Just as young princes gleam with golden ornaments, and as loyal servants, honored by their masters, seem themselves like royal sons, so too did the warriors, clad in the blood of battle, stand resplendent—as if engaged in a war waged by the very king of spring. When a virtuous soul is greeted by a dear friend, goosebumps arise in joy, just as these warriors seemed to wish to declare with their very fingers, “What mountain could equal us?” Their hair was dark, adorned with the blue tresses of the ashoka tree, and their faces blossomed like lotuses in the sun. Their teeth shone like jasmine in full bloom, and they were bedecked with garlands of clustered flowers, divine in appearance. Their voices were as melodious as male cuckoos, and their garments were woven from ankola flowers. Sashes of eastern bamboo encircled their waists, and their gait was as graceful as that of an intoxicated swan. In this way, O Brahman, the fortune of spring itself came to the hermitage at Badari. Yet, as he looked in all directions, he could not find Kāma, the god of love. This was the same Kāma whom the Lord of the universe, the imperishable Nārāyaṇa, had once beheld. But Kāma, having been burned by Śaṅkara (Śiva), had become bodiless. You may wonder, for what reason was Kāma burned? Let this be explained. After destroying the sacrifice of Dakṣa, the three-eyed Lord Śiva wandered the world. In his distress, he struck out with his weapon at one who was without a wife, maddened by grief. In his madness, Śiva wandered through forests and lakes, finding no peace—like an elephant wounded by arrows, restless and tormented. When Śaṅkara, in his sorrow, entered the waters, even they were scorched and turned black. The sacred river flowed across the earth, like a dark lock of hair unfurled. Along its lovely sandbanks, in ponds and among the lotuses, Śiva wandered as he pleased, but found no rest. For a moment, he meditated on the slender-limbed, enchanting daughter of Dakṣa. Even in his sleep, he beheld her and spoke: “O innocent one, separated from you, I am consumed by the fire of love. You should 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 gentle girl, are you not being exceedingly unkind? Without you, I cannot live; what you have done is not right. Otherwise, this burning pain will not be destroyed—I swear to you truly, beloved.” Again and again, Śiva cried out in the forest, his voice echoing in anguish. He bent his bow swiftly and pierced it once more with the arrow named Suffering, tormenting the whole world as he roared, driving all beings away. Greatly agitated by the arrows of desire, he wandered on, his longing expanding in every direction. Then, a devoted servant spoke to him: “Brother, whatever words you speak today, let them be done. You are of immeasurable prowess. Command me, O Shambhu of boundless strength; I am your servant, full of devotion, O Lord. Struck by the arrows of wild passion, I find neither steadiness, nor pleasure, nor happiness. No other man could endure this except you; therefore, accept it.” At last, the Trident-bearing Lord was quickly satisfied. Pleased, he spoke these words: “Therefore, as a boon for your worship, I will grant you something that will bring laughter to the world.