At the urging of Mātali, Indra raised his thunderbolt and struck the mighty asura Bala. The force of the blow shattered Bala’s body, scattering its parts across the world. One fragment landed on the golden mountain, another on the snowy peaks, and a third fell upon Mount Goṇaga. The fourth piece dropped into the celestial river, the fifth found its place on Mount Mandara, and another portion descended on Vajrākara, with the sixth becoming known as Vijayāṅgaja. Because Bala belonged to a pure lineage and had performed meritorious deeds, the scattered limbs of his body transformed into the seeds of precious jewels. From the fragments of his bones, six-sided gems came into being; sapphires arose from his eyes, and rubies from his ears. His blood gave birth to padmarāga gems, while emeralds formed from his fat. Coral emerged from his tongue, and pearls shone forth from his teeth. Emeralds from his marrow became gārutmata at his nose. Bronze came from his feces, silver from his semen, and copper from his urine. The friction of his body produced brass and brahmavītikā gems, while the sound of his voice gave rise to cat’s-eye and another exquisite jewel. Gold originated from his nails, quicksilver from his blood, crystal from his fat, and coral from his flesh. Thus, all these jewels appeared upon the earth, to be enjoyed by pure-hearted people as the reward of accumulated merit. Meanwhile, news of Bala’s death at the hands of Maghavan reached his queen, Prabhāvatī. Overcome with grief, she hurried to the battlefield. There, she saw her husband’s body, his limbs scattered and lifeless. Tears filled her eyes, her hair fell loose, and her heart ached with sorrow as she cried out, “Alas, my lord—so mighty and beloved! Why have you left me alone in this world? Others cling to their bodies even when afflicted by age or disease, yet you, dearest, have abandoned yours in vain. With your divine body, you adorned my necklace, and it was your hand that tied my braid as you went to battle. Now, untie it yourself, beloved, for I am stricken with the sorrow of widowhood.” Witnessing Prabhāvatī’s lament, the ocean-born Jālandhara, deeply moved, turned to Śukra and pleaded, “Revive Bala, O Bhārgava.” Śukra replied, “He has died by his own will—how can I restore his life? Yet, by the power of my mantra, he shall speak once more.” Jālandhara then asked to hear Bala’s form, strength, and words. Śukra entered deep meditation, and from Bala’s mouth came a melodious sound, sweet to the ear. In Prabhāvatī’s presence, celestial instruments resounded as if from the heavens. Bala’s voice spoke: “Prabhāvatī, merge your own body into my limbs.” At these words, Prabhāvatī transformed into a river. Flowing eastward from Mount Sumeru, she merged with Bala’s scattered parts, and from her waters arose a radiant brilliance, giving birth to the most splendid jewels. Some time later, the sage Nārada journeyed to Jālandhara, the son of the ocean, and told him, “Śaṃbhu has vowed to slay you, O lord of heroes.” On hearing this, Jālandhara questioned Nārada, “O great sage, does the trident-bearer possess any treasure of jewels? Tell me all—there is no battle without a worthy prize.” Nārada replied, “His wealth is the ashes smeared on his body, an aged bull, serpents around his neck, poison at his throat, a begging bowl in his hand, and his sons are the elephant-faced and six-faced ones. Such is his prosperity. But listen further: his wife is the daughter of the mountain king, broad-hipped and high-breasted. Even the god of love, though burned by him, was deluded by her form. For his own delight, Maheśa creates many wonders—he dances and sings for her, making her laugh. She is renowned as Pārvatī, surpassing all goddesses in beauty. Vṛndā is an excellent woman, and the celestial nymphs are lovely, but none possess even a fraction of Pārvatī’s radiance.” Having spoken thus, Nārada vanished before all the daityas, leaving Jālandhara, whose resolve remained unbroken. Determined, Jālandhara sent a messenger—the son of Siṃhikā—who swiftly reached Kailāsa and beheld the abode of the gods. Meanwhile, Hari, having taken leave of Bhīma, approached Hara and, suspecting a breach, hurried unseen to the milk ocean. Rāhu, the messenger, gazed in wonder at the dazzling mansion of Śaṃkara. Seeing his own reflection, he was astonished and sought to enter, but the doorkeepers, strong and armed, barred his way and raised their weapons. Nandī, restraining the attendants, addressed Rāhu: “Who are you? Why have you come? State your purpose before these fearsome guardians, or you will be slain.” Rāhu replied, “I am the messenger of Jālandhara. Take me to Śiva at once. The great king’s business cannot wait.” Hearing this, Nandī, blue and red in hue, approached Śaṃkara, bowed in respect, and said, “Great lord, the son of Siṃhikā stands at the door on urgent business. Shall I admit him or turn him away? Command as you will.” Hearing Nandī’s words, Lord Maheshvara, as if in haste, sent the goddess—who was resting within—away with her companions. Then he instructed Nandī, “Bring the messenger in.” Nandī took Rāhu by the hand, led him into the midst of the gods, and presented him before Śaṃbhu. There, Rāhu beheld Śiva—dark in complexion, with matted hair—seated among the divine assembly.