After the king had spoken, the magician replied, his manner reminiscent of a chataka bird turning its gaze to the mountain once the thunder of clouds has faded. He invited the king, saying, “Mount this excellent horse and roam the world, O Lord, just as the sun graces the earth with its radiant splendor.” The king’s attention was drawn to the horse, his thoughts lingering on the magician’s words. He watched with the eagerness of a peacock awaiting the arrival of rain, signaled by the rumble of distant clouds. With unblinking eyes, the king—whose beauty was as wondrous as a painting—stood transfixed, his form like a figure set in a painted scene. He gazed for a moment at the horse, its tail plumed like a yak, and then stood motionless, his eyes closed, resembling a timid mountain before the stormy sea. For two moments, he remained absorbed, as if meditating on his own self, like a sage free from passion or an awakened one abiding in supreme bliss. No one dared to rouse him; his own majesty subdued all. Yet perhaps, out of fear, the king was lost in anxious thought. The yak-tail whisks in the hall hung utterly still, as if night itself had become motionless, like the moon’s hands frozen in place. All those assembled shone with astonishment, unmoving like lotuses whose petals are stilled by the mud. Gradually, the commotion in the assembly subsided, like the thunder of clouds quiets after the rains have ceased. The wise ministers, plunged into an ocean of doubt, fell into anxious thought, much like the gods when the demon king, armed with a mace, is despondent. The people, bent by wonder and twisted by the delusion of worldly existence, watched as the king sat with an unmoving gaze; even the radiance of the lotus grove seemed subdued. After two moments, the king regained consciousness, like a splendid lotus freed from the waters of the rainy season. Awakening, adorned with armlets and a crest-jewel, he trembled as he rose from his seat, like a mountain peak shivering in an earthquake. Half-awake, he sat on his seat, trembling, like Mount Mandara shaken when the underworld is disturbed. His attendants rushed to support him, their arms steadying his fall as the ridges of neighboring mountains support Mount Meru when shaken by the tumult of dissolution. Supported thus, the king—his mind greatly disturbed—bore on his face a luster like the moon agitated by waves. He wondered slowly, “What is this place? Whose assembly is this?”—like a bee lingering in the calyx of a lotus, uncertain where to settle. The assembly respectfully asked him, “O lord, what is this?”—as a humming bee might question the sun, or a lotus gaze at the sun after an eclipse has passed. His chief ministers questioned him as well, just as the gods questioned Markandeya, who was terrified by the tumult of dissolution. “O lord, seeing you in such a state, we are utterly distressed; even minds that are steadfast are unsettled by causeless confusion. Among pleasures delightful at first but tasteless at the end, and in the midst of conflicting enjoyments, where has your mind been tossed? Your mind, refined by noble stories, is pure—so why does it now sink into confusion?” They continued, “The mind, relying on trivial and broken supports in worldly affairs, falls into delusion; it does not expand in greatness. For whatever tendency of mind arises continuously, the body, intoxicated with pride, follows that very tendency. Your mind, too, appears remarkable—unblemished, pure, awakened, and captivating in its qualities, resting on nothing trivial. A mind lacking practiced discernment, subject to the influence of place and time, comes under the sway of mantras and medicines, but not one possessed of noble tendencies. How can there be any blemish or defect in one who always possesses discernment? The expanded mind is not disturbed, just as a mountain is not shaken by the wind.” As these words arose, the king’s face shone with radiance, adorning the moon at the end of the month with fullness. He shone with wonder, his eyes wide open, like the god of spring when frost departs and flowers burst forth. With a face weary from amazement and smiling with agitation, he appeared like the moon in the sky beholding Rahu, death approaching nearby. Beholding the illusionist’s display, the king then spoke, as if smiling, just as a serpent, seeing the destructive brown snake, would address it. “O wretch, what is this net you have woven with your matted hair? The ocean, troubled by the thrashing of fish, becomes calm again in a moment. How wondrous and varied are the powers of the Lord’s manifold objects! Even my mind, though strong, has been cast into delusion by them. Where are we, lamenting the endless turns of worldly affairs, and where are these widespread, natural calamities that bring confusion to the mind?” He continued, “Even a mind well-trained in supreme knowledge, while dwelling in the body, sometimes succumbs to delusion for a moment, even among the wise. Now, O assembly, listen to this astonishing tale—what was shown to me here for a moment by the magic of Shambara. In that brief moment, I saw many shifting states of affairs—like the creator Brahma, who brings forth and dissolves worlds in an instant, after Indra’s power is overthrown.” Having spoken thus, with the assembly’s eyes turned toward him, the king, as if smiling, began to describe the marvelous story. “Here, on this earth crowded with various objects—filled with lakes, rivers, mountains, and cities, with peaks and oceans close together—there is a region adorned with prosperity...