even relatives on earth are perishable. Therefore, the wise renounce by themselves even the highest desired prosperity. Everywhere, the wise are rare; and what woman on earth is truly endowed with wisdom?” She continued, “I have no desire for immortality, for the station of Indra, or for the path of liberation. O Lord of the world, as many as are the kinds of women in the world, to them have been given all virtues and various forms. By beauty, by virtue, by brilliance, and by valor, a devotee of Hari, equal to Hari, in depth like the ocean, like the moon in radiance, pleasing to behold, as beautiful as Kāma himself, in speech and in knowledge of all scriptures, in intelligence like Bṛgu, in righteousness equal to Dharma, in truth surpassing even those devoted to truth, in sovereignty equal to Indra, and in forbearance like the earth.” Thus, Mālāvatī’s grief, love, and wisdom poured forth, painting a vivid portrait of devotion and sorrow, as she mourned her beloved and reflected on the nature of union, separation, and the impermanence of worldly ties.