Skandapurana 1.4.6: adhyāyaḥ 8

Nārada said: / Hearing the words spoken by the heron Nāḍījaṅgha, the king, together with Mārkaṇḍeya, became exceedingly sorrowful.

Seeing that king distressed with tears in his eyes, the sage, sharing his grief, spoke again to the heron on his behalf:

"O fortunate one, having formed hope, we two came into your presence, [knowing you] as long-lived, to learn of Indradyumna, O twice-born one.

His business has not been accomplished, and he wishes to abandon his life-breaths. Having attained supreme dispassion, [he intends to die] by entering fire.

He came to me, and I came to you, yet his desired purpose has not been accomplished. Therefore I swear by you that I will follow him in death.

Good people cannot bear to look upon one who has approached with hope leaving despondent. Therefore, death is better than life.

What was in his heart was requested by him, and promised to him by me, holding you in my heart as a long-lived friend to gain that knowledge.

If I do not accomplish the purpose promised by my life, what use to me now, O friend, is this tainted life that does not fulfill the hope of a supplicant?

To fulfill what has been promised—even slavery in an outcaste settlement, like Hariścandra's—is praised; infidelity to truth is not praised for men.

Friendship is traditionally remembered as being formed within seven steps. What kind of affection for a friend is that which is not seen when he is in sorrow?

Therefore, for the sake of the body of fame, I will surely now resort to fire together with him; this is the truth, O friend.

Permit me, O fortunate one, best of the twice-born, Nāḍījaṅgha; this is my last meeting with you."

Nārada said: / Having heard the words uttered by Mārkaṇḍeya, unendurable like a thunderbolt, he meditated for a moment, and, convinced, spoke to them both:

Nāḍījaṅgha said: / "If this is so, then, O best of sages, restrain this friend now from entering the fire; there is someone who has lived longer than I.

There is an owl named Prākārakarṇa on Śiva's mountain. He will know the ruler of the earth, Indradyumna, without doubt.

Therefore, I will go to that mountain, Śiva's abode, together with you and him, for the fulfillment of our friend's purpose."

Having spoken thus, all three eminent twice-born ones went to Kailāsa, and there they saw that owl residing in his nest.

Having exchanged greetings with him through the honor of a welcome, the heron, being questioned, told him all that was desired by those two:

"You are long-lived; if you know King Indradyumna, then tell us; through that knowledge our purpose will be served, and we shall live."

Thus questioned, that owl, dejected because he could not accomplish his friend's purpose, said: "I do not know King Indradyumna.

Twenty-eight kalpas have passed since I was born on the earth. King Indradyumna has neither been seen nor heard of by me on the earth."

Hearing that, the king was astonished at his extraordinary lifespan; and, though sorrowful, he then asked the cause of that lifespan:

"If your life is such, tell me how it was attained. And how did this exceedingly despicable state of an owl come about?"

Prākārakarṇa said: / "Hear, good sir, how my long life arose from the worship of Śiva, and the despicable state of an owl from the curse of a great sage.

Long ago, I was a brahmin born in the lineage of Vasiṣṭha, renowned as Ghaṇṭa, devoted to Śiva in Vārāṇasī.

Devoted to hearing dharma, having myself heard it in the assembly of the virtuous, I worship the Lord with unbroken bilva leaves.

Neither the mālatī, nor the mandāra, nor the hundred-petaled lotus, nor the mallikā is so dear to the enemy of Madana as the bilva tree.

By a single unbroken bilva leaf placed on Śiva's head, men obtain the religious merit born of a hundred thousand flowers.

Having worshipped the liṅga with unbroken bilva leaves gathered by oneself with faith, one shall dwell in heaven for a hundred thousand years.

Hearing this from the genuine scriptures, I worship the Lord thrice daily with faith, using three leaves of the bilva tree each time.

Then, at the end of a hundred years, the moon-crested Lord was pleased; appearing visibly before me, he spoke to me in a voice deep as a thundercloud:

Īśvara said: / 'I am pleased with you, O best of brahmins, because of your worship with unbroken bilva leaves. Choose what is desired by you, and I will grant it, even if hard to attain.

Great satisfaction arises for me from even a single unbroken bilva leaf, such as does not come from tens of millions of other [flowers].'

Thus addressed by the blessed Śambhu, I chose the boon that was in my mind: 'O God, make me ageless and immortal.'

Then the playful Lord, having said 'So be it' to me without hesitation, vanished from sight, and I experienced great joy.

I then considered myself to have accomplished my purpose on earth. At that very time, however, there was a brahmin of Bhṛgu's lineage,

Pure across three generations, skilled in dice and knowledgeable in the meaning of the sacred syllables. His beloved, devoted wife was renowned as Sudarśanā.

She was exceedingly delighted from beholding the face of her husband; this daughter of Devala was peerless in beauty on earth.

To him, through her, a daughter was born, no different from fire emerging from its kindling stick; when her childhood had ended, she became a young maiden on the verge of youth.

Her father was not able to give away that virtuous daughter to anyone, and she was seen by me at the juncture of ages [between girlhood and youth],

Exceedingly charming with the fullness and sentiment of entering youth, while other childhood traits were being cast off, her form [a blend of girlhood and youth] like mixed sesamum and rice.

Playing with her friends, she seemed the very image of beauty. / Looking at her slender waist, O brahmin, I thought:

“This must be another Creator of peerless skill who fashioned her!” / Instantly, I became the vessel of involuntary emotional states,

Struck sportively with arrows by the God of the Flower-Bow. / Then, with stumbling words, I asked her friend whose [daughter] she was.

She said: “This is the daughter of a twice-born of the Bhṛgu lineage. / Unmarried to anyone as yet, she has come here to play.”

Then, severely wounded by the flower-arrowed [god] with volleys of shafts, / I went, bowed to her father, that eminent Bhṛgu, and begged for her.

Knowing me to be well-matched in character and family, / and seeing me intensely eager, he pledged her to me beforehand by word of mouth according to custom.

Then that daughter of the Bhārgava heard people talking, / saying: “I have been promised to that misshapen brahmin!”

Weeping loudly, she said to her mother: “See what has been done! / My father has committed a grave impropriety by giving [me] to such a bridegroom!

I will stir up poison and drink it, or enter the fire; / it is better, but by no means will I become the wife of a misshapen husband!”

Then the mother, having consoled her daughter, said to the Bhārgava: / “You must not give your daughter to this misshapen man,” persistently pleading.

He, hearing his beloved wife's words and examining the treatises on dharma, [recalled]: / “Even if pledged before, one may take her back if a better bridegroom should arrive;

before the treading on the millstone, the definitive rite is concluded at the seventh step.” / Having thus resolved, the twice-born gave his daughter to another.

When the wedding was to take place on the morrow, I heard all that. / Then, feeling utterly humiliated before my companions,

O noble one, I could not show my face as before. / Afflicted with intense desire, I abducted her that night while she slept.

Taking her to a remote, solitary place, I performed the marriage rite. / By the Gāndharva marriage, I then fulfilled my heart's desire,

enjoying union by force with the maiden who was unwilling. / Then, right the following morning, her father arrived on my trail.

Sighing, surrounded by brahmins, and seeing his daughter married off, / that Bhārgava, enraged, O noble one, then cursed me.

The Bhārgava said: / “Since you have married my daughter according to the way of a night-stalker, / therefore, O sinner, you shall become a night-stalker without delay!”

Being thus cursed, bowing down to him and grasping his feet, / uttering cries of “Alas! Alas!”, with tears in my eyes and a choked voice,

I then said: “Why do you curse me, who am blameless? / Your daughter was granted to me earlier by your own word.

That maiden was wedded by me; the tradition teaches that a gift is made but once. / Kings speak but once; the learned speak but once;

maidens are given but once—these three occur only once. / Furthermore, carrying out what has been promised is the vow of the virtuous.

For good men like you, abandoning it is reprehensible. / Promised by you, she was obtained by me as mine in due time.

Now that I am her wedded husband, I am not a proper recipient of a curse. / You curse me in vain; consider this matter!

That evil-minded man who, having given a maiden by word of mouth, takes her back later, / goes to hell: this is settled in the treatises on dharma.”

Hearing that and resolving in his heart that my words were true, / the sage, filled with remorse, then said to me:

“My word cannot become false; you will become an owl. / An owl too is called a night-stalker, O best of the twice-born.

When you become an aid in the recognition of Indradyumna, / then, O brahmin, you will regain your natural state.” Thus he spoke to me.

Simultaneously with his words, this state of an owl became mine. / For so many days it has lasted, up to the twenty-eighth day of Brahmā.

Because of my former worship of the Moon-Crested [Lord] with bilva leaves, / my life became extremely long; and here on the slope of Kailāsa, through his curse, I took on this despised form of a night-stalker.

Thus ends the eighth chapter, titled 'Description of the Glory of Bilva Leaves' in the Manifestation of the Mahī River, in the Kaumārikākhaṇḍa of the Māheśvarakhaṇḍa, in the glorious Skanda Mahāpurāṇa of eighty-one thousand verses.