saundaryalaharī

For those whose feet have slipped on the earth, the earth itself is the only support; similarly, O Shiva (Mother), for those who have committed transgressions against you, you alone are the refuge.

If Shiva is united with Shakti, He is capable of manifesting; if He is not so united, the Lord is not even capable of stirring. Therefore, how can one who has not accumulated merit even hope to bow to or praise You, whom even Hari (Vishnu), Hara (Shiva), and Virinchi (Brahma) worship?

Brahma collects the infinitesimal dust from your lotus feet and creates the entire universe; Vishnu carries this dust with difficulty upon his thousand heads; and Shiva, by crushing this dust, performs the act of smearing his body with ashes.

You are the island-city of light that dispels the inner darkness of the ignorant; you are the flowing stream of nectar that acts as a bud of consciousness for the dull-witted; and for those drowned in the ocean of worldly existence, you are the tusk of the Boar (Lord Vishnu) that saves them.

Other than You, the host of gods grants boons of fearlessness with their hands, but You alone do not need to perform such gestures. O Shelter of the worlds, your very feet are sufficient and skilled to protect from fear and to grant fruits even beyond one's desires.

Having worshipped You, who bestows prosperity upon your devotees, Hari (Vishnu) once transformed into a woman and caused even the destroyer of the cities (Shiva) to become agitated. Even the God of Love (Manmatha), having bowed to You, becomes capable of causing delusion even in the minds of great sages, using a form that is a feast for the eyes of Rati.

Your bow is made of flowers, your bowstring is a line of bees, your five arrows are blossoms, the spring is your commander, and the breeze from the Malaya mountains is your chariot. Even so, O Daughter of the Himalayas, by receiving a mere glimpse of grace from your side-long glance, the formless one (Manmatha) conquers this entire world.

May She, who wears a jingling girdle, who is slightly bent due to the weight of her breasts which resemble the young elephant's frontal globes, who has a slender waist and a face like the full autumn moon, and who holds in her hands the bow, arrows, noose, and goad, appear before us—the supreme manifestation of the Destroyer of Cities.

In the middle of the ocean of nectar, surrounded by a grove of celestial trees, on the Isle of Gems, in a house made of wish-fulfilling gems, and in a forest of Nipa trees, upon a couch which is Lord Shiva Himself—the fortunate few worship You, the wave of Consciousness and Bliss.

Rising from the Earth in the Muladhara, passing through the Fire in the Manipura, the Air in the Svadhisthana, and the Ether above in the heart, and piercing the Mind in the space between the eyebrows—having broken through all the paths of the Kulakundalini, You revel with your Lord in the thousand-petaled lotus (Sahasrara).

With torrents of nectar flowing from your pair of feet, drenching the entire universe, and again returning to the source of the essence of reality, You reach your own abode, coiled like a serpent, and sleep in the cavity of the Kula-kunda.

The angles of your abode are formed by four Shiva-conch (Shri-kantha) triangles and five Shakti triangles, manifesting as the nine original Prakritis of Shambhu, along with the forty-four internal corners, eight petals, and the three circles and three lines.

O Daughter of the Snowy Mountain, even the greatest poets like Brahma and others can only attempt to measure your beauty with great difficulty. By merely desiring to behold it, celestial damsels attain with their minds that state of union with Girisha (Shiva), which is otherwise difficult to achieve even through penance.

Even an old man, devoid of eyes (blind or unattractive), and dull in playful conversations, once he falls under the glance of your side-long look, is pursued by hundreds of young women—their hair-braids slipping, their garments falling from their breasts, and their girdles breaking suddenly.

Fifty-six rays in the earth, fifty-two in the water, sixty-two in the fire, fifty-four in the air, seventy-two in the ether, and sixty-four in the mind—above all these manifestations shine your pair of lotus feet.

Pure as the autumn moonlight, adorned with the crescent moon on her matted hair, holding in her hands a rosary, a book, and displaying the mudras of granting boons and dispelling fear—how could speech that rivals the sweetness of honey, milk, and grapes fail to reside in the hearts of the virtuous who have bowed to you even once?

Those virtuous ones who contemplate you as the radiant crimson light that warms the lotus-forest of the hearts of great poets, they delight the learned with their profound speech that ripples with the fresh, youthful beauty of the consort of Brahma.

He who meditates on you, O Mother, along with the goddesses Vashini and others—who shine like the luster of moonstone—becomes a creator of great poetry, his words as sweet as the fragrance of the lotus-face of the Goddess of Speech (Saraswati), and delightful in their exquisite phrasing.

He who contemplates your bodily radiance—which flows like the path of the rising sun—as having drenched the entire earth and sky in crimson, finds that even the celestial courtesans, including Urvashi, whose eyes are as shy as those of a frightened forest deer, become subject to his will.

O Queen of Shiva, he who meditates on your form—with your face as the 'Bindu', your pair of breasts below it, and your waist below that—as the aspect of Manmatha (Kama), instantly agitates women; and this is trivial, for he can quickly fascinate the three worlds, which have the sun and moon as your pair of breasts.

He who keeps you in his heart, showering a stream of nectar-like rays from your limbs, like an image carved of moonstone, subdues the pride of serpents just as the King of Birds (Garuda) does, and comforts those afflicted by fever with the nectar-stream of his cool gaze.

The great ones, with minds cleansed of impurity and illusion, perceive your manifestation—slender as a streak of lightning, consisting of the Sun, Moon, and Fire, and resting above the six lotuses—and experience a great wave of supreme bliss.

O Bhavani, the one who desires to pray to you, saying, "O Bhavani, cast your compassionate glance upon me, your servant," at that very moment receives from you the status of union with yourself, whose feet are illuminated by the brilliant crowns of Mukunda (Vishnu), Brahma, and Indra.

I suspect that because you took the left half of Shiva's body and his mind remained unsatisfied, you took the other half as well; for this form of yours, which is entirely crimson, three-eyed, bowed by the weight of your breasts, and adorned with a crown of the crooked crescent moon, is the whole of Shiva.

Brahma creates the world, Vishnu protects it, Rudra destroys it, and Ishvara (Shiva) conceals even this, and then, abiding by the command of your slightly moving eyebrows, Shiva graciously restores everything.

O Shiva, the worship offered to your feet is effectively the worship of the three gods born of the three qualities (Gunas); for indeed, these gods always stand near the jeweled footstool that supports your feet, with their hands folded in salutation and their crowns bowing low.

Brahma meets his end, Vishnu attains cessation, Death (Yama) meets destruction, Kubera perishes, and even the host of Indras, with their eyes closed, find their end. In this great dissolution, O Virtuous One, your Lord (Shiva) alone sports in eternity.

May my every action—my chatter, my work, the forming of mudras, my walking, my circumambulation, my eating, my offering of oblations, my prostrations, and my resting—be considered as acts of devotion to you, as I live with the perspective of total self-surrender.

Even after tasting the nectar that conquers the terror of old age and death, the gods like Brahma and Indra eventually perish. That the poison swallowed by Shiva did not cause his death is solely due to the greatness of your auspicious ear-ornaments (Taṭaṅka).

"Avoid the crown of Brahma in front, stay away from the hard diadem of the slayer of Kaitabha (Vishnu), and mind the crown of the slayer of Jambha (Indra) as you step!"—the words of your attendants as they triumphantly announce your arrival when you rise to greet Bhava (Shiva), who has rushed to your abode, are glorious.

He who constantly meditates on You as "I am She," being served on all sides by the Animadi siddhis (the eight superhuman powers) which have emerged from Your own body, what is the wonder if the great fire of cosmic dissolution performs the rite of waving lights (niranjana) before him, as he treats the prosperity of the Three-eyed Lord (Shiva) as a mere blade of grass?

Lord Pashupati, having accomplished all the worlds through the sixty-four Tantras which are dependent on the production of various fruits and powers, later, due to Your insistence, brought down to this earth this Tantra of Yours, which is independent and capable of fulfilling the sole purpose of human existence (liberation).

Shiva, Shakti, Kama (the god of love), the Earth, the Sun, the Moon, Smara (the god of love), the Hamsa (the syllable 'sa'), the King of Gods (Indra), and following them, the enemies of the demons (Para, Mara, and Hari)—these letters, when joined at the ends with the three Hrllekhas (the seed syllables), become the parts of Your name, O Mother.

Those who, placing the Smara (Klim), the Yoni (Hrim), and the Lakshmi (Shrim)—this triad—at the beginning of Your Mantra, and being eager for limitless and great enjoyment, worship You while holding rosaries of Chintamani beads, and offer hundreds of oblations of ghee into the fire of Shiva—they attain You.

O Divine Mother, I consider Your body to be that of Shambhu, and Your breasts to be the Sun and the Moon, and I regard Your Self as the sinless, nine-fold (Navatman) Reality. Therefore, the relationship of "the remnant and the remainder" exists between You two—who are both equally the embodiment of supreme, blissful, and homogeneous consciousness.

You are the mind, You are the sky, You are the air, You are the fire, You are the water, and You are the earth; when You have transformed into these, there is nothing else. You Yourself, in order to manifest as the universe, assume the form of the young consort of Shiva, who is of the nature of consciousness and bliss.

I salute the supreme Shambhu, who resides in Your Ajna Chakra, possesses the brilliance of millions of suns and moons, and is embraced by the Supreme Consciousness (Yourself) on His side. By worshipping Him with devotion, one resides in that world of light, which is beyond the reach of the sun, moon, and fire, and is free from all darkness.

I worship the Shiva in the Vishuddha Chakra, who is clear as pure crystal and the creator of the sky, and also worship You, the Goddess, whose determination is equal to that of Shiva. By the radiance of both of You, the world shines like a Chakora bird, with its inner darkness dispelled as if following the path of the moonbeams.

I adore the pair of Hamsas (swans) that roam in the minds of the great ones, which are exclusively fond of the nectar of the blooming lotus of consciousness. From their dialogue, eighteen kinds of knowledge arise, and they extract only the essence of virtue from vice, just as a swan separates milk from water.

I adore that Samvarta (fire of destruction) and the great Samaya (Goddess) who resides in Your Svadhishthana Chakra, ever absorbed in the fire element. When the world is burnt by the brilliance of Her gaze, which is filled with divine anger, Your mercy-moistened glance serves as a cooling remedy.

I meditate upon Your dark cloud-like form, which is the sole refuge of the Manipura Chakra. It is accompanied by Shakti, whose brilliance acts as an enemy to darkness, and it is adorned with ornaments of glittering gems that appear like a rainbow. It showers grace upon the three worlds, which are scorched by the sun of Hara (Shiva).

I meditate upon the nine-fold form (Navatman) in Your Muladhara, along with Samaya, who is intent on the Lasya dance, and who performs the great Tandava dance with the nine emotions. By these two, who are compassionate and intent on the creation of the universe, this world was born, having a father and a mother.

Second Part - Soundarya Lahari He who describes Your golden crown, O Daughter of the snowy mountain, which is densely studded with gems that have attained the brilliance of suns and moons...

...does he not create the notion that the crescent moon resting there is merely a reflection of the rainbow, which is the bow of Indra?

May Your mass of hair, O Divine Mother, which is dark, thick, smooth, and rivals a forest of fully blossomed blue lotuses, dispel our darkness. I believe that the gods of Indra’s garden dwell in it to attain its natural, exquisite fragrance.

May the parting line of your hair, which is like a flow of the river of beauty from your face, bestow welfare upon us. Bearing the vermilion mark, it looks like a ray of the rising sun held captive by the multitudes of darkness represented by your thick, dark tresses.

Your face, surrounded by naturally curved locks of hair that resemble swarms of bees, mocks the beauty of the lotus. When you smile slightly, your teeth shine like lotus filaments, and the bee-like eyes of Shiva (the destroyer of Cupid) become intoxicated by their fragrance.

I consider your forehead, which is pure and radiant with beauty, to be a second crescent moon fixed upon your crown. By their union, combined with the mixture of nectar-like grace, they manifest the appearance of the full moon.

O Uma, your slightly curved eyebrows, which are accustomed to relieving the fear of the world, hold the bow of Cupid in your hands. To me, it seems as if you are holding that bow, while your wrists and fists conceal its inner mysteries.

Your right eye, being of the nature of the sun, gives birth to the day, while your left eye, being of the nature of the moon, creates the night. Your third eye, with the luster of a partially bloomed golden lotus, manifests the twilight that exists between the day and the night.

Your gaze is vast (Vishala), auspicious (Kalyani), clearly radiant (Sphutaruchi), unconquerable like the blue lotus (Ayodhya Kuvalaya), a flowing stream of compassion (Kripadhara), indescribably sweet (Madhura), and rich in enjoyment (Bhogavatika). O Mother, your glance, which excels in expanding over many cities, truly deserves to bear these names (of the famous cities).

Seeing your ear-ornaments, which resemble young bees drawn to the nectar of the literary compositions of poets, and your eyes, which are restless with the tasting of nine sentiments (Navarasa), your forehead-eye (the third eye) appears slightly reddened out of jealousy.

O Shiva, your gaze is filled with passion for your Lord, full of disdain for others, angry toward the Ganga, filled with wonder at the deeds of Shiva, fearful of his snakes, motherly toward the beauty of lotuses, smiling toward your companions, and compassionate toward me, O Mother.

O daughter of the Mountain King, these two eyes of yours, which have lashes that reach your ears like wings and are capable of subduing the agitation of the Destroyer of Cities, display the charm of Cupid’s arrow being pulled back to the ear.

O beloved of Ishana, your three eyes, distinguished by three colors due to the mixture of playful collyrium, shine like the three Gunas—Rajas, Sattva, and Tamas—ready to recreate the gods Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva after they have merged into dissolution.

O Mother whose heart is subservient to Shiva, to purify us, you bring together the holy confluence of three rivers—the Red (Son), the White (Ganga), and the Dark (Yamuna)—through your eyes, which possess the radiant colors of red, white, and black.

O daughter of the Mountain King, the wise say that the world undergoes dissolution and creation by the closing and opening of your eyes. I suspect that your eyes remain ever-open (without blinking) specifically to protect this entire universe from dissolution.

O Aparna, fearing the betrayal of your eyes which act like ears, the fish (Shapharika) in the water hide themselves and never blink. Likewise, the Lakshmi of the blue lotus, fearing those eyes, closes its petals at dawn and opens them at night.

O Shiva, with your long, slightly bloomed blue-lotus-hued eyes, please bathe me, the distant and miserable one, with your compassion. By this, I shall become blessed, and there will be no loss to you, just as the moonlight falls equally upon the forest and the palace.

O daughter of the Mountain King, whose two sides of the face are gracefully curved, to whom do they not inspire curiosity about the bow of Cupid? The side-glance that extends horizontally beyond the path of the ears suggests the action of fixing an arrow to the bowstring.

I consider Thy face, with the pair of earrings reflected in the expansive luster of Thy cheeks, to be the four-wheeled chariot of Manmatha (the God of Love). Mounted on this, the great hero Cupid, having made the earth his chariot and the sun and moon his wheels, sets out to conquer the Lord of the Pramathas (Shiva).

Oh Mother, when Saraswati, the Goddess of Speech, continuously drinks the nectar-like stream of Thy sublime words through the hollows of her ears, the rows of her earrings, agitated by the nodding of her head in wonder, seem to answer Thee with their bright and resonant tinkling.

Oh Flag of the Himalayan dynasty, may this nose of Thine, which resembles a bamboo shoot, bring us the appropriate fruit of our prayers. It carries pearls within it—perhaps born of the cooling moon-like breath—and by its abundance, it also bears pearls on the outside, as if revealing its inner nature.

Oh You with beautiful teeth, I shall speak of a comparison for the luster of Thy lips, which are naturally crimson. Let the coral creeper produce its fruit; how could it, even with a small fraction of its beauty, dare to be compared with Thy lips, which are not just red, but shine with the reflection of the light from Thy own teeth?

The Chakora birds, having drunk the moonlight of Thy smiling face, found their beaks stiffened by the excessive sweetness. Therefore, they now drink the cool nectar-stream of the moon at night, treating it as mere sour gruel in comparison.

Oh Mother, Thy tongue, which is the color of the Japa flower and incessantly chants the praises of Thy Lord, reigns supreme. Upon its tip sits Saraswati, whose crystal-pure form transforms into that of a ruby by the radiance of Thy tongue.

Oh Mother, when the gods—Indra, Upendra, and the others—return from battle after defeating the demons and stripping them of their armor, they do not care for the ritual offerings left before the Destroyer of Tripura. Instead, they vanish while enjoying the mouthfuls of betel leaves offered by Thy mouth, which are fragrant with camphor as white as the moon.

As Thou began to utter words of praise, moving Thy head in approval while Saraswati sang of the various deeds of Pashupati (Shiva) on her lute, the sweetness of Thy words made the sounds of her lute seem dull by comparison, causing her to quietly cover her own instrument with a cloth.

Oh Daughter of the Mountain, touched by the Himavan out of affection and lifted repeatedly by Shiva out of his eagerness to drink from them, how can we describe the peerless beauty of Thy chin, which is the very handle of the mirror of Thy face?

Thy neck, bristling with delight from the constant embrace of the Destroyer of Cities, bears the splendor of the stalk of a lotus-face. Beneath it, the garland of pearls, inherently white but darkened by the thick musk paste, assumes the delicate grace of a lotus fiber.

Oh Expert in rhythm, melody, and song, the three lines on Thy neck are like the boundaries regulating the three musical scales (Gramas), which are the sources of various sweet ragas, and they also stand as witnesses to the auspicious wedding necklace tied around Thy neck.

The Creator (Brahma) praises the beauty of Thy four arms, which are as soft as lotus stalks, with his four faces—perhaps out of fear of the teeth of the Slayer of Andhaka (Shiva), or perhaps because he wishes to offer protection to all four heads simultaneously.

Oh Uma, how can we describe the radiance of Thy hands, which put to shame the color of fresh lotus blossoms with the light of their nails? If the lotus could attain any parity with them, it would only be if it were stained by the lac-dye from the feet of the playful Goddess Lakshmi.

Oh Devi, may Thy pair of breasts, which are always flowing with milk and are drunk by both Skanda and the Elephant-faced one (Ganesha), perpetually remove our sorrows. Seeing them, the ever-mischievous Ganesha, his heart filled with doubt, quickly touches his own tusks with his hand.

Oh Banner of the Mountain King, there is no doubt in our minds that these two breasts of Thine are two ruby vessels of nectar. For, the two youths—the Elephant-faced one and the Slayer of Krauncha—who drink from them remain even now, despite their maturity, entirely innocent of the desires associated with wedded life.

O Mother! Upon your breasts, there shines a beautiful string of pearls, created from the pearls of the elephant-heads of the demons (slain by your consort). Mingled with the crimson glow of your Bimba-like lips, this necklace appears as if it were the fame of the Destroyer of Tripura (Shiva), mixed with your own prowess.

O Daughter of the Mountain! I believe that the milk flowing from your breasts is verily an ocean of nectar that has transformed into the essence of knowledge (Saraswati). A Dravidian child (referring to the author), having tasted this milk granted by your compassionate self, became a delightful poet among the most learned.

O Daughter of the Mountain! When the God of Love (Manmatha) was consumed by the flames of Shiva's anger, his body took refuge in the deep lake of your navel. From there, he emerged as a creeper of smoke, which people, O Mother, mistake for the line of hair (Romavali) on your abdomen.

O Shiva! That which shines slightly in your slender waist, appearing like the thin, wavy line of the river Yamuna, is perceived by the wise as space itself, which, having become extremely subtle due to the intense pressure between your two pot-like breasts, has entered the hollow of your navel.

O Daughter of the Mountain! Your navel is the whirlpool of the river Ganga, the basin for the creeper of your hair-line, the sacrificial pit for the fire of the God of Love, the pleasure-house of Rati, and the secret gateway to the attainments of the sages; it shines supreme.

O Daughter of the Mountain! Your waist, naturally slender and weary under the weight of your breasts, appears as if it might break at any moment. May that waist of yours, which is the ornament of all women and possesses a stability comparable to a tree growing on a broken riverbank, remain forever auspicious.

O Devi! Your breasts, which cause your bodice to tear as they are constantly damp with perspiration and rub against your armpits, resemble golden pots. To protect them from breaking, the God of Love has bound your waist in three places, as if with three creepers of the Lavali plant.

O Parvati! The Lord of Mountains (Himalaya), taking the heaviness and breadth from his own slopes, bestowed them upon you as a gift. That is why this expansive and heavy slope of your hips covers the entire earth and makes it appear light in comparison.

O Daughter of the Mountain! Your two thighs surpass both the trunks of noble elephants and the stalks of golden plantain trees. O Knower of the Dharma, your two knees, hardened by bowing to your Lord, verily resemble the two frontal globes of the celestial elephants.

O Daughter of the Mountain! To conquer Rudra (Shiva), the God of Love (who carries a bow of flowers) fashioned your two shanks as two quivers containing double-arrows. At the tips of these, your feet appear like ten arrowheads, sharpened on the whetstone of the crest-jewels of the gods.

O Mother! Place upon my head those feet of yours, which the Vedas carry upon their crests. The water used to wash those feet is the river flowing from the matted locks of Pashupati (Shiva), and the red luster of their soles outshines the radiance of Hari’s (Vishnu's) crest-jewel.

We offer our salutations to that pair of your feet, which are a delight to the eyes and adorned with bright-red lac. The Lord of all beings (Shiva) envies them intensely, for he desires to strike them against the Kankeli tree in the pleasure garden (to make it bloom).

When you strike your lotus-like feet against the forehead of your husband, who is bent low in shame after accidentally uttering another woman's name, the sound of your anklets rings out as if it were a joyous laugh from the Destroyer of Tripura, who has finally uprooted the long-standing thorn of his burning (passion).

O Mother! Is it any wonder that your feet, which are the sole refuge for those seeking the grace of Lakshmi, are superior to the lotus? The lotus is destroyed by the cold (snow/winter) and sleeps at night, whereas your feet are ever-bright, even in the darkness of night, and are the dwelling of prosperity.

O Devi! Your feet are the abode of fame and the destroyer of misfortunes. How is it that the wise have compared them to the hard shell of a tortoise? Or, how did the Destroyer of Tripura (Shiva), during the time of your wedding, hold them in his hands and place them upon the grinding stone with such a compassionate heart?

O Chandi! The nails of your lotus-like feet, by their brightness, make the radiant moons of the heavenly damsels seem to shrink in shame. To the dwellers of heaven, you offer the fruits (of desires) with the sprout-like tips of your fingers, and to the destitute, you grant auspicious wealth instantly.

May my soul, becoming a bee, drown itself in your feet—which are as delightful as a cluster of Mandara flowers, which constantly bestow upon the needy wealth corresponding to their desires, and which scatter abundant beauty like nectar—so that it may attain the state of a six-legged bee.

O Lady of beautiful conduct! Your pet swans, who seem to have the intention of learning the art of your graceful gait, never leave you; and through the pretext of the jingling of your beautiful jeweled anklets, your lotus feet appear to be teaching them.

Brahma, Vishnu, Rudra, and Ishvara have become the couch-frame; Shiva, with the radiance of his body, has become the bright bedspread. Because of the crimson hue reflected from your glow, the embodied Shringara (Erotic Sentiment) seems to delight the eyes of those who behold it.

Curved in your hair, naturally simple in your gentle smile, delicate like the Shirisha flower in your heart, hard like a stone on your bosom, extremely slender at the waist, and full in the region of your breasts and hips—that unique, crimson compassion of Shambhu reigns supreme for the protection of the world.

The mark (on the moon) is musk, the lunar orb is water-based, and it is packed with camphor-like digits as if in an emerald casket. Therefore, because of your enjoyment, this (casket) becomes empty-hollow every day, and surely Brahma fills it up again and again for your sake.

You are the inner sanctum of the destroyer of Tripura (Shiva); therefore, the worship of your feet is unattainable for those with fickle minds. Indeed, it is by merely staying at the outskirts of your doors—attaining powers like Anima—that the gods led by Indra have obtained unparalleled success.

How many poets do not worship Saraswati, the wife of the Creator? Who does not become a master of Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, through some means or other? But O virtuous one, foremost among chaste women, except for Mahadeva, even the Kuravaka tree is unable to attain the embrace of your breasts.

Knowers of the Agamas call you the Goddess of Speech (Saraswati), the wife of Brahma; the wife of Hari (Lakshmi), and the consort of Hara (the daughter of the Mountain). But you are the fourth state (Turiya), of indescribable and limitless greatness, the Great Illusion (Mahamaya), who makes the whole universe revolve, O Queen of Parabrahman!

O Mother! Tell me, when, at what time, shall I, a seeker of knowledge, drink the water that has washed your feet, which is tinted with the juice of red lac (Alaktaka)? And when shall that water, being the cause of poetry even in the naturally dumb, attain the state of the juice of the betel leaf in the lotus-mouth of Saraswati?

(By your grace) the Creator sports with Saraswati, and Vishnu with Lakshmi, while the wife of Rati (Manmatha) ruins the chastity of others with his beautiful form. One who worships you, even while living long, has his animal-like bonds cut asunder and tastes the essence known as Supreme Bliss.

Offering an Arati to the Sun with the flames of lamps, making an offering of water to the Moon with drops of water from moonstones, and performing the Tarpana for the Ocean with its own water—such is this hymn, O Mother, composed of your own words, offered to you.

Thus ends the Soundarya Lahari, composed by the illustrious Shankaracharya, the disciple of the illustrious Govinda Bhagavatpada, who was a Paramahamsa Parivrajakacharya.

OM TAT SAT