The palace was alive with music and grace, filled with women skilled in playing drums, cymbals, flutes, lutes, and singing melodious songs. Each woman was adorned in clever attire and spoke with wit, adding to the festive atmosphere. Amidst this splendor, the great goddess ascended, accompanied by her beloved friends. For her, a charming fan with a jeweled handle was prepared, and two auspicious Rudrakanya maidens gently fanned her. Between these two attendants, the radiant face of the goddess shone forth. The two maidens vied with one another like elegant swans, and above them, a lotus-like parasol, shining with the brilliance of the moon, adorned the goddess’s flower-garlanded crown. Held aloft and encircled with pearls, the parasol radiated affection and light, illuminating the goddess’s visage. Above her, like the disk of the nectar vessel or the moon itself, the goddess sat at the forefront, beautiful and smiling. Suyaśā entertained the virtuous goddess with a game of dice, and the goddess’s auspicious jeweled sandals were present. Suyaśā, placing the sandals between her breasts, served the goddess with devotion. Another attendant, golden-limbed and radiant, held a shining mirror for the goddess. One brought a palm fan, another carried a betel box, and a lovely maiden took up a charming play-cloth in her hands. Delightful and fragrant flowers were brought by one, while a lotus-eyed attendant carried a container for ornaments. Another applied a well-prepared, auspicious ointment, and others, similar in grace, performed their proper duties. Surrounding the great goddess on all sides, her attendants served her with devotion, and amidst them, the supreme goddess shone exceedingly. In the midst of the Tara attendants, she appeared like the crescent moon in autumn. Then, the sound of the conch arose, followed by the beating of a great introductory drum. Sweet instruments played together with the rhythm of clapping hands, and hundreds of kettledrums resounded with mysterious, unstruck sounds. The leaders of the divine hosts, armed and radiant, were present, and thousands—eight hundred in number—advanced at that time. Among them, the bull-mounted one proceeded like a teacher atop an elephant. The illustrious leader of the hosts, worshipped by Somānandīśvara, advanced, and divine drums resounded in heaven, while clouds bestowed celestial joy. All the sages danced, accomplished yogis rejoiced, and clouds showered flowers above the canopy. Accompanied by the divine hosts, the supreme goddess entered her father Daksha’s house, traversing every path as if in a single moment. Upon seeing her, Daksha was filled with anger, for she was the cause of his own decline. Yet, he performed respectful worship for her, even more so than for his younger daughters. The goddess, whose face was like the moon—Ambika—saw her father seated in the assembly. With composed and unwavering words, devoid of pity, she addressed him: “O father, that god whom even Brahma and the rest, down to the spirits, obey without question—he has not been worshipped here today according to proper rite. Let it be that the worship of me, your eldest daughter, is neglected in this way; but by scorning it, you have committed a blameworthy act.” Daksha, angered and resentful, replied: “Among my daughters are many who are greater and more distinguished than you, worthy of honor though still young. Their husbands are highly esteemed by me, joyful and superior in every virtue—even more so than your husband, Tryambaka. Your husband, whose mind is arrogant and filled with darkness, you have chosen as your refuge. Therefore, I disregard you, for he is hostile to me.” Hearing these words, the goddess was enraged and addressed Daksha in the hearing of all those assembled in the sacrificial hall: “Without cause, Daksha, you revile my husband, the Lord of the Worlds, who is without any fault, with your words. One who is a thief of knowledge, betrayer of his teacher, and defiler of the Vedas—such are all considered great sinners and deserving of punishment, so declares the scripture. Therefore, for this exceedingly wicked sin of yours, a severe and sudden punishment, befitting your crime, will come upon you by divine will. Because you did not worship Tryambaka, the god of gods, know that your lineage, corrupted, will be destroyed.” Having spoken thus to her father in anger, Sati cast aside all fear, abandoned her body, and went to the mountain Himavat. He, devoted to the mountain and glorious, reaping the fruits of his merit, performed severe and difficult austerities for a long time, solely for that purpose. By her own will, the goddess favored the lord of the mountain, and by her yogic power, made him her father. When Sati, distressed and condemning Daksha, departed, the mantras vanished and the sacrifice was ruined. Hearing of the goddess’s departure, the destroyer of the three cities—Shiva—became enraged with Daksha and the sages, and he cursed them: “Because Sati, though innocent, was slighted by Daksha on my account, while all his other daughters were honored with their husbands, therefore, in the interval of Vaivasvata Manu, all your sons-in-law will be born together, not from a womb, at the Brahma sacrifice. You will be born as a human king in the lineage of Cākṣuṣa, the grandson of Prācīnabarhis and the son of Pracetas. Even there, O wicked-minded one, I will again and again cause obstacles for you in actions connected with righteousness, wealth, and desire.” Thus unfolded the tale of Sati’s departure, Daksha’s downfall, and the divine consequences that followed.