Even in the depths of water, the order of the cosmos prevails, and a wise person may ponder and doubt all things. As the day draws to a close, the sun, ever faithful, returns to his own, filling the world with light once more. At twilight, the sages, facing the setting sun with hands joined in reverence, beseech him to hasten his return, their minds restrained in deep contemplation. Yet as the sun disappears, darkness gradually spreads across the world, seeping into hearts and minds as malice does in a crooked soul. In this deepening night, a splendid chamber stood, its bed adorned with a canopy draped in garments as white as the rays of the moon, the walls aglow with the radiance of precious jewels set upon the hood of a blazing serpent. The room shimmered with the brilliance of gems, a net of jeweled bells and clusters of pearls suspended like Indra’s rainbow. Gently swaying canopies added to the chamber’s charm, as the Daughter of the Mountain moved gracefully within. There stood Śiva, his neck bent beneath the loving embrace of Pārvatī, the Mountain-Daughter, his abode purified by the radiant, moon-crested light. Pārvatī, dark-eyed and with the hue of blue lotus petals, seemed to merge with the night, becoming one with the darkness. Then, the playful Lord addressed her: “Slender one, the pale radiance on my body now 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 defect in vision, just as the night darkens one side.” Hearing these words, Girijā—her eyes reddened with anger and her face twisted in a frown—replied openly: “By one’s own actions, everyone is overcome by dullness; inevitably, one who desires something is met with reproach among people. Whatever I have sought through long austerities, I am always met with humiliation at every step. I am not crooked, O Śarva, nor harsh, O Dhūrjaṭi; you have gone to the realm of sense-objects, seeking fame and the shelter of manifest faults. I am not found 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 to 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 voice mingling anxious affection with gentle speech: “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 that is so, you need not be angry with me again. I will speak playfully; dispel your anger, O you with the pure smile. With my head bowed, I offer you this reverent salutation. Even affection, disrespect, or reproach causes disturbance; so it is said that one touched by jest should never be angry.” Though Śiva addressed her with many gentle words, Sati, deeply hurt, did not abandon her intense anger. Then, as her garment was seized by Śaṅkara’s hand and her hair became disheveled, the Daughter of the Mountain, in haste, wished to depart. As she was leaving in anger, the destroyer of cities spoke again: “Truly, in every way, O daughter, you are like your father. Just as the sky is obscured by the peaks of Himālaya, thick with clusters of clouds, so too your heart is difficult to fathom. From the forests you have gained hardness, from the paths crookedness, from the snow difficulty in approach, and from the king of mountains, O slender one, you have always taken on coldness.” Thus addressed, the Daughter of the Mountain replied to Śiva, her head trembling with anger and her teeth tightly clenched: “Do not reproach all the virtuous by attributing every fault to them; indeed, all your defects have arisen from your own wicked associations. From serpents you have gained many tongues, from ashes your bonds of affection, from the moon impurity of heart, and from the bull, incomprehensibility. Why say more? Enough of your tiresome words. You dwell in cremation grounds without fear, you are naked and feel no shame, you bear a skull and have long been devoid of compassion.” Having spoken thus, the Daughter of Himālaya departed from the temple. As she was leaving, the hosts of the Lord of the gods cried out in lamentation, “Mother, where are you going, leaving us?” and, weeping, they ran after her. Vīraka, planting himself at the goddess’s feet, his voice choked with tears, said: “Mother, what is this? Where are you going, filled with anger? I will follow you as you go, though you are without affection; otherwise, I will cast myself from the peak, abandoned by you, devoted to austerities.” Lifting her face with her right hand, the goddess spoke to Vīraka: “Do not grieve, my child. It is not proper for you, my son, either to fall from the mountain peak or to come with me. I will tell you the reason; listen well. Because I was called ‘Kṛṣṇā’ by Hari, I have been both reproached and not reproached. Therefore, I shall undertake such austerity as will grant me the state of Gaurī. This god is infatuated with women; after I depart, you must always guard the entrance, being ever watchful for any breach. So that no woman may enter here to approach Hara, if you see another woman here, you must inform me, my son.” Thus, the goddess departed, her resolve unshaken, leaving behind sorrowful attendants and a world awaiting her return.