In the depths of the forest, the mountain king’s daughter, radiant and beautiful in every limb, wandered amidst the trees. Her presence caught the eye of a certain being, who gazed at her in wonder and desire. “Who is this beautiful woman,” he thought, “so lovely in every part, moving alone through the wilderness?” Overcome by longing, he lamented, “What is the use of my life if it bears no fruit for me? Of what value is my beauty, if it remains unfulfilled?” His heart ached with yearning, and he declared, “Whoever can unite me with that black-haired, doe-eyed woman—” But even as these thoughts tormented him, another voice of reason intervened. Covering his ears and shaking his head, he spoke firmly: “She is the wife of the lord of the worlds—Śaṅkara himself, wielder of the trident. She belongs to another, O lord—do not plunge yourself into ruin! Let only your enemies fall into the sin of coveting another’s wife.” He looked upon the army devoted to the Brāhmaṇas’ sacred cow, an army true and beneficial to the whole world, and resolved, “It is better to be impotent than to approach another man’s wife; it is better to beg for alms than to enjoy another’s wealth, even once.” Declaring, “She is the mother of enemies,” he turned and fled. At that moment, Nandī, steadfast and unyielding, stood before them, thunderbolt raised high, blocking their path with force. Struck swiftly by the thunderbolt, the intruders scattered in terror to the ten directions. Yet, in the chaos, one struck Nandī with a club and brought him down. In fear of this wicked one, Śatarūpā transformed herself into Gaurī, seeking safety. Like a wild, intoxicated elephant stumbling through the forest, its gaze unsteady among the herd of females, so too did this being wander, blinded by his own delusions. But there was nothing astonishing in this, for such is the fate of those four who are ever blind to the truth. Though Andhaka gazed upon Girijā, he did not truly see her for who she was. The goddess, fierce as a hundred thunderbolts, rejected the evil-minded Andhaka. When Andhaka fell, Śatarūpā shone with a beauty like the night itself. Seeing their leader fallen, the Daityas and Dānavas rallied, their hearts stirred. The lord of the Gaṇas, hearing the tumult of their charge, stood his ground, seizing his thunderbolt, mighty as Maghavan himself. The goddess, addressing her own manifold forms, said, “Go as you wish. Let your dwelling be in gardens and forests. Go among the trees and plants, bowing to Ambikā in turn.” When Andhaka saw his own forces defeated, he fled swiftly to the underworld. Yet, pierced by the arrows of love and haunted by memories of Gaurī, he found no rest, unable to sleep at night, overcome by the power of desire. At this point, a question arose: “Tell me, how was Andhaka fought? You ought to speak of this to me.” From that time on, Andhaka was seen to be without brilliance, his strength much diminished. Seeking to regain his power, the best of the wise fixed his mind upon austerity. He wandered the earth, placing the mountain as his protector, wearing a great conch as a belt around his waist. For one day, he dwelled among the trees, mountain slopes, and rivers, subsisting on air alone. Thus he stood, unwavering, for nine hundred years. Meanwhile, upon the broad and beautiful plateau of Himavat, on a level stone surface, the radiant goddess seated herself upon the ground, her matted hair spread around her. There arose the foremost and sacred tirtha, renowned as Kedara—a place that increases merit, destroys sin, and leads to liberation. So it was, O Brahman, that this holy site came to be, imbued with the blessings of the goddess herself.