O Rama, know that one whose virtues are truly extraordinary is untouched by even a trace of sorrow; not even in dreams does misery touch such a soul. In his heart, there is no room for crookedness or greed, and his generosity is unwavering, steadfast as the sacred rosary that Brahma holds. When the sun ascended and the eighth part of the day arrived, this noble king would sometimes take his place in the grand assembly hall, seated majestically upon the lion-throne. There he sat, serene and radiant, like the moon shining among the stars, while the vassal armies entered the hall, their excitement filling the air. The atmosphere was alive with the sweet melodies of beloved women singing, and the kings reclined at ease, their hearts captivated by the enchanting music of lutes and flutes. The graceful queens, charming in their beauty, waved splendid fans, while the ministers—wise as the teachers of gods and demons—sat nearby, resting in dignity. The ministers skillfully discussed matters of state, and expert spies brought news from distant lands. At auspicious moments, the histories and sacred texts were recited, and the bards, bowing respectfully before the king, sang songs of holy praise. It was then that a magician entered the assembly, his bearing proud, resembling a rain cloud eager to pour upon the earth. He bowed before the king, whose noble neck was high as a mountain peak, standing at his feet like a fruit-laden tree before a splendid mountain. Like a monkey before a tree heavy with shade and fruit, the magician took his place before the king, restless and eager for reward, addressing the king—whose noble bearing was like a lotus—much as a bee might speak to a lotus stirred by a gentle breeze. He presented a single, wondrous die, resting on the board like the moon upon the earth, and declared, “Behold, O Lord, this marvelous die!” With that, he spun the dice-spindle, causing the die to whirl, as if the Supreme Self itself were spinning the seed of manifold creations, veiled by Māyā. The king watched as the die shone with a streak of light, radiant as Indra in his celestial chariot, bow in hand. At that very moment, the king, accompanied by his Sindhu vassals, entered the assembly like a cloud drifting into a sky crowded with stars and planets. With him came a swift and excellent horse, eager as if to reach the realm of the gods, like Uccaiḥśravas following Indra, lord of the ocean. The magician presented the horse to the king, just as the ocean, possessing Uccaiḥśravas, might offer it to Indra, lord of the winds. “O king,” he proclaimed, “this jewel among horses, swift and victorious, is like Uccaiḥśravas himself, as if the very wind had taken form. My master has sent this horse to you, for gifts from the great shine with special splendor.” Having spoken thus, the magician, like a chataka bird turning to the mountain after the thunder has passed, invited 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 upon the horse, pondering the magician’s words, like a peacock watching the clouds gather, eager for the rain. He stood motionless, his eyes unblinking, as if he were a painted figure come to life. For a moment, he gazed at the horse with its plume-like tail, then stood still, his eyes hidden, like a timid mountain before a stormy sea. He remained thus for two moments, absorbed as if in deep meditation, like a sage free from passion, or one awakened and abiding in supreme bliss. No one dared to disturb him, for his own majesty subdued the assembly; yet perhaps the king himself was lost in anxious thought. In that stillness, only the yak-tail whisks remained motionless, as if the very night had been frozen, the moon’s hands stilled in the sky. The entire assembly was transfixed, shining with astonishment, as motionless as lotuses stilled by the mud. Gradually, the commotion faded, like the thunder of clouds quieting after the rains. The wise ministers, plunged into doubt, grew anxious, like the gods themselves when the demon king, mace in hand, is despondent. The people, bent by wonder and the delusion of worldly life, watched as the king sat unmoving, his gaze fixed, and even the radiance of the lotus grove seemed subdued. After two moments, the king regained his senses, like a splendid lotus emerging from the waters after the rainy season. As he awoke, adorned with armlets and crest-jewel, he trembled while rising from his seat, like a mountain peak shivering in an earthquake. Still half-awake, he sat upon his throne, trembling like Mount Mandara shaken by disturbances in the underworld. His attendants rushed to support him, their arms steadying the king as the ridges of neighboring mountains uphold Mount Meru during the tumult of dissolution. Supported thus, the king, his mind greatly disturbed, wore on his face a luster like the moon agitated by the waves. He wondered to himself, “What is this place? Whose assembly is this?”—his thoughts lingering like a bee uncertain where to settle in the calyx of a lotus. The assembly respectfully questioned him, asking, “O Lord, what is this?”—like a humming bee questioning the sun, or a lotus gazing at the sun after an eclipse. The chief ministers, too, pressed him for an answer, just as the gods once questioned Markandeya, who was shaken by the tumult of dissolution.