He who moves unseen frequents places of women’s pleasure and finds his abode in the thickets of reeds. O Nārada, know that he also dwells along the bustling roads of cities and in the humble inns where travelers rest. His presence is found among poisons, in cow dung, among insects, and even in stones. He is a hero, skilled in the mastery of horses and weapons, steadfast amid elephants, chariots, and the tumult of battle. Like the makara who moves through rivers and abides in the vastness of the ocean, so too does he wander. The pot, symbol of fortune, frequents gambling houses and lingers in the homes of wine-sellers. Yet he also dwells in holy places, in the abodes of gods and Brāhmaṇas. O Nārada, this ancient secret must not be revealed carelessly to anyone. I have declared to you this supreme, pure, and merit-bringing tale—ancient and powerful—which destroys sin and brings auspiciousness. Now listen further. Dakṣāyaṇī was his wife, and she bore him sons. Among them, Hari and Kṛṣṇa were always devoted to the practice of yoga. These gentle souls performed great austerities, possessing the noble nature of ancient bulls. On the broad banks of the Ganga, they made their home, ever devoted to the Supreme Brahman. But as their austerities grew more intense, O Brahman, Indra himself became disturbed. To break their focus, he sent the foremost of the Apsarases, beginning with Rambha, to that great hermitage. Indra also went himself, accompanied by his companion Vasanta, the spirit of spring. Arriving at the Badari hermitage, they delighted and sported as they wished. The trees, usually stripped of leaves, shone with beauty as their branches touched the earth. The lion of spring had arrived, adorned with the brilliant blossoms of the palāśa tree. Vasanta laughed aloud, ornamented with clusters of jasmine buds. Just as the sons of kings are adorned with golden ornaments, and as honored servants shine in the company of their masters, so too did the attendants of spring appear resplendent. Clad as if in the blood of battle—like warriors in the war of the king of spring—their virtuous company was surrounded by goosebumps at the arrival of a dear friend. It was as if, with their fingers, they wished to declare, "What mountain is equal to us?" Their flowing hair was dark with blue ashoka blossoms, their faces radiant like lotuses. Their teeth shone like blooming jasmine, and they were adorned with the beauty of flower clusters. Their voices were as melodious as male cuckoos, and they wore garments fashioned from ankola flowers. Sashes of eastern bamboo adorned them, and their gait was as graceful as that of an intoxicated swan. Thus, O Brahman, the full fortune of spring arrived at the Badari hermitage. Yet, as Vasanta surveyed all directions, he did not find Kāma, the god of love, there. The one whom the Lord of the universe, the imperishable Nārāyaṇa, had once beheld—he was absent. For Kāma, having been burned by Śaṅkara, had attained the state of being bodiless. But for what reason was Kāma burned, you may ask? Let me explain. After destroying Dakṣa’s sacrifice, the three-eyed one, Śaṅkara, wandered about. In his madness, he struck the one without a wife with his weapon. Maddened, Kāma wandered through forests and lakes, finding no peace—like an elephant pierced by arrows, restless and in pain. When Śaṅkara was thus immersed, the very waters were scorched and turned black. From that moment, the sacred river flowed, winding across the earth like a dark lock of hair.