In the very heart of that sacred space, the devotees gathered to worship Maheśa, the great Lord Śiva, whose form shone with a radiant, spotless whiteness. There, Śiva was honored in the emblematic shape of a liṅga, set firmly upon a pedestal. The worshippers brought forth their offerings with devotion—fresh flowers, green leaves, auspicious sesame, whole unbroken grains, and pure sesame seeds—all laid before the Lord in reverence. When the rituals were complete, the entire assembly burst into joyful singing and dancing, their voices and movements filling every corner of the place with celebration. It was at this auspicious moment, O noble one, that a disciple of the sage Gautama arrived. His name was Śaṅkarātman. Śaṅkarātman was a remarkable figure. At times, he appeared as a distinguished twice-born Brahmin; at other times, his form resembled that of a caṇḍāla, an outcaste. He would let out great roars, leap into the air, dance with abandon, and praise and sing the glories of Śiva. His heart and mind were filled solely with the knowledge of Śiva, and he dwelled in a state of supreme bliss. He shared his meals with his guru, Gautama, sometimes even partaking of the guru’s leftovers. On occasion, he would take his teacher’s hand and eat, and Gautama, seeing him thus, would affectionately lead him by the hand into the temple. The sage Gautama himself would eat using the very same vessel as his disciple. When instructed by his guru’s wife, Śaṅkarātman ate whatever was offered, making no distinction between foods, even when it was coarse or filled with thorns—yet he remained unchanged, unaffected. Day by day, Śaṅkarātman accepted from them nothing more than a lump of clay, some water, and cow dung. His outward appearance was just like that of a caṇḍāla; he dressed as an outcaste and, in this humble form, approached Vṛṣaparvan. Not recognizing the true nature of this sage, Vṛṣaparvan tormented him and, in his ignorance, cut off his head. The sages who witnessed this act were struck with impurity and sorrow. Tears streamed from their eyes, openly revealing their grief. They lamented, wondering what sin had been committed by this man that his head should be severed. They anguished, realizing, “Indeed, my own death is certain, for the teacher was disguised as a disciple. Wherever death is seen, our own death is also inevitable. I will revive this Bhārgava, who is dear to Śaṅkara.” As the foremost among Brahmins spoke these words, Gautama himself passed away. When Prahlāda and the other chief Daityas heard of this tragedy, the power of the wise Bāṇa was broken. Yet, Gautama, having worshipped Maheśa with great honor, had also been honored by the mighty Lord. The gravity of the situation was clear: “Alas, how terrible, how exceedingly terrible! Many of Maheśa’s devotees have been slain,” they cried. With this resolve, they made their way to the imperishable Mandara mountain. There, Śiva addressed Brahmā and Hari (Viṣṇu), who were present with him. “Let us go, O Viṣṇu, and see all that has been done by him.” Nandī, splendidly adorned and holding a most beautiful parasol, accompanied them. With Maheśa’s permission, Hari stood at the serpent’s end, and Brahmā, with Śiva’s approval, mounted his swan. Indra and all the other gods, each upon their own vehicles, joined, surrounded by countless hosts. Together, the divine assembly journeyed to Gautama’s hermitage. There, with a compassionate gaze from his left side, Śiva revived his devotee. Hearing the Lord’s words, Gautama spoke with deep respect: “May I always have the ability to worship your sacred emblem, O Lord. This disciple of mine is truly fortunate, free from the faults of acceptance and rejection.” Thus, the power of devotion and the grace of Śiva were revealed, blessing both teacher and disciple and sanctifying all who witnessed these wondrous events.