Then, the crooked one, together with his buffalo, launched a fierce attack with his spear. But Guha, the mighty commander, slew the buffalo before their eyes. Witnessing this, the great gods—Brahmā, Indra, Rudra, the Aśvins, and the chief of the Vasus—ascended to heaven, their purpose fulfilled. Suddenly, the attacker was halted by the wielder of the discus, who swiftly embraced him with his arms. In that moment, he cried out, “Guru!” And Hari, the enemy of the serpent-race, quickly took Kumāra, along with Śikhaṇḍin, up to heaven. Reflecting on the battle, one said, “My brother, my maternal uncle’s son, has been defeated by me. Therefore, I will cause my own body to waste away.” But then, comfort came: “By bathing in the river Aghavatī and beholding Hara with devotion, you will become equal in splendor to the sun.” Following this advice, he bathed and worshipped the gods, and shining like the sun, he went to the mountain, the abode of Hara. There, as he worshipped the Bull-bannered One, Hara was pleased and granted him a boon. He prayed, “Just as one might sever an image with the hand, may the Lord grant me that same power over Bāṇa.” Hara replied, “The might of Bāṇa’s arms, now grown formidable, shall be cut down—of this there is no doubt.” Overjoyed, he fell at Hara’s feet, offering homage and reporting the favor he had received. It was said, “The death of Krauñca was for the sake of one who sought refuge, destroying sin and increasing merit.” A question arose: “Tell me, by whom was the lord of the Daityas pierced with an arrow? He was a hero, unconquered in battle, powerful, impartial among friends, Brahmins, the poor, and the wretched.” It was Pātālaketu who was struck on the back by an arrow, swift as the crescent moon. “By whom did the prince slay that Daitya with a feathered shaft?” they wondered. Pātālaketu, out of folly, had obstructed the prince’s penance and disturbed his meditation. Then, gazing at the sky, the Daitya released a long, hot, and deep sigh. The prince’s horse was so powerful it could cover thousands of yojanas in a single day. Standing as if in penance, the great sage met the Daitya, and the prince pierced him with arrows. “From whom was this speech born, O bodiless one? My curiosity is great,” someone asked. The horse was then released into the world for the sake of Ṛtadhvaja’s daughter. “What was the purpose of King Kuvalayāśva and the prince?” The answer: She was a treasure of beauty, radiant as moonlight, named Madālasā—indeed, Madālasā herself. But Pātālaketu carried off the slender maiden; for her sake, that excellent horse was given. Just as Śacī beheld the lord of the gods, Mahendra, so did the king’s son behold the doe-eyed maiden. “What did the wise son of Hiraṇyākṣa do next?” they asked. That extremely wicked-minded slayer of the gods’ army became enraged. Emerging from the underworld, he roamed the earth. He beheld Gaurī, the daughter of the mountain, standing among her companions, auspicious in form. Seeing her, beautiful in every limb, the mountain king’s daughter, in the forest, he wondered, “Whose is this beautiful woman, lovely in every limb, who wanders in the forest? What use is my life if it is fruitless for me? Therefore, shame on my beauty—what is the use of it if it remains unfulfilled? Whoever unites me with that black-haired, doe-eyed woman—” But another, covering his ears with his hands and shaking his head, spoke urgently, “She is the wife of the lord of the worlds, Śaṅkara, the wielder of the trident. She is another’s wife, O lord—do not sink into the underworld! Let your enemies commit the sin of approaching another’s wife.” Then, seeing the army devoted to the cow of the Brāhmaṇas—true, wholesome, and beneficial to all the world—the story continued, ever unfolding in the sacred tapestry of dharma.