When addressed by Śiva, Girijā—her eyes blazing with anger and her face twisted in a frown—replied in a clear, open voice. She spoke of the fate that befalls all who act: “By one’s own actions, everyone is overcome by dullness; inevitably, those who desire something receive reproach among people.” She lamented that whatever she had sought through her long and arduous austerities was always met with humiliation at every step. She insisted, “I am not crooked, O Śarva, nor harsh, O Dhūrjaṭi. It is you who have gone to the realm of sense-objects, seeking fame and the shelter of manifest faults.” Girijā declared that she was not in Pūṣan’s teeth, nor in Bhaga’s eyes, and that the twelve-formed sun god knew this truth. Yet Śiva placed his trident on her head, reproaching her with his own faults, and called her Kṛṣṇā and Mahākālī, names by which she was renowned. Resolute, she announced, “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 sharp words, Bhava replied with speech mingled 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 Daughter of the Mountain, doubt does not arise; if it is so, timid one, you need not be angry with me again. I will speak playfully; dispel your anger, O one with a pure smile. With my head bowed, I have offered you this reverent salutation. Even affection, disrespect, or reproach causes disturbance; therefore, it is said one touched by jest should never be angry.” Despite his gentle words, Sati, deeply hurt, did not abandon her intense anger. Then, Śaṅkara seized her garment, her hair became disheveled, and 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 left, 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 planted himself at the goddess’s feet, his voice choked with tears, and pleaded, “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 gently 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 to it. 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. I will promptly do what is appropriate next.” Vīraka answered, “So be it,” addressing the goddess at that moment. Flooded with the nectar of his mother’s joyful command, his fever gone, he went to the grove to see her, bowing to his mother. There, he saw the goddess approaching—his mother’s companion, adorned and named Kusumamodinī, the deity of that mountain. Seeing the mountain’s daughter, Kusumamodinī’s heart was overwhelmed with affection; she embraced Girijā and loudly asked, “Where are you going, daughter?” Girijā told her everything—the reason for her anger at Śaṃkara—and again spoke to the goddess, approved by her mother. “O blameless one, you are always the goddess of the mountain king, and you are exceedingly dear to me in every way. Therefore, I will tell you what must be done with care; you must diligently guard against the entry of any other woman. If, while I am engaged in secret austerity on the mountain, someone enters the abode of Pinākin, you must inform me at once, O sinless one. Then I will arrange whatever needs to be done next.” Thus addressed, Kusumamodinī replied, “So be it,” and went to her own auspicious mountain. And Umā, the mountain’s daughter, swiftly entered her father’s garden, her radiance like a garland of clouds filling the sky.