Then, in a wondrous turn, a being climbed upon Shiva’s divine form, winding himself around the Lord’s neck and settling there. From the breath of this presence, a fierce fire was born. The heat radiating from him caused the crescent moon—resting gracefully in the forest of Shiva’s matted hair—to become moist, so that Shiva’s body was drenched, as though a flood had poured over it. From the streams of nectar that flowed from the moon, a garland formed, adorning the heads of Brahma and the other guardians who dwell upon Shiva’s crest. Bathed in this nectar, they were revived and invigorated. In that moment, they began to recite all the sequences of yoga and the sacred teachings they had previously learned. Each head, hearing what the others had studied, began to argue and dispute, each one eager to claim supremacy. “I am the first! I am the beginning! I alone am the supreme, beyond all that is supreme! I am the creator, the sustainer!”—so they contended, each vying for preeminence. Yet, in their lament, they confessed, “These things were neither given, nor enjoyed, nor offered by me. With minds seized by greed, not even wealth was given to Brahma.” At that moment, from the tangled locks of the Lord, a great attendant emerged—three-faced, three-legged, three-tailed, and possessing seven hands. This was the mighty, tawny-haired, matted being named Kirtimukha. At the sight of him, the garland of skulls, so often seen upon Shiva, froze in fear, as if it had lost all life. Bowing before Shiva, Kirtimukha, overcome by hunger, addressed the Lord, accompanied by his attendants. Shankara spoke to him, saying, “Devour those slain in battle.” Kirtimukha pondered this command, but finding no battle and no slain anywhere, he did not see anyone to consume. Driven by hunger, he approached Brahma to devour him, but was restrained by Shankara. Finding himself forbidden everywhere, Kirtimukha, in a bold and devoted act, began to devour his own entire body. Witnessing this extreme hunger and single-minded devotion, the Lord was pleased. He spoke to Kirtimukha: “Dwell always at my temple. Whoever enters my abode without remembering you—he will quickly fall.” With these words, Kirtimukha vanished. At that very moment, the gods showered flowers upon Shambhu’s head in celebration. Having seen such a marvelous event in the assembly of the Trident-bearer, even Svarbhanu was amazed and addressed the Lord of gods again. “O Bhava, how do the senses forcibly touch you, who are self-controlled and attained only by yogins? You are worshipped by the senses—how can you be reached by the objects of sense? You accept worship from all the guardians of the worlds, beginning with Brahma, yet you, O God, neither see nor worship anyone.” He continued, “How is it that you, the Lord, are established in the world as a beggar for alms? You hide away the beautiful Gauri, O Lord of yogis—give her to me! Now, together with your sons Skanda and Lambodara, take the alms bowl and wander always from house to house.” Thus, in many ways, Rahu spoke to the Lord; but the Blessed One, hearing all this, remained completely silent. Leaving the silent Lord, Rahu turned to Nandi, saying, “You are the minister and general, O grim-faced one, bearer of the emblem. Having acted wrongly, you ought to be corrected; otherwise, in anger, you will fall slain in battle like Indra.” Hearing these words, Nandi reported them to the Lord. With a mere gesture of his brows, Nandi understood the will of the Trident-wielder. After paying his respects, Nandi, chief of the Gaṇas, sent Rahu away. Then, going to Jalandhara, he described in detail the events concerning Svarbhanu and the enchanting form of Gauri. At that time, Nārada said, Nārāyaṇa, the Lord, was clad in garments of matted bark, when his second attendant approached, offering fruit in his hand. Upon seeing them, the messenger of Kāma, with eyes gentle as a doe’s, began to lament. Hearing her sorrowful words, both Nārāyaṇa and his attendant spoke to her kindly: “Do not be afraid, O auspicious one. We have come to protect you. How did you come to be in this dreadful forest, haunted by the wicked?” Thus consoling the slender woman, Mādhava turned to address the demon: “Release this gentle-limbed, lovely-smiling woman from your vile conduct. Fool of evil ways, what are you intent on doing? Would you make the eyes of the whole world your food? By the power of virtue, let the earth be rid of its adornment; today, let the world be without light, and Kāma be stripped of his pride. If by killing Vṛndā in this forest you act, then quickly release this goddess of happiness’ palace.” Hearing these words from Hari, the demon, angered, replied, “If you are able, then today itself free her from my grasp!” As soon as Mādhava spoke, his wrathful gaze struck the demon, who fell to ashes, leaving Vṛndā far behind. Then, bewildered by the Lord of the universe’s illusion, Vṛndā asked, “Who are you, ocean of compassion, by whom I have been protected here? My bodily and mental suffering, the burning pain of asceticism, has been taken away by your sweet words and by the destruction of the demon. In your hermitage, gentle one, I will perform austerities, O treasure of penance.” The ascetic replied, “I am the son of Bharadvāja, renowned as Devaśarman. Abandoning all pleasures, I have come to this dreadful forest. With this boy-nosed one, my disciple, the lovers are here; many others, my disciples, are also present—able to assume any form at will. If you wish to perform austerities in my hermitage, O noble lady, then let us go to another forest, for this place is far from the king.” Having spoken thus to the royal wife, Hari went toward the east, while the king proceeded slowly into the forest, filled with ghosts and spirits. Vrindā, her eyes overflowing with tears, followed behind him. And the messenger of love, walking behind them, called out, “Wait for me!