Having completed the appropriate rites and relinquished the maintenance of the sacred fires, you should settle into your own true self, casting aside all sense of duality and possession. Be moderate in eating, self-controlled, tireless in your mendicancy; devoted to yoga, avoid entanglement with external objects. In this way, you will attain that yoga which is the remedy for the suffering born of union with pain—a yoga that is incomparable, indescribable, and the very cause of liberation. By this union, remaining unattached, you will not again be bound to the elements. Hearing this, the father humbly asked his son, "My child, explain to me this yoga, the supreme cause of liberation, by which, freed from the elements, I will never again enter such a state. Tell me of that yoga in which, even for one who is still attached, the self is not bound by the fetters of worldly existence, whether in yoga or not. My body and mind are scorched by the burning pain and distress of worldly life; sprinkle me with the cool water of your words, the water of knowledge of Brahman. Bitten by the black serpent of ignorance and tormented by its poison, revive me—who am as if dead—by the nectar of your words. Afflicted by the stupefying elephant of attachment to son, wife, house, and land, quickly free me by revealing the true knowledge of the real and the good." The son replied, "Listen, father, to the yoga as taught by the wise Dattatreya to Alarka long ago, when he was properly questioned in detail." The father then asked, "Whose son is Dattatreya, and how did he teach yoga? Who is this fortunate Alarka who questioned him about yoga?" The son answered, "There was a certain Brahmin named Kaushika in the city of Pratishthana. Because of sins from previous births, he became afflicted with leprosy. Despite his disease, his wife served him as if he were a god—massaging his feet, rubbing his limbs, bathing him, clothing him, and feeding him. She cleaned away his phlegm, urine, feces, and blood, attended to him in private, and spoke to him with affection. Though honored by her and always exceedingly humble, Kaushika, due to his intense anger, harshly rebuked her. Nevertheless, his devoted wife regarded him as her deity; even though he was exceedingly dreadful, she considered him the greatest of all. One day, though unable to walk, Kaushika said to his wife, 'Take me to her dwelling—the courtesan whom I saw on the royal road, who lives in a house. She alone dwells in my heart. The girl seen at sunrise has now arrived at night; after seeing her, she does not depart from my heart. If that beautiful woman, with full hips and breasts, does not embrace me, O slender one, you will surely see me dead. Desire is fickle among men, and she is sought by many; my inability to go makes the path seem difficult to me.' Hearing her husband's words, overwhelmed by desire, his wife—born in a noble family, greatly fortunate, and devoted to her husband—tied up her garments, took extra payment, and, carrying her husband on her shoulder, set out gently. At night, with the sky covered by clouds and flashes of lightning, this twice-born woman, wishing to please her husband, walked along the royal road. On the path, impaled on a stake, was a thief, suspected of theft; Māṇḍavya, suffering greatly in the darkness, was there, that twice-born. As Kaushika's wife passed by, carrying her husband on her shoulder, Māṇḍavya, angered by the pain in his feet, spoke out, 'By whom I have been so greatly distressed and shaken by the feet, and have reached this terrible condition—that sinful, vile man—at sunrise, he will lose his life, without doubt; merely by seeing the sun, he will meet his destruction.' Hearing this dreadful curse upon her husband, the wife, distressed, declared, 'The sun will not rise.' Then, because the sun did not rise, night continued unbroken; for many days this persisted, and the gods became fearful. Without the rising of the sun, there was no recitation, no oblations, no offerings to ancestors and gods—how could this not bring destruction to the world? Without the division of day and night, the months and seasons could not come to an end; and without their completion, the southern and northern courses would not be known. And without knowledge of these courses, how could the year, which is time itself, be understood? Without the year, no other knowledge of time proceeds. By the word of the devoted wife, the sun did not rise; and without sunrise, acts such as bathing, giving gifts, and others were not performed. Without the movement of fire, the performance of sacrifices was not observed; nor did the course of the world proceed without the offering of oblations. The gods reflected, 'We too are nourished by mortals with proper shares of sacrifice; and with rain, we favor mortals for the attainment of crops and the like. Mortals worship us with sacrifices using the plants they have produced; and being honored by sacrifice and the like, we grant them their desires. We send rain down below, and mortals offer upwards; for we with water, and humans with oblations, each offer in their own way. Those wicked ones who do not offer us the regular and occasional rites, but greedily consume the sacrificial portion themselves—for the destruction of such sinful wrongdoers, we corrupt their water, sun, fire, wind, and earth. By consuming corrupted water and the like, for those who perform evil deeds, fierce calamities arise, leading to death.