In a moment of reflection, it was remarked, “What is so surprising if, after keeping company with those lacking brilliance, a woman’s conduct becomes unrestrained?” The world, after all, offers its own examples: bilva trees bear their fruits, rivers provide water, and great lakes are adorned with leaves and blooming lotuses. In such a beautiful place by the great waters, a request was made: “Let us build a home here, in this excellent spot, so that I may live content, O Shambhu.” Yet, there was humility in these words, for the speaker confessed, “I have no wealth for household possessions; my only covering is the skin of a deer, my beloved. I wear but a single armlet, and for a blanket I have you; the other is a serpent named Dhananjaya.” Even the blue one, whose hue matches dark collyrium, shines splendidly, firmly placed at the hip. Witnessing the master’s difficulty in finding shelter, the servant could not contain his frustration. Angrily, he breathed out shame and heat, and, standing at the root of a tree, spoke with great sorrow. It was then that the name of the horse became renowned in heaven as Jīmūtaketu. Time passed, and the delightful season of autumn arrived, O sage, bringing brightness to all the worlds. The lotuses spread their sweet fragrance, birds nested in the trees, the deer’s horn grew sharp, and the waters, once pure, now became impure. Even the cowherd villages rejoiced in happiness, and the virtuous found contentment. Indeed, the minds of the virtuous, like the faces of the directions, attained clarity, just as the moon’s rays shine everywhere. Taking Sati with him, Shambhu approached the lord of mountains, Mandara. There, the glorious Lord delighted together with Satyā. Meanwhile, Daksha, foremost among the progenitors, began to perform a grand sacrifice. He summoned the Kasyapas and appointed them as members of his assembly, along with Anasuya, Atri, Dhriti, and Kaushika. Chandra, the moon god, was there, as was the sage Angiras. Learned ones, endowed with virtue and accomplished in the Vedas and their branches, were invited and assigned the duty of guarding 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—he invited all to the sacrifice except the eldest, the best, the most eminent, the foremost. Shankara, known as the Kapalin, was not invited by Daksha. A question arose: For what reason did Shankara, the foremost among gods, the wielder of the trident, the three-eyed, become Kapalin by his actions? The answer is found in the Adipurana, spoken by Brahma, the one of unmanifest form. There was a time when the sun and stars lost their vigor, when wind and fire had vanished. Mountains and trees were submerged, and everything was enveloped in darkness, exceedingly difficult to cross. At the end of that cosmic night, the creator, established in the mode of passion, brought forth the worlds—creating both the moving and unmoving in this wondrous universe. He displayed the trident, his matted hair, and a rosary of seeds. By his power, even the gods—Brahma and Shankara—were overcome. A question echoed: “Who are you that has come here? By whom were you created? Tell me. Who is your father here, or your mother? Let that be stated.” A dispute arose there, and the origin of one was called into question. One stood, holding a balance and a lute, making a clattering sound. His head was bowed, dejected, like the moon seized by a planet. Then, the fifth face spoke to Rudra, whose vision was darkened by anger.