When the gods found themselves in great distress, the foremost guru among them perceived a solution. He advised, “Let all the gods approach Śiva.” With this resolve, the gods hastened together, seeking Śiva’s grace at that very moment. But Nandī, the vigilant lord of the gaṇas, stood guard at the door, making entry for the gods exceedingly difficult. Recognizing the challenge, Agni spoke auspicious words on their behalf, offering guidance. With cleverness, Agni deceived the doorkeeper, acting just as needed to grant the gods passage. Even so, the immortal gods, led by Indra, were held back and stood restrained at the threshold. Yet, from them, Śiva received proper salutations in due order. The gods pleaded, “Abandon this exceedingly dreadful enjoyment.” In response, Śiva cursed Nandī, commanding him, “Go swiftly to the earthly realm!” Nandī, his heart heavy with sighs and his eyes overwhelmed with sorrow, felt greatly deceived—especially by Agni and Vāsava. Reduced to such a state, the attendant was seen by the guardians of the world. He reported everything before them, Nandin among them. Hearing these words, Nandī, his hair standing on end, worshipped in due form, adopting the appearance of a Kapālika. Then, beloved, a bodiless voice arose from the liṅga; Nandin worshipped it with profound devotion. From that moment, the lord of the doorkeepers became the lord of lords, his power granting the most desired fruits to all worlds. Those who worship Śiva, the lord of the doorkeepers, with devotion, find the sins accumulated over seven births—whether little or much—washed away. Whoever remembers in their mind the lord of the doorkeepers, Śiva, finds liberation. The Lord continued: “By merely seeing him, one does not attain a birth among animals. There was a king named Kauśika, who is always born as a rooster. By him, the earth was pervaded, along with its mountains, forests, and groves. His wife, renowned as Viśālā, belonged to that king. Together, they ruled the kingdom, yet, O Pārvatī, there was never any intimacy between them. As time passed, the queen, tormented by desire, saw with the king a pair of insects agitated by the quarrel of love. The male insect again and again sought to please his beloved, saying, ‘Embrace me as you wish, for I am afflicted by the arrows of love. Nowhere in the world is there a passionate woman equal to you. Why, when I am wretched, do you, who speak kindly, seem angry with me?’ Provoked, the female insect replied, ‘Why do you speak to me in vain? Given over to another by your lust, you wretched insect!’ She refused, but the male pleaded again and again. Hearing those words, she finally became appeased. Witnessing this wonder, the queen lamented, ‘I am not desired by my beloved; I will die, there is no doubt.’ She sighed and grieved in many ways. In her sorrow, she saw a sage, seated, born of austerity and firm in his vows. She approached him and said, ‘O Brāhmaṇa, this one doubt torments my heart: I do not know the reason, but union does not arise. He who, having conquered the realm of women and defeated all in battle before, now does not desire them—O virtuous one, what is this?