After receiving a blessed boon from Shiva, the joyful husband and wife returned home, radiant and resplendent, shining together like Uma and Maheshvara themselves in the heavens. In their home, the Brahmin woman soon conceived, her form full and dark, gleaming in its beauty like a streak of cloud heavy with rain against the sky. As time passed, she gave birth to sons—ten in all—each as tender and luminous as the waxing moon, fresh and innocent like new shoots emerging in the spring. The boys underwent their sacred rites and, as they grew, their strength and brilliance increased swiftly, much like clouds swelling with the onset of the rainy season. By the time they reached seven years of age, they had become learned and wise, their radiance shining forth like spotless planets scattered across the sky. Many years later, their parents, accomplished in the spiritual path, peacefully left their bodies, attaining the state destined for them. Bereft of mother and father, the ten young brahmins left their home behind, journeying far to the lofty peak of Mount Kailāsa. There, troubled in their hearts, they began to ponder together: “What, here in this world, is the highest good?” They discussed among themselves: “Brothers, what is truly proper? What is free from sorrow? What is true greatness, true lordship, or the most auspicious prosperity? How limited is the absence of sovereignty! Even vassals rule for a long time, but what is the wealth of a vassal compared to a king’s? And yet, among kings, the emperor is the greatest. But what of the emperor’s wealth? Indra, king of the gods, is greater still. Yet Indra’s state lasts only for a moment in Brahmā’s day. What then does not perish, even in an eon? That, perhaps, is the true good we should seek.” As they spoke in this way, the eldest brother, wise and deep in speech, addressed the others, as a stag might guide his herd: “Brothers, among all forms of lordship that perish at the end of an age, only the state of Brahmā is worthy of our pursuit. None else appeals to me.” Hearing this, all the brothers—the best among the twice-born—praised their elder: “Well said, well said, O lunar sage!” They then asked, “Brother, how does the lotus posture, revered throughout the world, remove all suffering and lead to the state of Brahmā?” The eldest, radiant with wisdom, replied, “Let all of you, dear brothers, faithfully follow what I have said. Seated in the lotus posture, contemplate with your minds, ‘I am Brahmā, radiant.’ Let your meditation endure: ‘I create, I dissolve.’” Accepting his words with firm resolve, the ten brothers absorbed themselves in meditation, remaining together under their elder’s guidance. Engaged in the work of scribes, their minds turned inward, they respectfully contemplated within: “Seated upon the whorl of a fully blossomed lotus, I am Brahmā—the creator, the maker, the enjoyer, the great Lord of the world. The Vedas, complete with all their rites and sub-rites, united with Sarasvatī and Gāyatrī, are endowed with great powers. This sphere, traversed by the guardians of the worlds and perfected beings, is adorned with exuberant fortune and embellished by the gods of heaven. The earth, blue and encircled like an earring for the three worlds, is beautifully decorated with mountains, islands, and oceans. The cavern of Pātāla is the abode of demons, danavas, and serpents—a deep, hidden world crowded with nectar-drinkers. Indra, mighty-armed and bearing the thunderbolt, alone protects the city of the three worlds, enjoying the offerings of purifying sacrifices. The radiant suns, with their blazing rays, embrace the quarters, shining forth in succession with abundant brilliance. The guardians of the worlds protect the realm with unwavering conduct, maintaining boundaries like cowherds guard their herds. All beings rise, fall, shimmer, and sink in every direction, like waves upon water. I create this world; I dissolve it as is fitting. I abide in myself and become tranquil, the lord of the earth. This year has passed, this age has come to completion; this creation, this time, and this is the period of dissolution. Today this kalpa has ended, and this is the night of Brahma; I remain established in the Self, the complete Self, the Supreme Lord.” Thus, absorbed in contemplation, the ten sons of Indu withdrew from all external activity, standing as if carved from stone. Having attained mastery of the lotus seat, their web of trivial activities dissolved; ever seated, worn by the posture as an elephant is by the goad, they shone for a long time in the imagination of the lotus. In that line of the progenitor, they stood firm in concentration, their minds seized by devotion to their practice. As long as their bodies endured, battered by heat and wind, they withered like severed lotus petals in the summer sun. In time, forest-dwelling carnivores devoured their bodies, which lay scattered like ripe fruit dropped by monkeys. Yet, with external objects pacified and their minds established in Brahman, they remained unmoved until the end of the four yugas, until the closing of the kalpa. As the cosmic cycle waned, the sun blazed fiercely, clouds thundered and poured torrents of rain, and the cosmic winds blew while the great ocean endured—even as the hosts of beings diminished, those ten remained just as they were: steadfast, absorbed, and serene.