The sage, once a mighty king who had renounced his royal pleasures and prosperity, found his heart captivated by a gentle fawn. He would often imagine the deer returning safely from the forest, delighting him by scratching its neck with the tip of its horn. The sage would gaze fondly at the blades of grass whose tops had been nibbled by the deer’s teeth, admiring how they shone beautifully, like singers in a choir. When the fawn was away for a long time, the sage’s mind was restless, absorbed in thoughts of its well-being. But whenever the deer was nearby, his face would light up with joy and pleasure. This deep attachment disturbed his meditation, even though he had once abandoned all worldly wealth and pleasures. The king’s steadfastness became as unsteady as the wandering deer itself, his riches now as distant as a creature roaming far from home. As time passed, the young deer came to observe the king as a son watches his father, learning from his conduct. Eventually, as the king neared the end of his life, his mind was wholly absorbed in the deer; he saw nothing else, thought of nothing else. Thus, at the moment of death, his consciousness fixed on the deer, he was reborn as a deer in the great forest along the Jambu path, retaining the memory of his previous life. Troubled by the suffering of worldly existence due to this remembrance, the deer left its mother and made its way to Shalagrama. There, sustaining itself on dry grass and leaves, it atoned for the karma that had led to its birth as a deer. When its deer body was cast off, it was reborn into a pure and noble family of yogis, devoted to good conduct, still retaining memories of its past birth. Gifted with profound knowledge and understanding of the true meaning of all scriptures, the sage perceived the self as distinct from nature. With this realization, he saw all beings, from gods to humans, as non-different from himself, his mind unified and vast. Though he underwent the sacred thread ceremony, he did not recite what his teacher had taught, nor did he perform rituals or study the scriptures. Even when spoken to many times, he replied little, and his words were rustic and unrefined, lacking the polish of formal training. His body was emaciated, his garments soiled, and his mouth and teeth unclean; the townspeople despised him, seeing only his outward appearance. Yet, it is known that when a yogi is honored, it can harm the power of yoga; but when disregarded, the yogi attains success in yoga. Thus, the sage did not stray from the path of virtue, even when scorned by others, for they could not reach the state he had attained. Reflecting on the teachings of Hiranyagarbha, the great-minded sage presented himself among people as a dullard or madman. When he obtained grains, pulses, sesame, rice, roots, wild fruits, or seeds, he would eat them in abundance, but always with restraint and at proper times. After his father passed away, his brothers, cousins, and relatives made him work in the fields and other tasks, sustaining him with coarse food. Though his limbs were thin and he acted as if dull, he performed all tasks for the benefit of others, receiving only food as his wage. The chamberlain, seeing him in such a state—unrefined and behaving like a non-Brahmin—prepared him as a sacrificial animal for the goddess Kālī on the king's order. At night, after adorning him according to the rites for a Vaiśasa sacrifice, the goddess Mahākālī, recognizing the presence of the Yogeshvara, took her place. Then, in the night, she took up a sharp sword and, together with her attendants, cruelly severed the chamberlain’s neck and drank his blood. After this, when the great-souled king of Sauvīra set out, the collector of forced labor considered the sage fit for such work. Covered with ashes like fire, the sage was seen as suitable for labor, given his unrefined state and non-Brahmin behavior. The king, determined to go, mounted his palanquin and proceeded to the hermitage of the sage Kapila on the bank of the Ikṣumatī river. He wished to ask the great sage Kapila, who knew the dharma of liberation, about the highest good in this world, so full of suffering for men. Urged by the collector, the sage joined the other men pressed into forced labor and carried the king’s palanquin. Though the Brahmin was the sole vessel of all knowledge and remembered his past births, he took up the palanquin, wishing for the destruction of his sin. He moved with the slow gait of an old man, looking only momentarily at a time, while the others, wise and strong, went quickly. The king, noticing the uneven movement of his palanquin, called out, “What is this? Carry the palanquin evenly, bearers!” Again, seeing the palanquin move unevenly, he asked, “What is this? Why are you not carrying it properly?” Hearing the king’s repeated complaints, the bearers replied, “This one is going slowly.” The king questioned him, “Are you tired from carrying my palanquin only a short distance? Or are you unable to bear the effort, though you appear strong?” The sage replied, “I am not strong, nor am I the one carrying your palanquin. I am not tired, nor do I feel any strain, O king.” The king insisted, “You are seen to be strong, and the palanquin is indeed upon you now. For embodied beings, fatigue does arise from bearing a load.” The sage responded, “O king, what you see directly in me—whether I am strong or weak—should be spoken of as a quality of cattle, not of the self.” He continued, “If the palanquin belongs to you and is placed upon you, even so, this is mistaken; but listen to my words on this matter.