As the news of Bala’s fall at the hands of Maghavan spread across the battlefield, a queen named Prabhāvatī hastened to his side. When she arrived, she beheld her husband’s body, his limbs scattered across the field, and was overcome by grief. Tears streamed from her eyes, her hair hung loose, and her breasts were heavy with sorrow as she lamented over her beloved. “Alas, my lord, mighty and valiant, your body so dear to the world! Why have you abandoned me and chosen this lonely fate?” she cried. “Others, even when their bodies are afflicted by age or disease, do not give them up; but you, beloved, have cast off your body in vain.” She remembered his divine form, the necklace that adorned him, and the braid he had tied for her in eagerness for battle. “Untie it yourself, beloved, for me, who am stricken with the sorrow of widowhood,” she pleaded. Witnessing Prabhāvatī’s lament, the ocean-born Jālandhara was deeply distressed. Turning to Śukra, he implored, “Revive Bala, O Bhārgava.” Śukra replied, “He has chosen death of his own will—how can I restore his life? Still, by the power of my mantra, he will speak once more.” Jālandhara requested, “Bhārgava, I wish to hear his form, strength, and words.” Śukra, thus addressed, entered meditation. From Bala’s mouth arose a melodious sound, enchanting to the ear. In Prabhāvatī’s presence, celestial instruments resounded, as if from the heavens themselves. Then Bala’s voice spoke: “Prabhāvatī, merge your own body into my limbs.” Upon hearing these words, Prabhāvatī transformed into a river. Flowing eastward from Mount Sumeru, she merged into Bala’s limbs, and from her waters arose the supreme brilliance of jewels. Later, Nārada journeyed to Jālandhara, the son of the ocean, and delivered a message: “Śaṃbhu has vowed to slay you, O lord of all heroes.” Hearing this, Jālandhara questioned the sage, “O great sage, is there any treasure of jewels in the house of the trident-bearer? Tell me everything—for a battle must have a prize.” Nārada replied, “His wealth is ashes smeared upon his body, an old bull, serpents adorning his neck, poison at his throat, and a begging bowl in his hand. His sons are the elephant-faced and six-faced ones. Such is his prosperity. But hear what else there is: his wife is the daughter of the mountain king, broad-hipped and high-breasted. Though the god of love was burned by him, even he was enchanted by her form. Maheśa, for his own amusement, always creates wonders. Śaṃbhu himself becomes a dancer and singer for her, making her laugh. She is renowned as Pārvatī, the very limit of beauty among goddesses. O king, Vṛndā is a most excellent woman, and these celestial nymphs are beautiful, but not even one-sixteenth of Pārvatī’s beauty do they attain.” Having spoken thus, Nārada vanished in an instant before all the daityas, leaving Jālandhara, who remained resolute. Jālandhara then sent a messenger, the son of Siṃhikā, who swiftly reached Kailāsa and beheld the divine abode. Meanwhile, Hari, having taken leave of Bhīma, approached Hara and, unnoticed, went to the milk ocean, suspecting a breach. Rāhu, the messenger, saw the radiant mansion of Śaṃkara. Seeing his own reflection, he wondered in astonishment, “What is this?” Desiring to enter, he was stopped at the door by the strong, armed doorkeepers. Though he tried, they forbade him and raised their weapons. Nandī, restraining the attendants, addressed Rāhu: “Who are you? Why have you come here? What is your business, O shaggy one? Speak your purpose before the attendants, who are fearsome, slay you.” Rāhu replied, “I am the messenger of Jālandhara; take me before Shiva. Do not speak anything else, doorkeeper—the great king’s business is at hand.” Hearing the messenger’s words, Nandī, blue and red in hue, approached Śaṃkara, bowed in salutation, and spoke: “O great king, the son of Siṃhikā stands at the door on business; let him go or let him come in—as you command, so it shall be.” Hearing Nandī’s words, Lord Maheshvara, as if in haste, sent the goddess, who was sleeping in the inner chambers, away with her companions. Then he instructed Nandī, “Bring the messenger in.” Mighty Nandī took Rāhu by the hand and brought him into the midst of the gods, showing him Śaṃbhu. Rāhu beheld Śaṃbhu: matted-haired, dark in complexion, with five faces and ten arms, adorned with a serpent as a sacred thread, bereft of the goddess, and crowned with the crescent moon. Śaṃbhu inhaled and exhaled deeply, attended by the Pramatha hosts, surrounded by all the hosts of gods, worshipped by multitudes of attendants. Seeing the messenger before him, Śaṃbhu said, “Speak.” Rāhu began: “O god, I have been sent by Jālandhara into your presence. Hear his message from my mouth and act quickly. O Lord of the Mountain, you are devoted to austerity, without qualities, devoid of righteousness; you have neither father nor mother, nor lineage or family. Jālandhara, mighty-armed, enjoys the three worlds; you too are under his control, so do as he commands. How is it that you, the ancient one, passionate, riding the bull, have sons—Skanda and Vinayaka—who have now arrived?” At that moment, the god of gods, silent and restraining his limbs, made a gesture with his hands, and Vasuki, the serpent, fell to the ground. Then, the tail of the mouse, vehicle of Heramba, was seized by the serpent; seeing his own feather seized, the mouse cried out, “Release! Release!” Meanwhile, seeing Skanda’s mount agitated and hearing its loud cry, Vasuki, out of fear, released the mouse’s seized tail.