At the foothills of a majestic mountain, pure stones and flourishing trees adorned the landscape, their beauty elevated beyond compare by the constant presence of Shiva and Parvati. This sacred place, where the divine parents of the world bathed and drank daily from its waters, became sanctified, spreading its merit and holiness everywhere. The mountain itself was anointed as the king of all mountains, not with mere ghee, but with the gentle, cool touch of its cascading, crystal-clear waterfalls. At night, the lofty peak, crowned by the moon, shone resplendent, as if beneath a royal umbrella, proclaiming its sovereignty among mountains. The mountain was fanned by the playful hands of maidens, as if with royal fans, affirming its rule. At dawn, as the sun rose, the mountain, adorned with jewels, appeared as if it longed to admire its own beauty in a mirror. The lively chirping of birds, the waving of creepers lifted by the wind, the constant shower of loosened flowers, and the hanging tender leaves all contributed to its charm. The ascetic trees, their tangled creeper-hair resembling matted locks, seemed to worship the mountain king, offering victorious blessings together. Its peaks jutted downward, upward, and sideways, giving the impression that the mountain was either plunging into the underworld or leaping up from the earth. Surrounded on all sides, it seemed to wander through the sky, as if beholding the entire world, dancing ceaselessly. The wide-open mouths of its caves and vast hollows made it appear as if it yawned from an insatiable beauty, as if devouring the whole world, drinking the ocean, vomiting out the darkness within, and rejoicing with the clouds in the sky. The mountain’s dwelling places, their bellies like mirrors, were shaded by lush trees that blocked the sun, their coolness enhanced by the presence of hermitages. Breezes cooled by rivers, lakes, and ponds became even more delightful wherever Shiva and Parvati were seated. Remembering Shiva as the greatest in every way, Sambhu, the three-eyed one, who had been near Raibhya’s hermitage, vanished and departed. Then, having reached the garden, Maheshvara enjoyed himself with the goddess Parvati in the delightful grounds of her inner palace. As time passed and the population of the world increased, two brothers, demons named Shumbha and Nishumbha, were born. Through the power of their severe austerities, Brahma, the supreme lord, granted them invulnerability against all men in the world. However, they requested one exception: that only a maiden not born from a womb—one arising from a portion of Ambika, untouched by any man and possessing unconquerable valor—could be their slayer, and only if they were overcome by desire for her. Brahma agreed, saying, “So be it.” Emboldened by this boon, Shumbha and Nishumbha conquered Indra and the other gods in battle, seizing the world and suppressing recitation of the Vedas and sacrificial offerings by force. For their destruction, Brahma again petitioned the lord of the gods, even censuring and provoking Shiva in secret as needed. He urged, “You should give to the gods the power born from the treasury of colors—the desireless maiden—who will slay Shumbha and Nishumbha.” Thus petitioned by the creator, the blessed blue-red goddess, smiling, spoke as Kali, as if reproaching Shiva in secret. Angered, the goddess, golden in color because of her origin, smiled and addressed her husband with words not easily appeased: “If you have such fondness for my color, how can it be restrained for so long? Even if you are indifferent, how do you enjoy with me? For nothing is impossible for you, the master of the universe. For one who delights in his own Self, pleasure is not the means to happiness; for this reason, Kama was reduced to ashes. Even a woman, beautiful in every limb, who is not desired by her husband, is born in vain, despite all her other qualities. The purpose of women’s creation is the enjoyment of the husband alone; otherwise, what use is a woman?” Resolute, she declared, “Therefore, abandoning this color which you have reproached, I will choose another—or perhaps none at all, as I wish.” Having spoken thus, she rose from her couch, her words faltering, and requested her husband’s permission, resolved to undertake austerity. Alarmed by the prospect of losing her affection, the Lord of beings himself bowed at Bhavānī’s feet and spoke to her. Unaware that her words were playful, he said, “Dear one, why are you angry? How could I lose delight in you, or how could my pleasure arise from anyone else? You are the mother of this world, and I am its father and lord; how could I not find joy in you? Even if there is desire between us, is it caused by Kāma? The origin of Kāma was before the creation of the world. For the pleasure of ordinary people, I created Kāma as the embodiment of desire; so why do you reproach me for burning Kāma? Thinking me to be like any other god, Manobhava showed me disrespect, and so I reduced him to ashes. For the protection of the world, I set aside desire between us; therefore, you made a playful remark to me today.” Soon, the true purpose behind her words would be revealed. Having taken these words to heart, which had given rise to anger, Shiva spoke further, understanding the deeper significance.