In a pure and noble family of yogis, devoted to virtuous conduct, a remarkable soul was born. This was no ordinary birth—for this being, having cast off the body of a deer in his previous life, entered the world with full memory of his past existence. Endowed with profound knowledge, and a deep understanding of the true meaning of all the scriptures, he perceived, O Maitraya, the self as utterly distinct from nature. With this realization, he saw all beings—from the gods to the humblest creatures—as not different from himself. His mind, vast and unified, embraced all as one. Though he underwent the sacred thread ceremony, he neither recited the lessons taught by his preceptor, nor did he perform rituals or study the scriptures. Even when addressed repeatedly, he replied little, and when he did, his words were rustic and unrefined, lacking the polish of formal education. His body was emaciated, his garments soiled, and his mouth and teeth unclean. This twice-born, despite his noble birth, was despised by all the townsfolk. Yet, when a yogi is honored, it can undermine the power of his yoga; but when disregarded by people, he attains true success in yoga. Therefore, a yogi should never stray from the path of virtue, even if scorned by others, for those who mock him do not share his state. Remembering the words of Hiranyagarbha, the great-minded one presented himself among people as if he were dull or even mad. When he obtained grains, pulses, sesame, rice, roots, wild fruits, or seeds, he would eat them in abundance, but always with restraint and at the proper time. After his father passed away, his brothers, cousins, and relatives made him work in the fields and at other tasks, sustaining him only with coarse food. Though his limbs were thin and he acted as if dull, he performed all the tasks asked of him for the benefit of others, receiving only food in return. Seeing him in such a state—unrefined and behaving unlike a Brahmin—the chamberlain, acting on the king’s order, selected him as a sacrificial victim for the goddess Kālī. At night, after adorning him according to the rites for a Vaiśasa sacrifice, the great goddess Mahākālī, knowing the Yogeshvara was present, took her place. Then, in the darkness, she seized a sharp sword and, together with her fierce attendants, cruelly severed the chamberlain’s neck at its root, drinking the copious blood. After this, when the great king of Sauvīra set out, the collector of forced labor thought, “This one is fit for forced labor.” Seeing the yogi’s unkempt appearance, covered in ashes and behaving unlike a Brahmin, the collector pressed him into service. The king, intent on visiting the excellent hermitage of the sage Kapila on the banks of the Ikṣumatī river, mounted his palanquin. He wished to ask the great sage Kapila, who knew the dharma of liberation, “What is the highest good in this world, so full of suffering for men?” At the urging of the collector, the yogi took up the palanquin, joining the other men who had been pressed into service. Though he was the sole vessel of all knowledge and remembered his past births, he submitted to this labor with the wish that his remaining sins might be destroyed. He moved with the slow gait of an old man, lifting his eyes only for brief moments, while the other bearers, wise and strong, carried the palanquin swiftly. The king, noticing the uneven movement, called out, “What is this? Carry the palanquin evenly, bearers!” Again, as the palanquin rocked unevenly, he repeated, “What is this? Why are you not carrying it properly?” When the king’s complaints persisted, the other bearers replied, “This one is going slowly.” The king turned to the yogi and asked, “Are you tired from carrying my palanquin only a short distance? Or are you unable to bear the effort, though you appear strong?” The yogi answered, “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 replied, “But 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 yogi spoke gently, “O king, what you see in me—whether strength or weakness—belongs to the body, like the qualities of cattle, not to the true self. If the palanquin is yours and placed upon you, even so, this is a mistaken notion. Listen to my words.” “When the feet are placed on the ground, the shanks and feet are in contact with the earth; the thighs are above the shanks, and above them is the abdomen, which serves as their support. The chest and arms, as well as the shoulders, are above the abdomen; the palanquin rests on the shoulders, and thus its burden is borne here.” “This body, which you perceive as situated in the palanquin—if it is spoken of as ‘you’ or ‘I’—that is a misunderstanding. You, I, and others, O king, are all borne by the elements; and this collection of beings, subject to the current of qualities, also passes away.” “These qualities, such as sattva and the rest, O lord of the earth, are governed by karma; and the karma accumulated through ignorance attaches to all beings. The self, however, is pure, imperishable, peaceful, without qualities, and beyond nature. For this self, among all beings, there is neither growth nor decay.” “When there is neither increase nor decrease for that self, O king, then by what reasoning do you say, ‘He is stout or lean’?” “As the palanquin rests upon the shoulders, with the feet, shanks, thighs, abdomen, and so on, so too is the burden borne by you. O king, this palanquin is not borne by you alone, but also by other beings; it may be made from wood, trees, houses, or even from the earth itself.” “When the distinction of the bearer arises from natural causes, O king, that exertion must be endured. How, then, can it be said to be by me?” Thus, the yogi revealed the profound truth of the self, teaching the king through his humble service and wise words, even as the world misunderstood and overlooked his greatness.