As the summer season arrived, Śiva spoke, noting the change in the air. He and Sati, his beloved, wandered together through the forest, enduring the persistent wind and heat that marked the summer’s advance. Śiva confessed to Sati, “O fair one, I am without shelter, always roaming these wild woods.” Despite the hardship, Sati spent the hot season at Śiva’s side, sharing his trials and joys. Soon, the passionate rainy season swept in, darkening the directions with masses of clouds. Sati, full of affection, addressed Śiva, the lord of the gods, as lightning flashed among the deep blue clouds and peacocks cried out with their kekā calls. The kadamba, sarja, arjuna, and ketakī trees, stirred by gentle winds, released their blossoms, filling the forest with fragrance. Just as yogis abandon even those with deep roots upon whom they depend, the trees shed their flowers, and the brave wandered among the young trees, delighted by the abundance of water. Sati reflected, “What is surprising here, that after associating with those lacking brilliance, a woman becomes unrestrained in conduct?” All around, bilva trees bore fruit, rivers flowed with water, and great lakes were adorned with leaves and lotuses. She urged Śiva, “Let us build a home here, in this excellent place by the waters, so that I may live content, O Shambhu.” Śiva replied gently, “I have no wealth for household possessions; my covering is only the skin of a deer, my beloved. I possess a single armlet, and my blanket is you; the other is a serpent named Dhananjaya.” Even the blue one, whose color matched dark collyrium, shone splendidly, firmly placed at his hip. Observing the master’s hardship in finding shelter, the servant complained angrily, breathing out shame and heat. Standing at the root of a tree, he spoke with great sorrow. In time, the name of a horse became renowned in heaven as Jīmūtaketu. With the passing of the seasons, autumn arrived, bringing brightness to the worlds. Lotuses spread their fragrance, birds nested, the deer’s horn grew sharp, and the waters became impure. Even cowherd villages rejoiced, and the virtuous pursued contentment. The minds of the virtuous, like the faces of the directions, attained clarity under the shining rays of the moon. Taking Sati with him, Śiva approached Mandara, the lord of mountains. There, Shambhu, the glorious Lord, delighted together with Satyā. Meanwhile, Daksha, foremost among the progenitors, began preparations for a great sacrifice. He summoned the Kasyapas and appointed them as members of the assembly, together with Anasuya, Atri, Dhriti, and Kaushika, as well as Chandra and the sage Angiras. The learned ones, endowed with virtues and accomplished in the Vedas and their branches, were invited and assigned the duty of gatekeeping at the sacrificial enclosure. Bhrigu was properly engaged in the consecration of mantras, and Prajapati was appointed as the lord of wealth. Yet, Daksha left Sati and Shankara aside, inviting all others to the sacrifice. The eldest, the best, the most eminent—even the foremost—was not invited. Knowing him as the Kapalin, Daksha deliberately excluded Śiva. Curious, the sages wondered: for what reason did Shankara, the foremost among gods, the wielder of the trident, the three-eyed Kapalin, become so by his actions? It was spoken in the Adipurana by Brahma, the one of unmanifest form, that when the sun and stars were devoid of vigor, and wind and fire had vanished, when mountains and trees were submerged and everything was enveloped in darkness, exceedingly difficult to cross, Śiva’s story unfolded amid the mysteries of creation.