As the city of Tripura blazed with unquenchable fire, a terrible fate befell the wives of the Danava lords. Embraced by their beloveds, they clung to each other in their final moments, consumed together in the flames even as they delighted in one another’s arms. Among them was one woman who, unable to escape, let go of her beloved and perished before his very eyes, swallowed by the mouth of fire and meeting her end. Amidst the chaos, a lotus-eyed woman, her eyes brimming with tears and her hands joined in supplication, cried out to the fire: “O Fire, tormentor of foes, I am the wife of another. You, who are the witness of righteousness in all three worlds, should not touch me here. O god, I have lain with another, and with Shiva’s radiance. Go elsewhere, leaving this house and my beloved to me.” Nearby, another Danava woman stood at the edge of the fire, clutching her young son. She pleaded with the fire-god, “O Fire, this boy is my son, born of sorrow. You should not take him, O beloved of Shanmukha, my dear one.” Some of the Danava women, stricken with grief, abandoned their beloveds and leapt into the ocean’s waters, their ornaments tinkling as they fell. From every direction, the women of Tripura wailed in distress, calling out for their fathers, sons, and mothers, their voices trembling amid the searing flames. The fire raged like a mountain blaze, consuming the lotus-like faces of the women just as flames devour lotuses and water creatures. The burning was so severe that it resembled a mass of frost withering the lotuses in a pond, with the fire scorching their delicate faces and eyes. As a rain of fiery arrows fell upon the exceedingly delicate women, the mingled sounds of their wailing, along with the clamor of their girdles and anklets, filled the air with overwhelming sorrow. All around, mansions with half-burnt crescent-shaped domes, shattered palaces with broken gateways, and burning houses collapsed, as if seeking refuge in a flood. The burning houses tumbled into the ocean, their flames heating the waters, much like a wealthy family is ruined by the faults of a wicked son. The ocean, boiled by the heat of the burning city, surged violently, terrifying its fishes, crocodiles, and mighty sea-monsters. At last, the great city of Tripura, with its grand gateways and towering ramparts, collapsed with all its mansions into the ocean, crashing down with a tremendous roar. Where once stood palaces with a thousand peaks, now only the name “Tripura” remained, for the fire had consumed everything, offering it up to destruction. As the city burned, the whole world, along with the underworld and the heavens, was scorched and plunged into distress. All was submerged in water, where Maya’s magnificent palace still stood. Hearing the devastation, Indra, the Lord of the gods and wielder of the thunderbolt, pronounced a curse upon Maya’s house, the son of Diti: “Maya’s house shall forever be unfit for dwelling, without foundation, and surrounded by fear, like fire itself. Wherever there is defeat in any land, people will see the ruins of Tripura there; and even now, Maya’s house remains free from disease.” Curious, the sages inquired, “O Blessed One, by which house did Maya escape? Tell us, O son of Camasa, what became of Maya.” It was said: wherever Maya’s abode is seen, that is where he dwells. But because Maya was an enemy of the gods, his mind became troubled. He left that world and built another for his own protection. Yet even there, the gods—foremost among the immortals—were present, making it impossible for Maya to stay. Eventually, he sought refuge in a single, excellent city. Shiva, moved by Maya’s search for shelter, built a house and gave it to him. Indra, the thousand-eyed, ceased his enmity and worshipped Shiva, the Lord of beings, and all the gods joined in praise. Then, seeing Ganesha, chief of the hosts, being worshipped by the gods and their attendants, the gods rejoiced, laughed, and departed, their hands joined in delight. After saluting the Grandsire and Mahesha, Indra took up his bow, wiped it clean, mounted his chariot, and hurled the burning city of Tripura into the ocean, where it became the abode of the makaras, the great sea-creatures. It is said that whoever recites this hymn of Rudra’s victory, which brings triumph, will be granted success in all undertakings by the Bull-bannered Lord. If it is recited during rites for the ancestors, the merit is boundless, bestowing the fruits of all sacrifices. This hymn is auspicious, holy, and a great rite for sons; hearing and reciting it brings one to the world of Rudra. After this tale, the sages asked, “How does King Pururavas, month after month on the new moon, ascend to heaven, O Suta? How does he offer oblations to the ancestors? We wish to hear of the power of that wise one.” It was told that Manu once asked this very question to Madhusudana, and Madhusudana explained it to the son of the Sun. Listen, then, to the power of the wise Aila, Pururavas, and his union in heaven with Soma. From Soma comes the attainment of nectar and the offering to the ancestors—the Saumyas, Barhishads, Kavyas, and Agnishvattas as well. On the new moon, when the moon, sun, and stars come together, they dwell in a single circle. On each new moon, Pururavas goes to see the Sun and the Moon, his maternal and paternal ancestors. He greets them and waits for the proper time. Then, after worshipping Soma, he departs, weary. Learned and devoted to his monthly ancestor rites, Pururavas approaches Soma in heaven, and also the ancestors. He places two offerings, only as much as Kuhū, both together at the rise of the vow—a small measure, the size of Sinīvālī. Knowing the measure of Kuhū for the ancestors, he worships Kuhū, and after worshipping, he waits for Soma, watching for the right phase. From Soma comes the nectar of oblation for the satisfaction of the ancestors, with fifteen streams of nectar. The ancestors who partake in the dark fortnight are delighted by these supreme rays.