Through rigorous austerity, I attained Śaṃkara, the great Lord, as my husband. Yet, he would often affectionately call me “dark-complexioned.” Longing for a new form, I prayed: “May I become golden in appearance, united with my beloved, and equal in every limb to the Lord of beings, my husband.” Hearing my heartfelt wish, the lotus-seated Brahmā responded: “So be it. Furthermore, you shall bear half your husband’s body.” Upon his blessing, I cast off my bee-dark complexion, the hue of a blooming blue lotus, and emerged radiant—my skin gleaming like gold. In my hand I held a bell, my three eyes shone brightly, my limbs adorned with splendid ornaments, and I wore a garment of yellow silk. Brahmā then addressed me, his words gentle and full of reverence: “O goddess, whose radiance is like a blue lotus, by my command you have arisen at night from the dust of the mountain. Having fulfilled your purpose, you are now a unique portion. Long ago, from your wrath, a lion arose, O beautiful-faced one. Let him be your mount, mighty in battle. Go to Mount Vindhya; there you will accomplish the work of the gods. And this Yakṣa named Pañcāla, follower of the Yakṣa king and endowed with hundreds of magical powers, I give to you as your attendant.” Thus instructed, I, Kauśikī, went to Mount Vindhya, while Umā, her wish fulfilled, returned to the Lord of the Mountain. As I approached the door, Vīraka, steadfast and holding a golden cane, stepped forward and blocked my entry. He spoke harshly: “Because of your appearance, you are unchaste. You have no business here; leave before you are frightened away. A demon, taking the goddess’s form, entered here to deceive the god, but he was discovered and slain by the god. Afterward, I was ordered by the wrathful blue-throated one: ‘Be vigilant at the doors.’ Thus, I am always watchful. You shall not stand at my door for countless years; I will not grant you entry—depart at once!” He declared that only the mountain’s daughter—myself, his mother—could enter, and no other woman with lotus eyes may gain entry. Hearing this, I pondered deeply: “She is not a woman; that was a demon, as the wind told me. In vain did I curse Vīraka, overcome by anger; fools, driven by wrath, often act wrongly. Anger destroys reputation and ruins lasting prosperity. Without understanding the truth, I have cursed my own son. When the mind is confused, calamity easily arises.” With these thoughts, I spoke to Vīraka, my face blushing with lotus-like radiance: “I am your mother, Vīraka; let there be no confusion in your mind. I am the beloved of Śaṅkara, the daughter of the snowy mountain. Do not harbor suspicion, my son, because of the change in my complexion. This fair hue was graciously given to me by the lotus-born Brahmā. Unaware of the circumstances created by the demon, I cursed you, thinking that Śaṅkara was alone in secret in the form of a woman. The curse cannot be undone; but soon, you will return from humanity, and you will be endowed with desire.” Hearing my words, Vīraka, filled with devotion, bowed his head to me and addressed me, the daughter of the snowy mountain, whose radiance was like the full moon: “O mountain’s daughter, whose hands bear the marks of gems from the bowed gods and demons, who cherishes those who seek refuge and destroys their suffering—I bow to you. O goddess, whose neck glows with the brilliance of the sun, whose body shines like pure gold, whose arms are adorned with snake ornaments—I take refuge in you. Who in the world grants the wishes of the devoted as swiftly as you, O praised one? What does Śaṅkara not desire in you, daughter of the world-supporting mountain? In the circle of the great lord, equal to your unconquerable form created by pure yoga, you were first praised by the best of gods after destroying Andhaka’s kin. Seated on the lion’s chariot, with a neck adorned by white locks, your fiery arms, tawny and long, have crushed the great demons. Called Caṇḍikā by the worlds, mother, destroyer of Śumbha and Niśumbha, you swiftly and singly crush the demons desired by the bowed, on earth. In the blazing path of the wind in the sky and on earth, O goddess, your form is unconquered and incomparable. I bow to you, creator of worlds, beloved of Bhava. The oceans and their lively waves, the fires and their radiance, all moving and unmoving beings, and the serpents with a thousand hoods—all will speak your name, which brings fear to me. O blessed one, refuge of those with steadfast devotion, I have come to your feet for shelter. May my actions here be unwavering, so that I may attain even a trace of the fruit of your praise.” Pleased by Vīraka’s praise, I, the mountain’s daughter, entered my husband’s auspicious abode. Rudra, seeing Mahāgaurī—me, Gaurī, whose form bewilders the mind, moving like a wild elephant—gazed upon me. With a face like the full moon, slender, with broad hips and heavy breasts, thin at the waist yet undiminished in beauty, I poured forth the nectar of charm. Adorned with every ornament, I moved with gentle intoxication, and he became desirous, anxious, dejected, fierce, heroic, and terrifying. He became somewhat compassionate, smiling, dreadful, and strange; wishing to kill at the gods’ command, he assumed a terrifying form. In response, I too became Bhairavi, the counterpart of the god; the mountain-dweller witnessed me displaying thousands of forms.