In the depths of the forest, a wicked man of harsh and sinful appearance stealthily spread his net, which quickly filled with living creatures ensnared within its mesh. This evildoer, leader among wrongdoers, then drew in his net, and, curiously, after taking out all the living beings he had caught, he released them back into the wild. As this was happening, the hunter’s eyes fell upon two women moving through the trees. Addressing the companion of love, he said, “Lady, let your friend come to me and take me by the hand.” At his words, Vrindā, beloved of Sindhu, looked upon the hunter’s deformed face. Shaken by fear, she gazed at him, her heart fluttering with anxiety. Distressed, Vrindā fled swiftly, shining with her companion, the messenger of love, at her side. Together, the two women ran through the forest, their steps carrying them to a hermitage where ascetics dwelled. Within this sacred grove, Vrindā beheld a wondrous sight: birds with golden bodies sang with voices of many kinds, filling the air with their music. She saw a pond rich with golden lotuses, the very ground beneath them made of gold. Rivers of milk flowed gently, and trees exuded sweet honey. Heaps of sugar and piles of sweets lay about, alongside all manner of delicious foods and ornaments. Above, many divine weapons soared through the sky, while satisfied monkeys leaped and played in delight. In the midst of this marvel, Vrindā saw a beautiful monastery where a sage sat serenely upon a tiger skin, his radiance illuminating the three worlds. Approaching him, Vrindā pleaded, “Lord, protect me from the adversary of sin—whether by austerity, righteousness, silence, or recitation.” Trembling, she embraced the sage, saying, “There is no greater merit than rescuing one who is fearful, O possessor of austerity.” Meanwhile, the wicked soul—the captor of all living beings—arrived at the hermitage. Terrified, Vrindā clung to Hari’s neck, seeking comfort in his embrace. She wrapped her arms around him, finding solace in his touch, like a sorrowful vine entwining a sturdy tree. By this embrace, she would be restored once more. The sage, whose head and limbs surpassed even her husband in virtue, spoke gently: “Now, O woman, for the sake of your husband, go into the splendid hall.” Thus instructed, Vrindā entered the glorious hall with the sage. She mounted the divine couch and took her beloved’s head in her lap. With longing, she drank from his lips, her eyes closing in passionate desire. In that moment, the king assumed the form of Jalandhara—his appearance, chest, stature, words, and mind all matched her beloved, and thus he became the Lord of the world before her. Seeing her dear one’s body fully restored, Vrindā spoke with devotion: “I will do whatever pleases you, master. Tell me your wish, and let me hear it.” Hearing her words, the one born from the ocean of illusion replied, “Listen, goddess, to how the battle between Shambhu and me unfolded. Beloved, Rudra’s fierce discus severed my head, but through your power and the union of my soul with yours, my severed head was brought here and my life restored. You became sorrowful, dear one, because of our separation. Forgive me for the offense of leaving you to go to battle.” With such words, he soothed Vrindā. He offered her betel leaves, amusements, fine garments, and ornaments. Thus, the goddess Vrindarika enjoyed all pleasures, embracing her beloved tightly and kissing him, overcome with desire. In that union, Vrindā experienced a happiness greater than liberation, born of enchantment. Even the god Nārāyaṇa found the nectar of Lakshmi’s love surpassed; Madhava dispelled the sorrow of Vrindā’s separation. In that charming play, by the beautiful pond where royal swans dwelled, Krishna, moved by Vrindā’s form and mood, lost all desire for Padma. In that Vrindāvana, Vrindā assumed the form of Tulasi; from the sweat of her body, she appeared upon the earth, supremely pure. Having experienced the happiness of union with Vrindā, Hari, Lord of the world, considered for a few days the work of Shiva. Then, at the end of their lovemaking, Vrindā saw, clinging to her neck, the ascetic—the supreme person with two arms. Startled, she released her embrace and said, “How have you come to enchant me in the form of an ascetic?” Hearing her, Hari comforted Vrindā and said, “Listen, Vrindarika, know me as the enchanting Lord of Lakshmi. Your husband went to defeat Hara and bring Gauri. I am Shiva, and Shiva is I—there is no separation between us. Jalandhara was slain in battle; now, blameless one, accept me.” At these words, Narada said, Vrindarika’s face became downcast. Angered, she replied, “In battle you were bound, and by your father’s command you were freed while still alive. Though honored with many precious jewels, your wife was taken from you. How can one who is always devoted to another’s wife be called the lord of righteousness? Even the Lord himself must experience the results of his actions—so say the wise. Just as you, ascetic, led me into delusion by your magic, so too, by magic, another ascetic will take your wife.” Thus cursed, Viṣṇu at once vanished from sight. The splendid hall and couch disappeared, as did all those who had come with him. When Hari departed, everything was lost. Seeing the forest empty, Vrindā found her friend and said, “This was deceitfully done by Viṣṇu.” She lamented, “The city is abandoned, the kingdom is lost, my beloved is uncertain. Knowing this in the forest, shaped by fate, where shall I go?