How can I bear such a long and unbearable separation from you? Indra’s heart ached as he gazed at Padmagandha, longing for her presence, especially when she, with her full breasts and gentle compassion, graced him. “O fair-limbed one,” he pleaded, “stay with me a little longer. Later, you may speak to me of the great prosperity of the king of the gods.” Padmagandha remained in the celestial abode for ten thousand years. Then, with a respectful bow, she approached Indra and said, “O lord of the gods, grant me permission to fulfill my cherished desire. I wish to go to the realm of action.” Indra, moved by her boundless love, replied, “Because of the greatness of your ocean of love for me, O moon-faced one, stay a few more days, and then depart as you wish.” So, in Indra’s house of pleasure, Padmagandha stayed with him, day and night, delighting in play and joy. She remained there for three periods of ten thousand years, her heart content. At last, she approached Indra joyfully and said, “Give me your instruction, Lord. I am now ready to go to earth.” But Indra, unable to bear the thought of separation, said, “Cast off your lethargy, O lovely-hipped one, and remain with me. I cannot leave you—you are dearer to me than life itself.” Padmagandha replied, “O lord of the gods, when my merit is exhausted, then I shall go to earth. The separation will then be long, and when it comes, I wish to return to earth again. I desire to return to heaven once more, to earn merit. Having gone to the realm of action, by whatever means, O Vasava, I shall do what is needed. If separation occurs, it will not be caused by you.” Indra consented, saying, “O blessed one, whenever you truly wish to perform this action, then go—you will return quickly, O beautiful one.” Tears streaming from her eyes, her body wet with sorrow, Padmagandha was embraced by Shakra, who said, “Go, dear one.” By his command, the virtuous Padmagandha departed for the realm of action. She was born on earth in the womb of an elephant, yet was twice-born, remembering the story of her previous existence. After some days, recalling her past, she made her way to the bank of the sacred Jahnavi, the Ganga. There, having bathed in the holy river, she adorned herself with Ganga’s mud. Uttering “Ganga, Ganga,” she entered a deep pool, her elephant form, vast as a mountain, plunging into the sacred waters. Remembering her true birth, she passed again from this world. Witnessing the elephant’s bold act, all the gods rejoiced and showered her with excellent flowers—pārijāta and others. Then Śakra, surrounded by the hosts of gods, swiftly brought her forth. After that long separation, Sumana returned to the dark-skinned Puṣpaketā. Seeing her divine form, the lord of the gods spoke of his sorrows and returned to his abode. Pulomajā, Rambhā, Pramlocā, Urvaśī, and other beautiful young women joyfully took their leave of her. That excellent woman inspired courage in Śakra’s heart. Padmagandha remained in Purandara’s city, fortunate and beloved. As long as her bones rested in the Ganga, O Jaimini, for as many hundreds of millions of families, she dwelled in the abode of the gods. The kings who, by the power of austerity, attained the realms of the gods found in her a source of affection. Such, O Jaimini, is the fruit of immersing bones in the Ganga. The result of abandoning one’s body in the Ganga is beyond description. As long as the bones remain in her waters, O Jaimini, for hundreds of millions of aeons, the soul dwells in the abode of the gods. O twice-born, when a dead body in the Ganga is carried away by the currents, listen to the result: in heaven, celestial maidens, frightened and eager to serve, fan that soul with charming chowries. He lies delighted on a golden couch, fanned by their gentle hands. Whose dead body is seen on the sandbanks of the Jahnavi, I tell you, his family is purified by the rays of the sun, and his body is anointed with divine, fragrant sandalwood. He always sports in heaven with celestial maidens. Even if his body is devoured by crows, vultures, jackals, and terrifying birds—whose body is seen torn apart—listen to that result: in heaven, with divine maidens whose breasts are full and beautiful, he sleeps always embraced on a couch. Though surrounded by ants, insects, and flies, whose bones are seen fallen in the Ganga, O Brahmin, hear of his inexhaustible fruit: he is saluted by the hosts of gods, adorned with jeweled crowns, and the dust from his feet is scattered in heaven. He becomes like Śakra himself for a long time. Even if a person’s body falls into the Ganga against their will, that person is freed from all sins and becomes one with Narayana. Wherever embers are seen in the Ganga, carried by the waters, a person remains in heaven for hundreds of aeons equal to the number of those embers. All other merits may eventually come to an end, but when a body falls into the Ganga, its merit is never exhausted. What more need be said? The settled truth is this: the greatness of one who gives up the body in the Ganga cannot be fully known. Whoever, even once on earth, touches the waters of the Ganga with devotion and feeling—waters that destroy heaps of terrible sins—crosses over the dreadful ocean of worldly existence and reaches the far shore of supreme satisfaction, as if by a boat. Hearing this wondrous tale, Jaimini spoke: “Once again, O teacher, tell me of the supreme glory of the Ganga. The nectar of her story is so sweet that I wish to drink it again.