In the beginning, there was this land before me—beautifully adorned with many forests and rivers, as if it were a younger brother to the very globe of the earth. Here, I was king, ruling in harmony with the wishes of my people, much like Indra presides over his heavenly assembly. One day, from afar, a figure named Shambarika appeared. He seemed to rise from the netherworld itself, reminiscent of the magician Maya. In his hands, he spun a wand adorned with peacock feathers, its shining line flashing like Indra’s lightning, whipped by the wind at the end of an age. When this restless, dazzling thing was placed before my horse, my mind was thrown into turmoil. Alone, I mounted my steed. My horse, agitated as if caught in a whirlwind at the world’s end, moved unsteadily beneath me. Driven by confusion, I dashed off alone to hunt, like a wave from the doomsday ocean crashing toward the land. Carried far away by my wind-tossed horse, I became lost—bewildered and dulled by the habitual pleasures of life, just as one’s own mind can lead one astray. My heart was empty and destitute, as unfortunate as the heart of a woman in sorrow, and as terrifying as the desolate abode of a world consumed by dissolution. Exhausted, I arrived at a vast, endless wilderness—there were no birds, only saline mist, no trees, and not a drop of water. It seemed like a second sky, or perhaps an eighth ocean, or a fifth sea—dry and hollow with emptiness. The place was spread wide, like the mind of a wise man; yet it could be swift in anger like a fool. It was untouched by people, and no grass or sprouts had ever been born there. My mind, weary from the journey, felt like a woman facing poverty—with no food, fruit, or kin to comfort her. In that place, with its horizons shimmering with mirages and the illusion of water in the desert, I sank down and spent a sunless day. Passing through this forest was a struggle, as difficult and fatiguing as a discerning soul traversing the void-like expanse of worldly existence. When the day finally ended, I, utterly weary, reached yet another vast wilderness, just as the sun, after wandering through empty space, comes to rest on the peak of the western mountain. There, in groves thick with jambu and kadamba trees, birds chattered lively among themselves, much like travelers rejoicing with friends. Rows of grass blades spread across the ground, unbroken, like fleeting joys in the fickle heart of one blessed by fortune’s whims. Compared to the previous forest, this place was somewhat more pleasant, for among all creatures, disease is preferable to the utter misery of death. There, I found myself at the base of a jambīra grove, much like Markandeya approaching Indra after wandering alone upon the one great ocean. I grasped a vine clinging to a branch, as a parched mountain embraces a dark raincloud. As I held on, my horse departed, just as accumulated misdeeds leave a person who takes refuge in the sacred Ganga. Weary from my long and arduous journey, I rested there, like the sun pausing at the base of the western mountain, beneath a wish-fulfilling tree. As the sun, burdened with all the affairs of the world, settles to rest upon the mountain slope, so too did I find repose. As darkness gradually enveloped the world and the activities of night began in the wilderness, I hid myself in a hollow of sparse, thin grass, utterly weary, like a bird retreating into its own nest. Deprived of discernment by misfortune, with my hopes cut off and my memory slipping away, I was like a wretched man sold into bondage, or one sunk in a dark pit. There, lost in delusion, a single night passed for me, stretching as long as an age—much like the sage Markandeya tossed alone upon the single ocean. I did not bathe, nor stand, nor eat; the night simply passed as I bore the weight of my misfortunes. Sleepless and restless, trembling along with the leaves, I endured that night, which seemed endless in my suffering. Then, as the streaks of darkness faded with the stars and the moon, my face grew pale and weary. The howls of jackals in the wild subsided, as did the chattering of teeth in the cold among those suffering. In the morning, I saw the eastern sky glowing red, as though flushed with wine, and she seemed to laugh at me, sunk into myself. In a moment, I beheld the sun rising at the gateway of the sky, like knowledge dawning upon the ignorant, or gold appearing before the poor. Rising up, I struck my shield, much like one enamored with the dance of twilight, beating an elephant hide with a stick. I set out to roam that vast wilderness, as time itself moves through the world, consuming beings as if by the fire of dissolution. In that ancient, desolate jungle, nothing living was to be seen—just as, in the body of a fool, only a trace of virtue is found. Only birds, fearless and restless, wandered there, uttering their cīcī and kūcī calls. When the sun had climbed an eighth part of the sky, I saw the vines as if freshly bathed, with just a trace of withered dew upon them. As I wandered, I came upon a maiden carrying rice, holding a golden pot of nectar—she appeared before me like Mādhavī, seized by a demon.