You have already heard how, in that tumultuous time, the ganas severed Daksha’s head, and in the chaos that followed, Surya’s hands were cut off, his teeth broken, and even Agni was wounded. Yet, from this destruction, the goddess herself was born again, this time as the radiant daughter of the mountain king Himavat. In the secluded forests of Sthanu, the god—ever devoted to her—dwelt with her in secret, serving her with deep love. Self-controlled and steadfast, the god one day departed with his ganas to another place. In time, he returned to her—she whose heart was still troubled by the memory of past sorrows. Parvati, the mountain’s daughter, was distressed by a sense of widowhood and longed to be united with him once more. Her yearning was known also to her mother Menā and her father Himavat. Meanwhile, the demons Shumbha and Nishumbha approached the Creator and received a boon, which cast a shadow of fear over the gods. Trembling, the gods turned to one another, but they were reassured: “Do not fear, O blessed ones; in time, this too shall be overcome.” Thus comforted, Andhakasudana dismissed Mukunda and the other gods, granting them safety. At one point, because of a hidden wound, the goddess was affectionately called ‘Kali.’ There, by her own will, the supreme goddess shed her skin. From that act, she became known as Kauśikī, the one of the skin, and as Kali, dwelling upon Mount Vindhya. On that same beautiful peak, the goddess Gaurī also resided. In time, through longing and union, she gave birth to Parvati. Tradition tells that Narayana and the Four-faced One spoke of these great events. The divine children, as they grew, gazed lovingly upon their parents. Their days were filled with the melodious sounds of the vīṇā, with drawing pictures, with conversations about knowledge and tradition, and with marveling at wondrous things. Sometimes they gathered flowers; sometimes they played in the water. They were honored by Maināka and worshipped by Menā. Their amusements included lively games of dice and cheerful conversations. If something was lost in play, she would reclaim it and return to her husband, delighted. Thus, these two—parents of all that moves and does not move—abode among the golden mountains and other sacred places. There, Parvati satisfied the people with nourishing food and drink. Sometimes, at twilight, she would sit in deep meditation, her eyes closed in peace. It was said, “Surely now, some fortunate woman is meditating.” Yet, who can truly know the crooked ways of men’s minds? She wondered, “If today he has kindness toward me in his heart, perhaps it is so. From today onward, I am your servant, purchased by my austerities—so he says.” But she reflected, “In women whose minds are deluded, love is not equal or constant.” Thus, as affection and anger mingled within her, the goddess’s mind became troubled. Her eyes, reddened and overflowing with tears, streamed with weeping. The mark of her tilaka, once perfect between her brows, was now broken apart. Her lower lip trembled with the weight of inner anger, and her cheeks flushed deep red with emotion. Within, her heart quivered, her breasts shaken by inner trembling. In her distress, Parvati thought, “Surely all this is because of my lack of good fortune.