In a land alive with wonder, the air was filled with the calls of many flocks of marvelous birds, their voices echoing across the countryside. Along the riverbanks, pārihadraka trees, their branches heavy and drowsy, cast a reddish hue upon the water’s edge. In the fields where millet grew tall, the sweet singing of young girls lured forth the god of love himself, while gentle breezes scattered clouds of blossoms over meadows bright with flowers. This was a place honored by perfected beings and celestial wanderers, who emerged from their hidden abodes as if the very essence of beauty had descended from heaven and taken form there. Groves of banana trees adorned the land, and at their edges, kinnara couples sang melodious tunes. Flower gardens, pale and fragrant, were stirred by the soft touch of the wind. Here ruled King Lavaṇa, a sovereign of supreme righteousness, born from the noble line of Hariścandra. His radiance upon earth was like the brilliance of the sun. The mountains themselves seemed to wear garlands of his glory, their shoulders pale as if the very peaks of Hara had been shaken and newly adorned. All his enemies had been vanquished—cut down as easily as dry straw—so that even those who bore him no ill will felt a fever of awe at the mere mention of his name. The people cherished the memory of his noble deeds and his generous undertakings, recalling them with the same reverence they gave to the acts of Hari. In the celestial realms, upon the summits of the gods’ mountains, the Apsaras sang of his virtues, their bodies blossoming with delight. Even Brahma’s swans, hearing the songs of the king’s own beautiful consorts—renowned among the guardians of the worlds—echoed these praises out of habit. O Rama, in such a one, whose noble marvels were so extraordinary, not even in dreams was there any trace of misery or sorrow. He was untouched by crookedness, and greed was unknown to him; his steadfast generosity was as constant as the rosary held by Brahma himself. When the lord of day reached the eighth part of his journey, the king would often be found seated in his assembly hall, enthroned upon the lion-seat. There he sat, comfortable and serene, like the moon shining among the stars, while vassal armies entered the hall with great excitement. The beloved women sang sweetly, the kings reclined at ease, and the enchanting music of lutes and flutes filled the air, captivating every heart. Graceful queens waved beautiful fans, and the king’s ministers—wise as the teachers of gods and demons—rested nearby. Important royal affairs were discussed with skill, and expert spies brought news from all regions. At auspicious moments, histories and sacred texts were recited, and bards, bowing before the king, sang holy praises. It was during one such gathering that a magician entered the assembly, his pride evident as he strode in like a rain cloud eager to pour upon the earth. He bowed before the king, whose noble neck rose like a mountain peak, standing at his feet like a fruit-laden tree before a grand mountain. The magician’s manner was restless, greedy for reward, and he addressed the king with words as eager as a bee drawn to a lotus in a joyful breeze. He presented a single wondrous die, resting on the board like the moon upon the earth. With a flourish, he spun the dice-spindle, making the die whirl as if the Supreme Self itself were spinning the seed of manifold creations, like Māyā at play. The king watched, beholding the die radiant with a streak of light, like Indra standing in his celestial chariot, bow in hand. At that very moment, the king, accompanied by his Sindhu vassals, entered the assembly, like a cloud gliding into a sky crowded with stars and planets. A swift and excellent horse followed him, intent on reaching the world of the gods, like Uccaiḥśravas trailing Indra, lord of the ocean. Taking the horse, the magician addressed the king as the ocean might speak to Indra: “O king, this jewel among horses, resembling Uccaiḥśravas, is swift and victorious, as if the wind itself had taken form. My master has sent this horse to you; indeed, the splendor of objects shines brightest when offered by the great.” Having spoken, the magician, like a chataka bird turning to the mountain after the thunder has passed, urged the king: “Mount this excellent horse and roam the world, O Lord, as the sun graces the earth with its radiant splendor.” The king gazed at the horse, pondering the magician’s words, as an eager peacock watches a cloud signaled by thunder. With unblinking eyes, he stood before the horse, his form wondrous as a painting, motionless as if he were a figure set in a painted scene. He lingered, eyes hidden, like a timid mountain facing a stormy sea, absorbed for two moments as if in deep meditation, like a sage free from passion or the awakened one abiding in supreme bliss. No one dared disturb him, subdued by his own majesty—or perhaps, lost in anxious thought. The yak-tail whisks stood utterly still, as if night itself had become motionless, like the hands of the moon frozen in place. The assembly was filled with astonishment, shining yet unmoving, like lotuses whose petals are stilled by the mud. Gradually, the commotion subsided, the thunder of voices fading away like clouds quieting after the rains have ceased.