“It is better to be impotent than to approach another’s wife; it is better to beg for alms than to enjoy another’s wealth, even once.” With this conviction, one declared, “She is the mother of enemies,” and fled from temptation. Yet, as he tried to escape, Nandī, steadfast and resolute, stood in his path, holding aloft his thunderbolt with unwavering strength and blocking their way with great force. But when Nandī struck swiftly with the thunderbolt, those who sought to transgress scattered in fear, fleeing in all directions. Yet, in the chaos, one struck Nandī with a club, felling the mighty guardian. Terrified by the actions of this wicked one, Śatarūpā transformed herself into Gaurī to escape his notice. Like a wild, intoxicated elephant wandering the forest, its gaze unsteady amid a herd of females, so too did this one roam, blinded and reckless. But there is nothing surprising here, for these four—blinded by their desires—never truly see at all. Though Andhaka looked upon Girijā, he did not truly perceive her for who she was. The goddess, radiant and powerful as a hundred thunderbolts, rejected the evil-minded Andhaka. When he fell, Śatarūpā shone with a serene brilliance, luminous as the night. Witnessing Andhaka’s defeat, the leaders of the Daityas and Dānavas gathered, their hearts shaken. Hearing the sound of their renewed charge, the lord of the Gaṇas stood his ground, unwavering. Seizing the thunderbolt, the mighty leader of the Gaṇas shone with the power of Maghavan himself. Then the goddess addressed her own forms, instructing them, “Go as you wish. Your dwelling shall be in gardens and forests. Move among the trees and plants, bowing in turn to Ambikā.” Seeing his own forces defeated, Andhaka fled swiftly to the underworld. Yet, pierced by the arrows of desire and unable to forget Gaurī, he found no rest at night, tormented by longing. A question arose: “Tell me, how was Andhaka fought? You ought to speak of this to me.” From that time onward, Andhaka was seen diminished, his brilliance faded and his strength weakened. Seeking renewal through austerity, that best of the wise fixed his mind with great determination. Using a mountain as his protector, he wandered the earth, girded with a great conch at his waist. He dwelled for a single day among the trees, mountain slopes, and rivers, subsisting on air alone, standing thus in penance for nine hundred years without ceasing. On the broad, beautiful plateau of Himavat, upon a level stone surface, she—radiant and serene—seated herself on the ground, her matted hair encircling her. There arose the foremost and sacred tirtha, renowned as Kedara—a place that increases merit, destroys sin, and leads to liberation. O Brahman, those self-controlled souls who drink the water at this tirtha will have the linga manifest within the lotus of their hearts. For their ancestors, the śrāddha performed here will never be exhausted, and for the deceased, rebirth will not occur; instead, they will attain the imperishable state. Kedara purifies all, just as the word of the three-eyed one declares. To bathe in the goddess Kalindi, daughter of the Sun and destroyer of sin, surrounded by hundreds of sacred tirthas and the Plaksha-born waters, is to be cleansed of all impurities. There, Hara recited the Gayatri called Drupada while standing within the water. A full year passed, yet the Lord did not emerge from his penance. During this time, the stars and their constellations fell from the heavens, dropping to the earth, marking the wonder and gravity of these events.