His mind, restless and stirred by the waves and whirlpools of enjoyment, grew dull and weary, weighed down by inertia—he was like a tortoise adrift in the vast ocean of worldly existence. Even as he carried out the most demanding royal duties, he seemed to sleep, lost in his own inner radiance, never truly waking from the delusion that shrouds worldly life. Caught in the grip of self-conceit, he thought, “I am the lord, I am the enjoyer, I am accomplished, strong, and happy,” and so he became bound by the endless, powerful rope of attachment, wholly under its sway. So, tell me, O beautiful one, which husband draws you near, just as the wind brings the subtle fragrance of the forest into the heart of the woods? This world, dear child, is of a different nature altogether—it is the hall of the cosmic egg, and all these chains of worldly dealings are of another order entirely. Though these cycles of worldly existence appear close at hand, in truth, they are separated by countless millions of leagues. Behold, before you, all their forms are nothing but pure space; within that space stand countless millions of Meru and Mandara mountains. Within each atom, worlds and creations arise unhindered, shimmering at the edge of great consciousness like motes of light. And yet, even these mighty cosmic eggs, vast as their beginnings may be, do not amount to the weight of a single sesame seed on a scale. Just as the sky shines with the radiance of jeweled mountains and forests, so too does consciousness shine, appearing as the world, though in truth devoid of earth and other elements. What shines forth here is only cognition, taking on names such as “world” and so on; at the beginning of creation, nothing composed of earth or the like truly exists. Just as a river’s waves arise again and again, so too do the various forms and arrangements of this world continually come into being. Thus, O mother of the world, I have now died here; my birth was of the passionate kind, neither of darkness nor of purity. Since the descent of Brahman, I have passed through eight hundred births, and now I see before me the various wombs I have traversed. Within the great cycle of worldly existence, O goddess, I was once a bee in the lotus of another world, and a foremost maiden among the Vidyādharas. Tainted by evil tendencies, I then became a human woman; in another realm, I was the beloved of the lord of Tāṅgaṇa. I dwelled in groves of karañja, kuñja, jambīra, and kadamba trees, clothed in leaves, dark of complexion—I became Śabarī. Living in the forest, simple as the forest itself, I became a creeper; with eyes like guluccha fruits, holding leaves in my hands, I dwelt in the woods. I was that creeper of the holy hermitage, purified by the company of sages; burned by the forest fire, I was reborn as the daughter of that great sage. Through actions that yield the fruits of womanhood, I became a glorious king in Suraṣṭra for a hundred years. Yet, due to the fault of royal misdeeds committed among the palm trees, I became a leprous mongoose for nine years. For eight years in Saurashtra, O goddess, I lived as a cow, enduring the mischief of wicked people and the playful commands of ignorant cowherds. As a bird, I was caught in an enemy’s snare in the forest meadows, and with great suffering I broke free, just as I now sever these desires. I rested with a bee in the lap of a lotus, in beds of unopened buds, secretly enjoying the pollen within. I wandered with a deer of beautiful eyes among lofty mountain peaks, and in the lovely forest clearings, I was struck in the vital parts by a hunter. I beheld, in all eight directions, the ocean’s waves carrying me along, with the sounds of fish, horses, and turtles bursting, neighing, and striking. I drank on the shore of a leathery river, singing sweetly; in delightful union, I freely enjoyed, surrounded by the good and the virtuous. In the groves of palm and tamala trees, with a woman of restless face and eyes, I gazed upon my beloved, intoxicated by the agitation of her glances. With lotus-like thighs shining like streams of gold, the divine bees—the gods—were delighted by the celestial nymph of the heavenly lake. On jeweled and golden ground, strewn with rubies and pearls, in the wish-fulfilling forest of Mount Meru, I enjoyed union with a youthful companion. Long did I remain, like a tortoise, in the caves of the ocean’s shore, amidst the waves and echoing groves. I played as a royal swan, swinging on the stalks of lotuses, in the gentle breeze of the lake, among moving clusters of leaves. Observing the gentle swaying of grass-blade cradles, I saw a weary mosquito lying helplessly with its mate. On the trembling, wave-tossed waters, kissed by the tips of dancing ripples, I wandered with the young water-vine among the mountain streams. Overcome by passion in the fragrant halls of Gandhamadana and Mandara, the young Vidyādhara fell at her feet. Tormented by longing, I lay for a long time on beds sprinkled with camphor, tossed about like moonlight on the orbs of mirrors. With my mind bewildered, rising and falling, my limbs disturbed by the countless forms of suffering in various wombs, I was carried away by the swift current of the long river of worldly existence, driven irresistibly by the wind of fate. From the solid core of adamantine strength, from the dense wall of the cosmic egg stretching over millions of yojanas, how did both of you emerge? Where is the cosmic egg, where its wall, and where is that adamantine solidity? Surely, O goddess, you both remain within the inner sky of the royal palace. In that very mountain village, in that very house, the brahmin named Vasiṣṭha enjoys his sovereignty.