The earth glowed as if it were anointed with saffron, and the directions themselves seemed to blush with the hue of vermilion. A wondrous radiance filled the entire interior of the cosmic egg, shining as if the very shell of creation had become light itself. In the midst of this marvel, a pillar of brilliance began to grow, expanding ever greater in splendor. As the gods beheld this astonishing linga of light, their previous anger toward one another melted away, replaced by awe and wonder. They questioned among themselves, “Has this light, piercing the earth, arisen from the mighty hoods of Śeṣa and the other serpents? Or is it perhaps the sun itself, shining forth as it does at the end of a kalpa, when it is most easily seen? Could it be the result of clouds rubbing together, spreading its glow across the sky? Is this radiance, with its rays, so potent that it overwhelms even the power of our own eyes? Yet, though it blazes, it causes no burning at all.” They marveled further, for by the transmission of its radiance, not only this world but all of existence was suffused with light. They wondered, “From where has this arisen? What is its root, what is its cause? How far does its extent reach—across, above, and in every direction?” Their minds, restless with curiosity, yearned to know the truth of this mystery. Overwhelmed by the weight of such thoughts, and still gazing upon the pillar of light, Govinda—Viṣṇu—spoke with pride: “Truly, a test has now presented itself before us. Of this mass of radiance, whose bounds cannot be discerned, let us see who among us can discover either its root or its tip—of this self-existent light.” Thus, spurred by rivalry, both Brahmā and Viṣṇu became filled with great energy, each determined to surpass the other. Brahmā set forth toward the uppermost reaches, resolved to find the source. Viṣṇu, steadfast in his resolve, assumed the form of a mighty boar. Desiring to discover the root of the pillar, he turned downward, splitting the earth with his powerful snout, filling the space with the harsh sound of his playful grunts. Wherever he went, he found the pillar established in the same manner, unyielding and eternal. As he delved deeper through the fissures of the earth, serpents became visible, gliding through the cracks. He saw the pillar standing like the root-bulb of the golden mountain Meru. From afar, he beheld the earth’s very ankles, steadfast in their burden. There, too, he saw the great frog and the enemy of Madhu. Even the Unmanifest beheld the sustaining power of the earth. Viṣṇu gazed upon the realms of Atala, Vitala, Sutala, and Nitala, beholding the seven nether worlds with his lotus eyes. He passed beyond the city of Bhogavatī, known as Vairocani, his curiosity ever mounting, repeating to himself, “This I have seen, this I have seen.” Yet, even further below, with his powerful snout, he pierced the dense ocean beneath the earth. The earth itself was split, and the ocean was violently agitated by his efforts. For thousands of years, Viṣṇu’s mind wandered in confusion and bewilderment, unable to find the root of the pillar. His hooves were worn down, his fangs broken, and his body battered. Exhausted and panting, his pride now humbled, he realized he had not fulfilled his vow, and, eager to return, he prepared to ascend once more.