After much consideration, Madana, the god of love, devised a careful plan of action. He knew that those who remain unwavering in their determination during great endeavors are truly difficult to overcome. He reflected that by first agitating the mind, one could surely attain victory, and that success was achieved by purifying the mind beforehand. Madana pondered further: how is it that, through various dispositions and without pursuing hatred, anger—born from cruel associations—can give rise to that dreadful companion, envy? Resolute in his purpose, he decided to direct the supreme distortion of the mind, born of darkness, against her whose courage had faltered at the peak of recklessness, though she was mighty. He resolved to close the doors of fortitude and remove contentment, knowing that in such a state, even the most learned would not be able to perceive him. When the mind is fixed only in uncertainty, it becomes deformed, and once the root of action is begun, it is swept away into a deep and impassable whirlpool. Madana determined to steal away the austerity of Hara, the steadfast lord, by enveloping his senses with delightful arrangements and alluring means. With this resolve, Madana set out for the hermitage of the Lord of beings, Śiva, the very essence of the world. The hermitage was a grove of straight trees, filled with tranquil beings and crowded with immovable creatures. It was adorned with garlands of flowers and creepers, and was presided over by the hosts of heaven. On a blue, lush slope, where peaceful bulls grazed undisturbed, Madana beheld a second, delightful abode of the three-eyed one. There he saw a heroic figure, the lord of the world’s heroes, radiant like Īśāna, with tawny matted locks dusted with the pollen of yakṣa saffron. This figure held a staff, undisturbed, and was adorned with the ornaments of a fierce serpent king. His eyes, closed like lotus petals in sleep, gazed steadily at the tip of his nose. He wore an upper garment of lion and elephant skin from the forests of Śrāvastī, and his ears were adorned by the hoods of serpents. His breath glowed like fire, and his swinging matted locks were hung with skulls at their ends. Śiva reclined with Vāsuki as his couch, his navel as the center, adorned with a serpent whose tail-tip was held in Brahmā’s joined palms. Drawing near, Madana beheld Śaṅkara. Amidst the humming of bees, he approached the wooded slope. Madana entered the mind of Bhava (Śiva) through the opening of his ear, and Śaṅkara, hearing that sweet, love-laden sound, suddenly remembered Dakṣa’s daughter, his beloved. His heart was inflamed with passion, but then 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 identified with that focus. By his mastery, the Lord perceived the distortion born of desire. Slightly filled with anger, the steadfast Dhūrjaṭi composed himself. Yet, 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 and difficult to subdue—the very seat of anger and fault—then emerged from the heart, consisting of the affliction of longing. Taking up a place outside, Madana, the Fish-bannered One, approached, accompanied by his friend who resided in the heart, together with Madhu. Seeing a cluster of mango blossoms gently shaken by the soft wind, Madana swiftly delighted in the beauty upon Hara’s chest. Then, 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 struck, and Bhava experienced confusion of the senses. Though his steadfastness was like a mountain, Śiva became inclined toward desire. Under the power of those feelings, he fell under their sway. With much external disturbance arising from obstacles, from the fire of anger, a terrible and 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, and from its spark, the denizens of heaven cried out in alarm. In an instant, Kāma, the subduer of lovers’ pride, was reduced to ashes. The fire born from Hara’s eye, having incinerated him, expanded with a roar of flames, eager to burn the world. But for the sake of the world, Bhava restrained the fire. Yet, in the mango tree, in spring, in the moon, in flowers, in bees, in the voices of cuckoos, and in many forms, the fire of love remained—the arrow of love, pierced within and without by Hari, kindled by passion and affection, rushed within as a fierce, blazing fire. Unrestrainably swelling and agitating the divided world, it is said to reach the hearts of lovers, saturated with affection. Day and night it burns, dreadful and incurable by nature, seeing love itself reduced to ashes by the flame of Hara’s roar. Rati, the consort of Kāma, wailed bitterly together with her companion Madhu. After much lamentation, Madhu consoled her. Then, gathering a blossoming mango creeper followed by bees, Rati went for refuge to the god adorned with the crescent moon and three eyes. Taking the flowering creeper as a sacred offering in her hand, she bound her companion, the bird-charming creeper, to her own matted locks adorned with curling tresses. Sprinkling her body with the pure, pleasing ashes of love, she fell to the ground on her knees and addressed the one adorned with the moon.