He ruled his kingdom with righteousness, caring for his subjects as tenderly as a father would his children. Though engaged in many royal duties, his mind was ever absorbed in meditation upon the essence that unites all the gods. In time, this wise king chose to relinquish his throne, leaving behind his royal life to seek the hermitage of the sage Pulastya. There, he embraced the path of an ascetic and devoted himself wholly to the worship of Viṣṇu. Each morning, after bathing in pure waters, he performed his daily rituals with care. Then, arriving at the hermitage, he would offer worship to Vāsudeva, Lord of the universe, using fruits, flowers, tulasi leaves, and clear water. One day, after his morning bath, his mind intent and focused, he felt a thirst and went to the riverbank to drink. As he was about to finish drinking, a sudden roar of a lion startled him, causing him to leap up onto the bank. In the confusion, he was swept away by the river’s current, engulfed by its waves. At that moment, a pregnant deer, frightened and in pain, miscarried as her body was tossed high by the waters. The royal ascetic, witnessing the deer’s suffering and distress, was deeply moved. Compassion awakened within him, and he began to care for the orphaned fawn, tending to it day by day. He wandered the outskirts of the hermitage, gathering grass from the thickets for the young deer. Each morning he would venture far to find food, and each evening he would return to the hermitage. The deer would wander near and far, and the king, having abandoned his kingdom, sons, and all his relatives, devoted himself to its care. He would often worry, “Has a wolf devoured him? Was he struck down by tigers? Or did a lion kill him?” Yet whenever the deer returned, he would greet it with a face bright with joy and affection, always remaining by its side. As time passed, the king’s life drew to its end. At the moment of his death, his gaze rested upon the deer, and thus he departed from this world. Because the memory of his previous birth still lingered, his mind was agitated by worldly attachments. Sustaining himself on dry grass and leaves, he cast off his body and was reborn as a twice-born—one who remembered his former life. In this new birth, he was endowed with all knowledge, understanding the true meaning of the scriptures. Through self-attained wisdom, he knew both the beginning and the end of things. Though his initiation was performed, he did not recite the teachings given by his teacher. Even when addressed repeatedly, he spoke only a few dull words. His body was misshapen, and his garments were soiled. He knew that honor brings great loss to the power of yoga, and so, as a yogi, he acted without corrupting the dharma of the virtuous. Reflecting on the words of Hiranyagarbha, the great-minded one lived simply, eating coarse grain cakes, vegetables, wild fruit, and seeds. When his father passed away, he remained with his brothers, cousins, and relatives. His limbs were rough and swollen, and he performed his tasks sluggishly. Such a person, lacking refinement, behaved in a manner unbefitting a Brahmin. In the end, the king, now mounted on a palanquin, resolved to depart once more. He pondered deeply: “What is the highest good in this world, which is mostly full of suffering for people?