When the auspicious moment arrived, the mothers sent forth the goddess of love, Rati, who bore the marks of widowhood, silently signaling with their gestures that the time had come. The goddesses, radiant with smiles, approached the Lord and said, “Rati stands before you, though she is bereft of her beloved Madana.” Yet Shiva, his mind intent upon seeing Girijā as she set out, gently dismissed Rati with a gesture of his left hand. Then, Shiva urged onward his great white bull, as dazzling as a Himalayan cave, touching it lightly with a gentle whip. The bull’s fierce gaze scattered the assembled hosts, shaking the very mountains like a thunderbolt. At that moment, Hari—swift of foot and adorned with the dust of the earth—addressed those who had gathered beneath the foremost trees: “Proceed! Do not block this path.” Emboldened by the Lord’s command, his son, even with a frown upon his face, declared, “Is there any thorn in the sky for those who soar through it? Go forth, and do not stray far from the mountain.” He continued, “Let the great ocean turn its waters to stone, for the coming of the enemies of the gods is like a vast mire. O leaders of the hosts, do not falter—remember, the steadfast lords of the gods are watching.” He observed, “The bee does not lead its own form, nor does the broad-faced Pināka-holder go ahead. In vain, Yama bears his weapon with bared teeth, forsaking haste. The steps of the city-destroyer’s chariot horses are hemmed in by the throng of mothers. These gods, surrounded by their own followers, are on foot; while the companions of Harapriyā take double paths.” The gods advanced in their own vehicles, their fans fluttering in the wind, banners streaming, delighting in sport. Yet they seemed preoccupied with their own passions, following the three prescribed abodes. The sound of their many ornaments rose in a clamor that even the Kinnaras could not surpass. Why, he wondered, did those not of their clan refrain from uttering the ṣaḍja or madhyama notes? Here, more voices spoke, though their tones were less clear. Having traversed various rhythms—measured, distinct, and made separately—those wary of too much division among themselves, the Gauḍakas, moved away swiftly. He questioned, “Why are the ṣāḍga instruments not played together, with their own songs and graceful steps? Before the Lord, whose meaning is ever clear, this is understood.” Some delighted in performing beautiful dances, full of varied modulations, spreading the fame of the mountain-lord among the many elephant clans. Tales resounded in every direction, mingling with different brides, yet the clans did not sound the drums nor modulate their music—why was there no unity in their song? Thus, the gods and demons, their attention fixed on the mountain, were immediately guided by the hero’s command. Joyfully, they set forth, filling the world—both moving and unmoving—with their presence. It was as if the world itself became tumultuous, like a roaring ocean whose echoing caves were split open, shaken by the swift-moving Pināka-holder and the resounding directions. In some places, there blazed a thousand golden gateways; elsewhere, emerald platforms were closed; in other places, there were pure, distant terraces, and charming waterfalls where clouds drifted. The city was adorned with thousands of fluttering banners, clusters of divine trees, painted in white, black, and red, splendid with prosperity and crowned by tall towers along the paths. As Shiva entered, the city of the mountain-lord was stirred into excitement. Tiger-like women, filled with victorious joy, crowded the streets and hurried along the pathways. At the palace window, a goddess stood clearly visible, her eyes like blue lotuses, the rays of her ornaments shining unobscured. Another, adorned with every ornament, left her companions behind and gazed upon Hara. Yet another, speaking softly, departed anxiously, cautioning her friend not to be foolish. Though scorched by longing, Shiva himself wished only for solitary delight; another woman, overcome by separation, spoke to her companion whose limbs had grown weak. “Do not, O restless one, attribute Madana’s union to Shankara,” she said. “If there was any fault, speak of it, but do not overlook the restraint, for Girisha spoke with reason.” They watched and whispered, “This is he, before whom Indra and the other lords of heaven bow, seeking the fruit of their service.” Another said, “This is not that one; here is he, wrapped in skin, crowned with the moon, with Vajradhara clearing his path.” They saw the lotus-born one approach, hidden by matted locks and deer skin, touching his face affectionately and speaking measured words at the root of the Vedas. Thus, among the divine women, confusion arose; seeking refuge in Shankara, they murmured, “This is the supreme fruit of Girijā’s birth.” At the snowy mountain’s abode, prepared by Vishvakarman, stood a great pillar of blue stone and a shining golden floor. The place was adorned with pearl nets, radiant herbs, a thousand pleasure gardens, and a golden lotus pond. All the gods, led by Mahendra, beheld this marvel and exclaimed, “Today, our eyes are fulfilled by what our hearts desired.” Though their armlets loosened by the press of the crowd and the doorway blocked by deer, the foremost among the dwellers of heaven managed to enter. There, worshipped by the lord of the mountain, the four-faced Brahmā performed every rite as prescribed, with mantras leading the way. The hand-taking of Sharva and Girijā was witnessed by Agni; the lord of the earth gave the bride, and Brahmā officiated the ceremony. The groom was Pashupati himself; the bride, Vishvarani. All beings—gods and demons, moving and unmoving—were present. There, according to sacred rule, all became busy with their tasks; new grains, rice, and medicinal herbs were released. The goddess Earth, eager and joyful, gathered all gems and ornaments, and Varuna did likewise. The pure and holy ornaments, made of many gems, adorned the god, bringing joy to all beings. Kubera, too, brought divine golden ornaments, fashioned in many forms, and presented them with devotion. The mighty wind blew sweetly, pleasant to the touch, and Indra, shining like the moon, held a pure white umbrella over the auspicious scene.