Śumbha and Niśumbha, the formidable asura brothers, met their end on the battlefield, their defeat becoming a celebrated tale—a story of refuge in Skanda, as recounted in the Skanda Purāṇa. For the destruction of Tāraka, the mighty demon king who despised Indra, the great god, urged on by Brahmā, entered the palace atop Mount Mandara. There, he spent a long time in delight with the goddess, deeply absorbed in pleasure, and in this union, he called her Rasā, as if she had been drawn down to the netherworld. Yet, cleverly deceiving the goddess, the god did not release his powerful seed within her. Instead, as clarified butter is offered into sacred fire, he discharged it—pure as nectar—outside her. This divine seed was then deposited, in part, into the Gaṅgā and other rivers, through the agency of fire. It was gathered little by little from various places. Svāhā, assuming the form of the Kṛttikā stars, delighted with her own husband and, made golden, placed this seed on Mount Meru, in a thicket of reeds. In the course of time, from this energy, a radiance spread, kindling all ten directions and coloring every mountain with the golden brilliance of Meru. Eventually, from that energy, a boy was born—a child with delicate limbs, the very exemplar among boys. When the gods, asuras, and all beings beheld this charming child, they were filled with amazement and wonder. The god himself, yearning to see his son, came with the goddess. She took the child onto her lap, and his face shone with a radiant smile. Overcome with affection, as if he had tasted nectar, the god delighted in the child’s play, making him dance upon his own chest, exchanging looks of deep love. He instructed the goddess to nurse the boy, so that he drank her milk, sweet as nectar. The god then told him, “Your descent is for the welfare of the worlds.” Yet even with this, neither the god nor the goddess felt fully satisfied. Then, by Indra’s arrangement—fearing the demon Tāraka—the gods performed the consecration of the child as their commander, placing him in their midst. The god, the destroyer of Tripura, remained invisible, protecting Skanda along with Indra and the other gods, arming him with the fierce spear that would shatter Krauñca, blazing like the fire of destruction. When at last Tāraka’s head was severed by Indra, who acted out of fear, the gods, led by Hari and Dhātṛ, offered special praise. Similarly, Rāvaṇa, the lord of the Rākṣasas, proud of his strength, once attempted to lift Mount Kailāsa with his own long arms. But the god of gods, the wielder of the trident, would not tolerate such arrogance; with a mere movement of his big toe, he pressed the mountain deep into the earth. At another time, Yama, the ender of life, swiftly brought the soul of a certain devotee—one who had sought refuge—directly to the god’s feet. Not recognizing his own vehicle, the great bull, the submarine fire seized all the planets, and so it is said that there is but one water in the world. By these wondrous and delightful acts, unknown to most, the universe and its hosts were repeatedly shaken. If Shiva, who is ever peaceful, were to grant everything to all, how then could he liberate anyone by his power? The diversity of beginningless karma is not the sole determining factor; even karma itself is set in motion by the Lord. Why speak at length? Atheism is not the cause of these mysteries. Tell me, O Wind, how such doubts could quickly be dispelled. O Brāhmaṇas, your doubts, prompted by reasoning, are appropriate; inquiry does not lead the noble-minded to atheism. I will now state the means of knowledge that removes the delusion of the good. But for the wicked, unless there is the Lord’s grace, a different state prevails. It is rightly understood that apart from the supreme grace of all-complete Shiva, nothing can be accomplished. His very nature alone is sufficient for supreme grace; without it, nothing can be bestowed. Indeed, the whole world, composed of bound souls, is to be favored, but the Lord’s command accords with the purpose of supreme grace. The Lord, as the giver of commands, always bestows favor on all. How then could Shiva, in accepting a purpose, be dependent on another? There is no favoring dependent on the one to be favored; thus, true independence is characterized by non-dependence. If the one to be favored is dependent on another, it is accepted as such, but apart from grace, there is no connection to enjoyment or liberation for anyone. Even for those with embodied forms, favor is withdrawn by Shiva’s command. In this world, nothing exists that is not established by Śambhu’s knowledge. That by which we perceive the formless through the form—that Shiva whose essence is form—is called the Shaiva form. Yet the formless Shiva, the supreme cause, is not directly perceived by anyone through a manifest form. Only for the sake of accessibility to valid means of knowledge, and to explain his nature, is such a designation made; otherwise, there is no neglect or indirectness here. Truly, only a form directly comparable to oneself can be called a form; the form of Shiva, whose essence is form, marks his transcendence. Just as fire is not seen in wood before it is kindled, so too Shiva is not manifest in form-essence before he arises therein—such is his state. And just as, when one says "bring fire," it is not brought except from burning wood, so too Shiva is to be worshipped in the form-essence.