With a playful, affectionate voice—sweet and joyful, her words adorned with charm—a woman spoke, her face radiant like the moon. She turned to Ananga, the Love-god, and said, “Look, O moon-faced one, with his bow drawn, this Love-god pursues me, a helpless woman—what is this, O Ananga?” She implored, “Protect me, O Lord, helpless and destitute, who has taken refuge in you here. O noble one, know me to be devoted to true conduct, a poor soul seeking comfort.” With wisdom, she continued, “O wise one, those who do not understand the gaze of affection—fools alone—disregard intimacy; never do those who know its true essence.” She spoke of love’s sweetness: “When affection arises without suspicion between two who are mutually enamored, it brings forth a sweet flow, like the taste of the moon savored, my beloved. Not even the sovereignty of the three worlds brings such happiness to the heart as the mutual joy of love in those first enamored.” She expressed her comfort: “By the touch of your feet, O giver of honor, I am comforted, just as the lotus at night is revived when touched by the rays of the moon. By drinking the nectar of your touch, O beautiful one, I live—just as the restless chakorī bird lives by drinking the essence of the moon’s rays.” With longing, she pleaded, “Take me, who clings at your feet like a bee, and with your lotus-like hands, embrace me—your heart full of nectar and true purity.” Having spoken thus, she of tender, flower-like limbs fell upon his chest, her eyes rolling like a cluster of bees, just as a blossom sways. Radiant in their delight, the couple wandered together through the forest clearings, like two intoxicated bees amidst lotuses swaying in the pale breeze. Amidst groves thick with coral trees, intoxicated by the nectar of the gods, he enjoyed with her, who was like a second spotless moon. Together they roamed among golden-lotused ponds filled with drunken swans, and along the banks of the celestial river, accompanied by musicians—kinnaras and charanas. In bowers woven from parijata branches, they drank the nectar flowing from the moon, together with the gods and playful companions. In the charming swing-groves of Chaitraratha, they sported for a long time with the eager hosts of vidyadharas. The expanse of Nandana’s pleasure-gardens, with the Mandara mountain like an ocean, surged with excitement from the hosts of Shiva’s attendants. They wandered in caves tangled with young golden creepers, mad with passion, like bees among the blooming lotuses of Meru. In the groves of Kailasa, with his beloved, he passed the moon-white night, filled with the songs of the hosts. She, adorned from head to toe with golden lotuses, rested with him upon the summits of Mount Gandhamadana. Together, Rama played and laughed with her in the wondrous, astonishing, and captivating regions at the edge of Lokāloka mountain. For sixty years, as if in a celestial palace, he dwelled among the valleys of Mandara mountain, together with fawns. On the shores of the ocean of milk, accompanied by women, he spent half of the Krita age with the inhabitants of Shvetadvipa. Through the playful arrangements of gardens in Gandharva cities, he imitated the endless creation of worlds, following the course of time. Then, once again, Shukra dwelled happily for eight cycles of four ages in the city of Purandara, together with the doe-eyed one. But when his merit was exhausted, he fell to the earthly realm with that proud woman, his form deprived of its radiance. His limbs shattered, deprived of his chariot and garden, he was overcome by anxiety and lay ruined, like a warrior struck down in battle. When he fell to the ground, together with his long brooding, his body was shattered into a hundred pieces, like a waterfall struck by a rock. With both bodies destroyed and their minds veiled by impressions, the two wandered in the sky like nestless birds. In their minds, they entered a moonlit lattice of rays; swiftly becoming icy, they then turned into rice plants. The best of twice-born ate those ripe rice grains in Daśārṇa, while the king in Mālava ate the grains that had grown from the seed in a woman’s womb. In Daśārṇa, the best of twice-born first conceived from eating, and in Mālava, a woman conceived from the king’s great fortune. There, the boy grew up, and there, the girl grew up; the former couple were born again on earth, as if fallen from heaven. At sixteen years of age, Śukra, now bearing the name Sāraṅga, was a handsome, youthful, and prosperous brāhmaṇa boy in his father’s house. The asura maiden named Mālā, with bee-like eyes, grew up as a maiden in the royal palace, like a vine flourishing in a splendid forest. The princess, with a pure heart, worshipped Śaṅkara with garlands, constantly praying, “May I obtain my former accomplished husband.” Later, at the sacrifice of the king of Mālava, as the assembly of brahmins gathered, Mālā saw Sāraṅga there, who had arrived together with her father. Seeing him, she—faultless in form and filled with affection from their former bond—shone with limbs moist with love, like a moonstone touched by the moon. Then, in the midst of the sacrificial assembly, Mālā, daughter of the Mālava king, chose the young brāhmin from Daśārṇa as her husband. In due course, after their marriage, the aged and infirm king of Mālava bestowed the entire kingdom upon him and departed for the forest. Sāraṅga, together with her, ruled the Mālava realm in great happiness, like Indra, for a hundred autumns.