By their actions, thoughts, and words, people journey onward, drawn inexorably to the great river that marks the boundary between worlds. Yet, those who cross the mountains by unrighteous means find themselves in the dreadful sword-leaf forest, a place of sharp torment. Even more terrifying is the hell known as Kṛṣṇasūtra, where the wicked are sent—a realm of unspeakable horror. Those who commit grave offenses, such as consorting with an outcaste woman, are bound together in their fate, both falling into the depths of hell. There, they are boiled in foul and unclean food, with the one who harbored hatred toward a friend suffering especially. Those who have reversed the natural order, allowing themselves to be taught by their own sons, descend to a place where they become the food of dogs. In these hells, evildoers who have come to torment others are themselves cooked, suffering the consequences of their many sins, especially if they have turned away from atonement. Yet, there is a supreme path to redemption: the remembrance of Śiva. For one who becomes purified by this remembrance, whose sins are destroyed, hell holds no claim. For such a soul, it is fitting to offer a lamp before the Lord of gods, in gratitude and reverence. At this point, a heartfelt question arises: “Tell me all this, dear one, and also reveal the auspicious origin of the lamp.” The story unfolds of one who went to seek a boon, and was in turn entreated by her. With earnest devotion, the plea is made: “O Śambhu, be gracious, O divine-eyed one.” The teachings of Bhava—Śiva—are cherished as most auspicious, just as a bee perched upon a white lotus enhances its beauty. Śiva, the creator of myriad forms, is addressed with longing, though he seems not to heed spoken words. When she declared, “You are Bhava,” he accepted her hand. She granted him joy, laughing as she spoke his name. Yet, recalling the words of the gods, she was filled with anger and declared, “Whenever I become golden in form again…” With these words, she departed for Mount Vindhya, holding in her heart only those past actions and utterances. Śiva, addressing the daughter of Himālaya—the most beautiful in all the worlds—spoke these very words and then withdrew from her presence. In his absence, the world was plunged into confusion and great fear. Abandoning their homes, beings everywhere fell into deep despair. Light vanished from the world, which became a barren wilderness, for the three eyes of Rudra—sun, moon, and fire—are the sources of all illumination. In the dreadful and impenetrable darkness that followed, a thought stirred among the inhabitants of the world, seeking a way to fulfill their purpose. Without Śiva, there was no light from moon, sun, or fire. In anguish, they cried out: “O god! O sage! O perfected one! O seer! O night-wanderer! Where have you gone, beloved? Whom have you found, O Lord? Do you have any provisions with you, or anything at all in any direction? Do you dwell anywhere? How do you find water or peace of mind?” In this way, they spoke to each other with compassion, pondering the plight of those living beings who dwell deep within the earth’s cavities. For them, there is no sun, no moon, nor any great planets. By what light, they wondered, do these creatures perceive the level and uneven places? Who, moving impartially, fulfills the countless desires of the mind? Thus, the tale weaves together the journey of souls, the gravity of actions, the power of remembrance, and the mystery of light—both in the world and within the heart.