On a tranquil riverbank, the celestial nymph Pramloca approached the sage Kaṇḍu, her heart filled with longing. “O blessed one,” she said, “I wish to return to heaven. O gracious sage, please grant me permission.” Kaṇḍu, whose mind had grown deeply attached to her, gently replied, “Stay for a few more days, O gentle one.” Accepting his words, Pramloca remained with Kaṇḍu, and together they indulged in sensual pleasures for another full hundred years. When that time had passed, she again asked, “Grant me permission, O revered one. I wish to go to the abode of the gods.” Kaṇḍu said, “So be it,” but once more requested, “Stay a little longer.” Another hundred years slipped by. Pramloca, beautiful-faced and smiling lovingly, said again, “O sage, I wish to go to heaven.” Kaṇḍu, moved by her words, embraced her and pleaded, “Stay here for a moment, O lovely one. You will be gone for a long time.” So, playing with the sage, Pramloca remained with him for nearly two hundred more years. Whenever she asked to depart for the abode of Indra, Kaṇḍu replied to the slender-waisted woman, “Stay a little longer.” Fearing his curse and out of kindness, Pramloca, knowing the pain of separation, did not leave the sage. Day and night, Kaṇḍu enjoyed her company, his mind seized by love and experiencing ever-new delight. One day, Kaṇḍu, impelled by urgency, left his hut. As he was departing, Pramloca asked, “Where are you going?” He replied, “The day has turned, O auspicious one; I must perform the evening worship, otherwise my rites would be neglected.” Smiling sweetly, Pramloca said, “O knower of all dharma, has your day truly turned already today? For many years, O best of Brahmins, your day has turned; this is not surprising—let it be told whose wonder it is.” Kaṇḍu explained, “You came here in the morning, O slender-waisted one, to this auspicious riverbank. I saw you, and you entered my hermitage. Now the evening twilight has come, the day has passed. Tell me, what is the reason for this jest, if your intention is sincere?” Pramloca replied, “O Brahmin, I came at dawn—this is true, not false; but for you, many hundreds of years of that time have passed.” Filled with fear, Kaṇḍu asked her, “Tell me, timid one, how much time has passed while I was with you?” Pramloca answered, “Seven hundred and nine years have passed for you, and six months, and three more days have also elapsed.” Kaṇḍu, incredulous, asked, “Speak the truth, timid one—is this a jest, or is it so, O auspicious lady? I thought I had spent only one day here with you.” Pramloca assured him, “How could I speak falsehood before you, O Brahmin? Especially when you, who follow the path of inquiry, have asked me today.” Hearing these truthful words, Kaṇḍu was overcome with shame. He reproached himself again and again, lamenting, “My austerities are lost, the wealth of the knowers of Brahman is destroyed; discernment is ruined by someone, created for the delusion of women. Brahman, which transcends the six waves, is to be known by self-mastery; but my mind has been carried away by this great all-consuming desire. All my vows and acts leading to Vedic knowledge have been carried away by association, along the path that leads to the multitude of hells.” Thus reproaching himself, the sage addressed Pramloca, who sat there quietly: “Go, sinner, wherever you wish; what needed to be done by you has been done—by disturbing my mind with your gestures, as commanded by the king of the gods. I will not reduce you to ashes with the fierce fire of my anger, for I have shared seven steps of friendship with you, as is the way of the virtuous. But what fault is yours, or why should I be angry with you? The fault is entirely mine, for I have not mastered my senses. For the sake of pleasing Indra, you caused the loss of my austerities; you, who are to be censured, have fallen into great delusion, and are truly to be despised.” As the sage spoke harshly to her, Pramloca began to sweat and trembled violently. Seeing her trembling, her limbs weary, and remaining chaste, the sage angrily said, “Go, go!” Thus rebuked, Pramloca departed from the hermitage. Ascending into the sky, she wiped away her sweat with the leaves of trees. As she wiped her limbs, drenched with sweat, she used the tender red leaves of a tree. At that time, the embryo placed in her body by the sage emerged, taking the form of goosebumps and sweat. The trees took up that embryo, and the wind shaped it into one. Nourished by Soma with cow’s milk, it gradually grew. Born from the tip of a tree, she of beautiful face was named Māriṣā. The trees would give her to Soma, and so he asked that Kaṇḍu’s anger subside. Thus Māriṣā became the child of Kaṇḍu, and also emerged from the trees; she was Soma’s child, and also the daughter of the wind and Pramloca. When Kaṇḍu’s austerity was exhausted, he went to the abode of Viṣṇu called Puruṣottama. There, with one-pointed mind, he worshipped Hari, reciting the supreme Brahman hymn with focused mind, standing with arms raised, that great yogi remained, seeking redemption and peace.