Hari and Kṛṣṇa, steadfast and gentle, devoted themselves always to the practice of yoga. Like ancient, powerful bulls, they undertook severe austerities, their minds unwavering and resolute. On the broad and tranquil banks of the sacred Ganga, the two remained at home, their hearts wholly absorbed in meditation upon the Supreme Brahman. But as their austerities deepened and their bodies grew tormented by the intensity of their practice, Indra, the king of the gods, became disturbed. Fearing the power that such penance could unleash, he resolved to distract them. So he dispatched the foremost of the Apsarases, beginning with the enchanting Rambha, to that great hermitage. Indra himself, accompanied by Vasanta—the spirit of Spring—journeyed to the hermitage as well. When they arrived at the Badari hermitage, they began to sport and revel as they pleased. The trees, usually stripped bare of their leaves, seemed to glow with beauty as they touched the earth, transformed by the presence of spring. Vasanta, the very lion of spring, arrived adorned with the brilliant blossoms of the palāśa tree. He laughed aloud, his form decked with the delicate buds of jasmine. Just as the sons of kings are adorned with golden ornaments, and as honored servants shine in the courts of their masters, so too did the Apsarases and the attendants of Spring appear—resplendent, as if clad in the hues of battle, like warriors in the service of the king of Spring. The arrival of Spring brought a thrill, like the goosebumps that arise on the virtuous at the sight of a beloved friend. It was as if, with their graceful fingers, they declared, “What mountain is equal to us?” Their tresses were dark as blue ashoka flowers, and their faces blossomed like lotuses. Their teeth shone white as blooming jasmine, and they were adorned with garlands of clustered flowers. Divine in form, their voices were sweet as male cuckoos, and their garments were woven from ankola blossoms. Sashes of eastern bamboo encircled their waists, and they moved with the stately grace of intoxicated swans. Thus, O Brahman, the full fortune and splendor of Spring arrived at the Badari hermitage. Yet, as Vasanta looked in every direction, he did not see Kāma, the god of love, among them. For Kāma, the one whom the imperishable Lord Nārāyaṇa himself had beheld, was absent—having been burned by Śaṅkara, he had become bodiless. But why, you may wonder, was Kāma burned? Let me explain. After the destruction of Dakṣa’s sacrifice, the three-eyed Lord Śaṅkara wandered the earth. In his grief and fury, he struck the one without a wife—Kāma—driven mad by longing. In this madness, Śaṅkara wandered through forests and along lakes, finding no peace, like a great elephant pierced by arrows. Whenever Śaṅkara immersed himself in the waters, they too were scorched and turned black by his burning sorrow. The sacred river flowed, dark as a lock of hair unbound upon the earth. Amid the lovely sandbanks, in the ponds and among the lotuses, Maheśvara wandered as he wished, yet found no solace. For a fleeting moment, he meditated upon the slender-limbed, charming daughter of Dakṣa. Even in sleep, he beheld her and spoke with longing: “O innocent one, separated from you, I am consumed by the fire of love. Should you not speak to one who bows at your feet in reverence? Though you are always embraced, why do you not answer? Especially to your own husband, O girl, are you not exceedingly unkind? Without you, I cannot live; what you have done is untrue. Otherwise, this pain will never be destroyed—I swear to you truly, beloved.” Thus, the tale of great austerities, divine interventions, and the burning longing of Śaṅkara unfolds, echoing on the sacred banks of the Ganga.