Having returned to his own city, the king once again took up the rule of his land. Yet, at that very time, he found himself beset by powerful enemies. In his own city, his ministers—men who were strong but wicked, and others with evil intentions—took advantage of his moment of weakness. They seized control of his treasury and his army, stripping him of his sovereignty. Left with no recourse, the king decided to leave his city. Using the pretext of going on a hunt, he mounted a horse and, alone, journeyed deep into the dense forest. There, amidst the quiet woods, he came upon the hermitage of the illustrious sage Medhas. The place was peaceful, free from wild beasts, and graced by the presence of the sage and his disciples. The king stayed there for some time, honored by the sage, wandering here and there within the great hermitage. Yet, as he moved through the tranquil surroundings, his mind remained restless, drawn by lingering attachments. He began to ponder: “The city once protected by my ancestors and by me is now lost. My servants, whose conduct is wicked, may or may not be protecting it righteously. I do not know whether my chief elephant-warrior, brave and ever-proud, now under the power of my enemies, will enjoy any pleasures. Those who always followed me, receiving my favor, wealth, and food, surely now serve other kings. Because of their constant wastefulness and improper spending, the treasury, accumulated with great difficulty, will soon be depleted.” As the king’s thoughts turned over these matters, he happened to see a merchant near the hermitage. Approaching him, the king asked, “Who are you, sir, and what brings you here? Why do you appear so sorrowful and troubled in mind?” Hearing the king’s gentle words, the merchant bowed respectfully and replied, “I am a merchant named Samadhi, born in a wealthy family. But my own sons and wife, greedy for wealth, have acted unrighteously and cast me out. Deprived of my wealth, wife, and sons, I have come to this forest, sorrowful and abandoned by relatives and friends. Here, I do not know what my sons are doing—whether they are well or not—nor do I know about my family or my wife. Are things now secure or insecure in their home? How are they? Are my sons of good conduct or bad?” The king responded, “You have been cast aside by those greedy for wealth—such as sons, wives, and others. Why, then, does your mind still cling with affection to them?” The merchant said, “It is just as you have said—your words about me are true. But what can I do? My mind does not become hard-hearted toward them. By those who, greedy for wealth, have abandoned their filial affection and rejected me, my heart remains attached to them alone, to my wife, my kin, and my own people. I do not understand this, O wise one—even knowing it, I cannot grasp why the heart is drawn with love to relatives, even when they are without virtue. Because of them, I sigh and feel distress; what can I do, that my mind does not become harsh toward those who show me no affection?” At this, the sage Markandeya said, “Then, O brahmin, the two of them—the merchant Samadhi and that best of kings—together approached the sage Medhas. Having greeted him properly, as was fitting, the merchant and the king sat down and began to converse.” The king spoke: “Revered one, I wish to ask you a question—please tell me this: what is it that causes my mind to suffer, being subject to its own impulses? Even after losing my kingdom, I still feel possessiveness toward all its parts; though I know better, I am like one ignorant. O best of sages, what is this? And this man, too, has been deceived by his sons, abandoned by his wife and servants, forsaken by his own people—yet his heart remains bound to them. Thus, both he and I are deeply afflicted; though we see the faults in these matters, our minds are drawn by attachment. So what is this, O greatly fortunate one, this delusion that arises even in the wise? Why does this blindness of discernment, this folly, occur in me and in him?” The sage replied, “Knowledge exists in all living beings within the range of their senses, O greatly fortunate one, but the objects of sense appear to each as distinct. Some living beings are blind by day, others are blind by night; some see equally well by day and night. It is true that humans are knowledgeable, but not exclusively so; for all creatures—animals, birds, and beasts—possess knowledge. The knowledge that humans have is also found in animals and birds; and what they possess, humans have as well—there is a similarity in both. “Even with knowledge, look at these moths: though tormented by hunger, out of delusion they rush into flames, unable to escape destruction. Humans, O tiger among men, are similarly attached to their children out of desire; out of greed, they seek reciprocation—do you not see this? Yet, even so, people are cast into the whirlpool of attachment and the pit of delusion, by the power of the great Māyā, which sustains worldly existence. “Therefore, no wonder should be felt here, for it is the Yogic Sleep of the Lord of the world; this is the great Māyā of Hari, by which the world is thus bewildered. Even the minds of the wise are forcibly drawn by that Goddess, the Blessed One, and the great Māyā bestows delusion. By her, this entire universe, both moving and unmoving, is projected; when she is pleased, she grants boons and becomes the cause of liberation for people. She is the supreme knowledge, the eternal cause of liberation; she is also the cause of bondage in worldly existence, and the sovereign of all sovereigns.” Hearing this, the king asked, “O revered one! Who is that Goddess called Mahāmāyā, whom you speak of? How was she born, and what are her deeds, O twice-born?” Thus, with hearts full of longing and minds seeking understanding, the king and the merchant listened intently to the sage, eager to hear the mysteries of the great Goddess who veils and reveals the truth of the world.