From that which is impure, pure, and both pure and impure—threefold in its nature—arise the divine forms of Śiva, Maheśa, Rudra, Viṣṇu, and the Grandfather, Brahmā. Out of this source are born the elements and the senses, and by Śiva’s command, all these dissolve in their time. Thus, Śiva is known as the liṅga, for the liṅga is that which commands and governs all existence. Nothing in this universe comes into being or acts without his command, and it is in him alone that the dissolution of the created worlds takes place. This is why his state as liṅga is established—by this alone and by nothing else. The liṅga is the very body of both Śiva and Śakti, for it is presided over by them together. Therefore, it is there that Śiva, together with Ambā, should always be worshipped. The liṅga is the altar, it is the Great Goddess herself, and it is directly the Great Lord. By worshipping the liṅga, both he and she are worshipped together; in truth, the liṅga has no bodily form for either of them. Because these two are pure, their forms are only figurative—what is truly present is the supreme power of Śiva, the Supreme Self. When this power receives the command, it brings forth all that moves and does not move in the universe. Even in a hundred years, the greatness of this power cannot be fully described. It is this very power by which, at the beginning, even Brahmā and Nārāyaṇa were deluded, when, in ancient times, the dissolution of the three worlds was at hand. At that time, Viṣṇu was lying upon the waters, deeply asleep and undisturbed. By chance, Brahmā, the Grandfather of all worlds, came to that place. He saw the lotus-eyed Viṣṇu sleeping peacefully, and, deluded by the māyā of Śambhu, Brahmā addressed Viṣṇu. In anger, he struck Mādhava to rouse him and demanded, “Who are you? Speak!” Awakened by the blow, Viṣṇu quickly sat up. Rising from his bed, Viṣṇu saw Parameṣṭhin standing before him. Though inwardly angry, Hari spoke as if without anger, saying, “From where have you come, child? Why are you disturbed? Speak.” Hearing these words, which hinted at Viṣṇu’s own lordly power, Brahmā, bound by passion and enmity, replied, “Why do you call me ‘child,’ as a teacher would address a student? Do you not know me as Lord, the creator of this universe? Dividing myself threefold, I have created and now sustain this world. I alone dissolve it; there is no other creator but me.” Hearing this, the imperishable Viṣṇu replied, “I alone am the original creator, destroyer, and protector of this universe. You too have descended from my own body in ancient times, from the imperishable. By my command, you divide yourself threefold and create the three worlds; you sustain them and, at the end, you dissolve them again. You have forgotten Nārāyaṇa, the flawless Lord of the universe, and even me, your direct progenitor—thus you disregard me. Yet you have committed no offense; you are simply deluded by my māyā. By my grace, your confusion will soon be dispelled. Hear the truth, O Four-Faced One: I am the Lord of all gods, the creator, sustainer, and destroyer. There is no one equal to me in power.” Thus, a fierce dispute arose between Brahmā and Viṣṇu, and a terrifying battle ensued between them, so intense that it made one’s hair stand on end. Striking each other with their fists, both filled with pride and enmity, they fought to humble one another and awaken themselves to the deeper truth. In the midst of their struggle, there suddenly appeared a wondrous and divine liṅga, adorned with thousands of blazing flames, immeasurable and incomparable. Free from increase and decay, without beginning, middle, or end, the liṅga shone with its thousands of flames, leaving both Brahmā and Viṣṇu bewildered. Abandoning their battle, they wondered aloud, “What is this?” Yet neither could comprehend the true nature of that being. Resolving to seek out its limits, Brahmā took the form of a great swan, spreading his wings in all directions and striving upward with great effort, propelled by mind and wind. Nārāyaṇa, the soul of the universe, assumed the form of an endless boar, dark as a mass of collyrium, and went downward. For a thousand years, Viṣṇu hastened downward as a boar but could not find even the slightest root of the liṅga. For the same length of time, Brahmā traveled upward, seeking its end; exhausted and unable to find its limit, he fell into error. In the same way, the blessed Viṣṇu, weary and with troubled eyes, rose up from below, afflicted by great hardship. As they met again, both looked at each other with wonder and a smile, still deluded by Śambhu’s māyā, unable to discern what should or should not be done. Standing behind, beside, and in front of the liṅga, both bowed down and pondered, “What is this self?” Then, in that very place, there appeared a sound—the single-syllabled Brahman, marked by the word “Om,” which signifies Brahman itself. Yet, at that time, neither Brahmā nor Viṣṇu recognized it, for their minds were veiled by rajas and tamas. That single syllable then became divided into four: ‘a,’ ‘u,’ ‘m,’ and, beyond these three measures, a half-measure. The ‘a’ sound was placed on the right side of the blazing liṅga, the ‘u’ on the left, and the ‘m’ in the center. The nāda, consisting of the half-measure, was heard at the summit of the liṅga. Even when thus divided, that supreme syllable, praṇava, remained ever present there.