Once, a king witnessed a fawn swept away by swift river waves, having just fallen from its mother’s womb. The trauma of miscarriage and the strenuous leap to save her young proved too much for the doe, and, O Maitreya, she collapsed and died. Seeing the lifeless doe, the royal ascetic gently gathered up the helpless fawn and returned with it to his hermitage. Day by day, the king devoted himself to caring for and nurturing the young deer, and under his protection, it began to flourish, O sage. The fawn would wander through the thickets of the hermitage, nibbling on grass, and though it sometimes ventured far, it always returned, fearful of the wild beasts lurking in the forest. Each morning, it would roam into the woods, and each evening, like a well-trained horse, it would return, growing ever more attached to the hermitage of Bharata. Gradually, the king’s mind became wholly absorbed in the fawn, whether it was nearby or far away, and he gave no thought to anything else, O twice-born. Having already renounced his kingdom, his sons, and all his relatives, he now developed a deep and intense affection for the little deer. He would worry anxiously, “Has it been devoured by wolves? Has a tiger or lion struck it down? It has been gone so long and has not returned.” The marks of the fawn’s hooves on the earth brought him joy, and he would wonder, “Where is my beloved fawn?” He would reassure himself, “He will return safely from the forest, delighting me, scratching his neck with the tip of his horn.” Even the blades of grass, their tops bitten off by the fawn’s teeth, seemed to shine with beauty, like singers in a choir. Whenever the fawn was absent for a long time, the sage’s mind was filled with concern; when it was near, his face lit up with joy and contentment. So great was his attachment that his meditation became disturbed, even though he had once renounced all royal pleasures and prosperity. The steadfast king’s spiritual wealth became as unsteady as a wandering deer, slipping farther from his grasp. As time passed, O king, the young deer began to observe the king as a son watches his father, learning from his conduct. Then, O Maitreya, when the king’s final moments approached, his mind was absorbed only in thoughts of the deer. At the time of his death, he thought of nothing else. Because his mind was so fixed at the time of death, he was reborn as a deer, yet retained the memory of his past life. He wandered the great forest along the Jambu path, but, remembering his previous birth, he became distressed by worldly existence. Leaving his mother, he made his way again to Shalagrama. There, subsisting on dry grass and leaves, he lived out his days in atonement for the karma that had caused his birth as a deer. When his deer body was finally cast off, he was reborn with memory of his past lives into a pure and noble family of yogis, devoted to righteous conduct. Endowed with deep knowledge and understanding of the true meaning of all the scriptures, O Maitreya, he perceived the self as distinct from nature. Having attained this knowledge of the self, O great sage, he saw all beings—from the gods onward—as non-different from himself, his mind unified in great realization. Despite undergoing the sacred thread ceremony, he did not recite what the teacher had taught, nor did he perform rituals or study the scriptures. Even when spoken to repeatedly, he replied little, and his words were unrefined, rustic, and lacking the polish of formal education. His body grew emaciated, he wore soiled garments, and his teeth and mouth were unclean; thus, the townspeople despised him. Yet, when a yogi is honored, it diminishes the power of his yoga; but when disregarded by others, the yogi attains success. Therefore, a yogi should never stray from the path of virtue, even if scorned by the world; let people disregard him as they wish, for they cannot attain his state. Reflecting on the words of Hiranyagarbha, the great-minded one presented himself among people as if he were dull-witted or mad. Whenever he obtained grains, pulses, sesame, rice, roots, wild fruits, or seeds, he would eat them in abundance, observing restraint in the timing of his meals. After his father’s death, his brothers, cousins, and relatives made him work in the fields and at other tasks, sustaining him with coarse food. Though his limbs were thin and he acted as if dull, he performed every task for the benefit of others, receiving only food as his wage. One day, the chamberlain, seeing him in such a state—unrefined and behaving unlike a Brahmin—selected him as a sacrificial victim for the goddess Kālī, following the king’s order. At night, he was adorned according to the rites for a Vaiśasa sacrifice, and the goddess Mahākālī, aware that the Yogeshvara was present, took her place. Then, in the darkness, she seized a sharp sword and, together with her attendants, cruelly severed the chamberlain’s neck, drinking the copious blood. Afterwards, when the great-souled king of Sauvīra set out, the collector of forced labor thought, “This one is fit for forced labor.” Covered in ashes like fire, the great-souled one was pressed into service, his unrefined appearance and behavior marking him as suitable for such work. The king, determined to go forth, mounted his palanquin, O twice-born, and set out for the excellent hermitage of the sage Kapila on the bank of the Ikṣumatī river. He wished to ask that great sage, Kapila, who knew the dharma of liberation, “What is the highest good in this world, so full of suffering for men?” Urged by the collector, the great-souled one joined the other laborers and carried the king’s palanquin on its way.