Indra, the king of the gods, spoke gently to Kāma, the god of love: “What more need be said to you? You are Manmatha—you know what has happened and what is yet to come. Therefore, do what is fitting: bring joy to the dwellers of heaven. Quickly unite Śaṃkara and the daughter of the mountain, O Manmatha, with all your sweetness and with the unconquerable lord of the seasons at your side.” Thus urged by Indra for the fulfillment of his own desire, Kāma, the wielder of the five arrows, spoke fearfully to Śatakratu: “With this assembly of gods, and with the formidable presence of sages and demons, Śaṃkara is hard to overcome, O lord of the world. Surely, you know this. You know the cause of that god’s unchanging nature; in the great, favor and anger alike are both immense. All pleasures are embodied in the beautiful women of heaven, yet the happiness you once enjoyed has been lost. If, by carelessness, you should fail regarding the Lord, consider carefully—the signs of the beings’ purposes are already visible here. For those who desire distinction, falling from the common path brings loss.” Hearing these words, Indra, surrounded by the immortals, replied: “We are your authorities here, O beloved of Rati, without doubt. Without a command, the power to harm is not exercised; and ability is shown in some cases, not everywhere.” Thus addressed, Kāma departed, accompanied by his friend Madhu. Together with Rati, he swiftly made his way to the abode of the daughter of the mountain. There, Kāma carefully considered his plan of action, for those whose minds are unwavering in great undertakings are truly hard to overcome. He reflected, “By first agitating the mind, one surely attains victory; and by purifying the mind beforehand, one achieves success. How, by various dispositions, without resorting to hatred, does anger—arising from cruel association—bring forth that dreadful companion, envy? I shall direct the supreme distortion of the mind, born of darkness, against her whose courage is shaken at the height of recklessness, though she is mighty. By closing the doors of fortitude and removing contentment, no one, however learned, will perceive me there. When the mind is fixed only in uncertainty, it becomes deformed; then, when the root of action is begun, it is swept into a deep and impassable whirlpool. I shall steal away the austerity of Hara, whose self is steadfast, by enveloping his senses with delightful means and arrangements.” Thus resolved, Madana set out for the hermitage of the Lord of beings, the very essence of the world, with its groves of straight trees. The place was filled with tranquil beings, crowded with immovable creatures, adorned with garlands of flowers and creepers, and presided over by the hosts of heaven. On a blue, lush slope, grazed by undisturbed bulls, Kāma saw a delightful second abode of the three-eyed one. There, he beheld a heroic figure, lord of the world’s heroes, radiant like Īśāna, with tawny matted locks dusted with the pollen of yakṣa saffron. Holding a staff in his hand, undisturbed, adorned with the ornaments of a fierce serpent king, his eyes closed like lotus petals in sleep, he gazed steadily at the tip of his nose with beautiful eyes. He was draped in an upper garment of lion and elephant skin from the forests of Śrāvastī. His ears were adorned with the hoods of serpents, his breath glowing like fire, his matted locks swinging, hung with skulls at their ends. Reclining with Vāsuki as his couch, his navel as the center, he was adorned with a serpent whose tail-tip was held in Brahmā’s joined palms. Kāma gradually drew near and beheld Śaṅkara. Amidst the humming of bees, he approached the wooded slope. Madana entered the mind of Bhava through the opening of his ear, and Śaṅkara, hearing that sweet, love-laden sound, remembered Dakṣa’s daughter, his beloved. His heart was inflamed with passion, and she—pure and radiant—gradually disappeared from his sight. She remained absorbed in meditation, appearing as the very object of concentration; but her mind, obstructed by hindrances, became wholly absorbed in that focus. By his mastery, the Lord perceived the distortion born of desire; slightly filled with anger, the steadfast Dhūrjaṭi composed himself. In the absence of hope, with desire persisting, enveloped by yogic illusion, he was seized by that very illusion, and thus the fire of desire blazed forth. Desire, embodied by will, hard to subdue—the great seat of anger and fault—then emerged from the heart, consisting of the affliction of longing. Taking up a place outside, the Fish-bannered One approached, accompanied by his friend Madhu, who dwells in the heart. Seeing a cluster of mango blossoms gently shaken by the soft wind, Madana swiftly delighted in the beauty upon Hara’s chest. The Makara-bannered One released the bewildering arrow named Mohana—the mighty, destructive flower-shaft—into the pure heart of Śiva. That harsh, tall, bewildering flower-arrow fell; then, struck in the heart, Bhava experienced a confusion of the senses. Though his steadfastness was like a mountain, he became inclined toward desire, and under the power of those feelings, he fell under their sway. Encountering much external disturbance and beset by obstacles, then, from the fire of anger, a terrible, fearsome roar arose. On his face appeared a third, blazing eye, filled with fire—the fierce, world-destroying eye of Rudra in his terrible form. As Madana stood nearby, Dhūrjaṭi opened that eye; from its spark, the denizens of heaven cried out in fear.