Upon the sacred mountain, a wondrous preparation unfolded. The winds and clouds themselves swept clean the palaces perched upon its heights, while Lady Śrī, radiant and auspicious, adorned the goddess with exquisite ornaments. Everywhere, brilliance filled the air, prosperity blossomed, and the mountain was encircled by jewels—wish-fulfilling gems and precious stones gleaming on every side. Attending this scene were mighty nāgas, wish-fulfilling trees, great celestial trees, and medicinal herbs in embodied form, each possessing divine properties. All the juices and minerals of the earth became eager servants of the mountain, obeying every command. Rivers and oceans, together with all beings—whether still or moving—contributed to the snowy mountain’s glory. On Mount Gandhamādana, a gathering of sages, nāgas, yakṣas, gandharvas, kinnaras, and the gods of Śaṅkara assembled. Every ornament and adornment, pure and splendid, stood ready; even the crescent moon was placed in Śarva’s matted hair. With eyes wide in generous affection, Cāmuṇḍā bound a great garland of skulls and fastened it upon his head, then spoke: “O Śaṃkara, beget a son who, after slaying the race of Daitya lords, will satisfy me with their blood.” Sauri, crowned with blazing fire and adorned with serpents, stood prepared before Śambhu. Śakra, his lotus-like face sweating with exertion, eagerly donned the elephant hide, its edges anointed with fat. Vāyu decorated the mighty, sharp-horned bull—shining like the Himalayan mountain—Hara’s powerful mount. The sun, fire, and moon, dwelling in Śambhu’s eyes, spread their radiance for the Lord of worlds, witness to all deeds. He applied funeral ash, shining like silver, to his skull, and fastened a garland made of human bones with his hand. The Lord of the Dead stood at the entrance, bearing a mace and adorned with forms and jewels brought by the Lord of Wealth. The Lord himself cast aside his splendid serpent bracelet, fashioning Vasuki and Takṣaka as ear ornaments. With reverence, the leaders of the hosts brought forth steadfast Vīraka, adorned with fresh flowers from the ocean lords. They busily said, “Announce to the earth, O wielder of the trident, that the Lord, adorned and decorated, is now ready.” The seven oceans stood as mirrors, and the Lord beheld his reflection in the vast waters. Embracing the earth with his knees, Keśava spoke to Sthāṇu: “O God, you shine with a form that brings joy to the world.” The mothers sent forth the goddess of love, marked by widowhood, signaling with gestures that the time had arrived. Smiling, the goddesses said to the Lord, “Rati has come before you, though deprived of Madana.” With a gesture of his left hand, he dismissed her, his mind eager to see Girijā as she set out. Hara urged the great bull, white as a Himalayan cave, with a gentle whip; its fierce gaze scattered the hosts, shaking the mountains like a thunderbolt. Hari, swift-footed and adorned with dust from the earth, spoke to those sheltered among the foremost trees: “Go forth; do not obstruct this path.” The son, emboldened by the Lord’s first command, said with a frowning face, “What thorn is there in the sky for those who move through it? Go forth, do not stay far from the mountain.” He declared, “Let the great ocean make its waters like stone, for the coming of the enemies of the gods is a vast mire. O leaders of the hosts, do not proceed with fickleness; the steadfast lords of the gods observe.” He noted the bee does not lead its own form, nor does the broad-faced Pināka-holder go ahead. Yama, bearing his weapon, abandoned haste, his teeth exposed in vain. The city-destroyer’s chariot horses could not escape the crowd of mothers. The gods, surrounded by their followers, were foot-soldiers; Harapriyā’s followers took double paths. The gods proceeded with their own vehicles, fans stirred by the wind, banners fluttering, delighting in sport. He questioned why they followed their own passions, moving among the three prescribed abodes. The sound from heaps of ornaments surpassed the Kinnaras. He wondered why those not born in the clan did not utter the ṣaḍja or madhyama notes, and observed that more would speak with less distinct tones. Having gone through varied, measured, and distinct rhythms, those wary of excessive divisiveness—the Gauḍakas—departed swiftly. He asked why the ṣāḍga instruments were not played with their own songs and graceful steps, and noted that before the Lord, whose meaning emerges unbroken, it was understood thus. Delighting, they performed beautiful dances, full of modulations, spreading the fame of the mountain-lord, scattered among elephant clans. He pondered how these tales resounded in every direction, mixed with various brides. The clans did not sound the drum’s resonance, nor were they modulated—why were they not of a modulating nature? Thus, the gods and demons, attentive to the mountain, were immediately directed by the hero’s command. Joyful, they departed, filling the entire world, both moving and unmoving. In the roaring ocean, echoing caves split open, and the world became tumultuous, as if agitated by the swift-moving Pināka-holder, amidst resounding directions. In some places, blazing gateways of gold shone; elsewhere, emerald mansion platforms closed; in other spots, pure, distant terraces appeared, and charming waterfalls flowed with clouds. The mountain was adorned with thousands of moving banners, clusters of divine trees, painted with white, black, and red hues, splendid with prosperity, and extended path-towers. As he entered, the city of the mountain-lord became agitated. Tiger-like women, filled with victory, crowded the streets, rushing along the paths, celebrating the arrival of the Lord.