O Viraka, among the countless children of Ganesha, the Lord bestowed a special blessing upon you: may the feeling of sonship, which has brought joy to my heart, remain ever within you. This auspiciousness, long sought by your ancestors, has now come to fruition for you; may this blessedness endure for all your days to come. Filled with happiness, Viraka gathered all the attendants around him. With a child’s innocent delight lighting his face, he smiled and spoke, his mind absorbed in the playful joys of youth. "See," he said, "my own mother has adorned me today. Here is the cloth with crimson dots she gave me, and these are the sinduvāra flowers she arranged. Upon my head rests a garland, woven with jasmine and other blooms." His gaze fell upon an attendant holding a musical instrument. "Who is this one among you?" he wondered aloud. "I will give him this toy from my hand." Thus, in the midst of laughter and friendship, he moved about, from the south to the west, the west to the north, and from there to the east, always surrounded by his companions. From her window, the mountain-daughter—Pārvatī herself—watched her little hero play outside. Even she, the mother of the world, was momentarily bewildered by the charm and innocence of her son. For who among those who love their children does not become lost in affection? Only someone of little understanding, dull and unfeeling, whose body is but flesh, excrement, and urine, remains untouched by such delusion. Then, as the moon-crested Lord Śiva entered the inner chambers, the gods of heaven themselves came to behold him. Surrounded by his attendants, with their vehicles and mounts, the guardians of the worlds gathered. This form before them was the sword and the sword-maker, detached and death itself—by whom and for whom could such a being be struck? The gods, in silence, wondered if he desired the staff of weapons, but realized: there is nothing to be gained by wielding such terrifying power here on this mountain; what could even a master of weapons accomplish against him? They cautioned him: "Do not vainly desire to follow the guardians of the worlds." At that time, the goddess turned to the little hero, her son who followed the gods of gods, and spoke: "Go, my child, to the forests, to the mountains and waterfalls, and to the abodes of the fire goddess. O guardian of beings, immerse yourself in the waters that cascade from the heights." Let the golden winds roar as they will among the lofty mountain groves, in places wreathed in smoke and adorned with garlands of flowers, resounding with the thunder of the golden wind. Upon the earth, crowned with high golden peaks and radiant with heaps of golden dust, in the beautiful forest abodes of the sky-dwellers, the attendants found their dwelling in the cave of Mandara. There, among mandāra flowers, tender leaves, and lotuses, the accomplished women gazed with wide, unblinking eyes, drinking in the nectar of forms. At that moment, the mountain-daughter remembered her little hero, her heart eager for her son’s delight. He, too, blessed by the merit of that moment, having attained sonship even in a previous birth, could never be fully satisfied with play. Created by the future creator of worlds from his own brilliance, he danced and sang divine songs with his attendants, bowing in joy, ever eager for more. For a moment, he wandered in the lion-roaring Gandha mountain, amidst nets of jewels beneath great sāla trees; for a moment, he played among blooming garlands of many flowers; for a moment, he lingered at the root of a tree, like a swan. For another moment, he splashed in shallow mud and waters thick with lotuses; then, for a time, he rested pure and spotless in his mother’s lap. The lord of the attendants, delighting the deities with his childish sports, played in the groves, accompanied by the songs of the vidyādharas, moving gracefully like the wielder of Pināka himself. Having revealed the enjoyment of all worlds, the day came to its close. The sun departed to another region, and the mountain, once near, now seemed far away. The mountain that rises and sets before him—let its friendship be firmly held in the heart. Ever worshipped and glorious, Meru, with its broad roots and towering heights, did not offer a gift to the lord as he prepared to depart. Even in the waters, this order prevails; the wise may doubt all things. Yet, as the sun, at day’s end, fills his own people with light, so too did the sages, facing the sun at twilight with joined hands, beseech him for a speedy return, restraining their minds in deep contemplation. Thus, darkness gradually spread across the world, clouding the mind like the malice in a crooked heart. In the palace, a bed stood ready, its canopy draped with garments as white as moonbeams, beneath walls illuminated by the gleaming jewels on the hoods of blazing serpents. Adorned with the brilliance of many gems, a net of jewel bells and clusters of pearls hung, imitating Indra’s rainbow. The chamber, with charming and gently swaying canopies, was softly traversed in the company of the mountain-daughter. There he stood, his neck bent within the embrace of Pārvatī’s arms, his realm purified by the radiant light of the moon-crested Lord. The mountain-daughter, dark-eyed and blue as lotus petals, blended into the night, becoming one with the darkness itself. Then, the playful god spoke to her: "On my body, slender one, the pale radiance shines with a dark glow; like a pure serpent resting on sandalwood, it clings to the tree. Touched by moonlight and adorned with beautiful garments, you give me a flaw in my vision, as the night darkens one side." Thus addressed, Girijā replied, her voice clear, her eyes reddened with anger, her face twisted in a frown: "By one’s own actions, everyone is overcome by dullness; inevitably, one who desires something is reproached among people. Whatever I have sought through long austerities is always met with humiliation at every step. I am not crooked, O Śarva, nor harsh, O Dhūrjaṭi; it is you who have gone into the realm of sense-objects, seeking fame and the shelter of manifest faults. I am not in Pūṣan’s teeth, nor in Bhaga’s eyes; the twelve-formed sun god knows this, O Lord. You place the trident on my head, reproaching me with your own faults; you call me Kṛṣṇā and Mahākālī, as I am renowned. I shall depart, abandoning myself in austerity upon the mountain; for a living woman, there is nothing to be done when insulted by a deceiver." Hearing her words, sharp with anger, Bhava replied, his speech tinged with anxious affection: "O Daughter of the Mountain, I am not one who delights in slander, nor am I ignorant of the self; I have uttered your name only with a mind devoted to you. Even when the mind is steady, O timid one, doubt does not arise; if this is so, you need not be angry with me again.