Let me weave for you the tale as revealed in these verses. I entered a realm that felt like a second sky, an eighth ocean, or a fifth sea—yet it was dry, hollow, and empty, devoid of any moisture or substance. The place spread out before me like the mind of a wise man, vast and unfathomable, yet it could flare up in anger as swiftly as a fool. It was untouched by human presence, barren of grass or sprouts—nothing had ever been born there. Upon reaching that great forest, my mind grew weary and desolate, as a woman might feel when confronted by poverty, with no food, fruit, or kin to comfort her. The quarters of this land were flooded with mirages, illusions of water shimmering in the desert. There, sinking down, I spent a day without sunlight. Traversing that forest was a struggle, filled with difficulty and fatigue, much like a discerning person crossing the empty expanse of worldly existence—void and challenging. After enduring that day, exhausted, I reached a vast wilderness, as the sun, after wandering through empty space, finally arrives at the peak of the western mountain. Within groves thick with jambu and kadamba trees, birds burst forth in lively chatter, reminiscent of travelers joyfully conversing among friends. On the ground, rows of grass blades appeared, unbroken, like fleeting joys in the crooked heart of one favored by fickle fortune. Compared to the earlier forest, this place was somewhat more pleasant; for among creatures, disease is preferable to the utter misery of death. There, I reached the base of a jambīra grove, as Markandeya once approached Indra after wandering alone upon the one great ocean. I grasped a vine clinging to a branch, as a parched mountain would embrace a dark raincloud. As I hung upon this vine, the horse with me departed, just as accumulated misdeeds leave a person who takes refuge in the sacred Ganga. Weary from my long and difficult journey, I rested there, like the sun pausing at the base of the western mountain, beneath the wish-fulfilling tree. As the sun, carrying the burdens of all worldly affairs, settles to rest upon the slope of the western mountain, so did I find repose. Gradually, darkness enveloped the world and night’s activities began in the wilderness. In a hollow of sparse, thin grass, I hid myself, utterly weary, like a bird in its own nest. Misfortune had deprived me of discernment; my hopes were cut off and memory slipping away, leaving me like a wretched man sold into bondage, or one sunk in a dark pit. Immersed in delusion, a night passed for me that felt as long as an age, like the sage Markandeya tossed upon the single ocean. I did not bathe, nor stand up, nor eat; the night simply passed as I bore the burden of my misfortunes. Sleepless, restless, trembling along with the leaves, the night dragged on, extending my suffering. Then, as streaks of darkness faded and the stars and moon withdrew, my own face grew pale and weary. The howls of jackals in the wild subsided, as did the chattering of teeth from the cold among those suffering. I saw the eastern direction in the morning, glowing red as if flushed by wine, as if she laughed at me, sunk within myself. In a moment, I beheld the sun rising towards the sky’s gateway, as knowledge appears to the ignorant or gold to the poor. Rising up, I struck my shield, like one enamored with the dance of twilight, striking an elephant hide with a stick. I set out to roam that vast wilderness, as time moves through the world-house, consuming its beings as if by the fire of dissolution. In that ancient, desolate jungle, nothing living was seen—just as in the body of a fool, only a trace of virtue is found. Only birds, fearless and restless in their wandering, uttering their cīcī and kūcī sounds, moved about there. When the sun had ascended an eighth part of the sky, I saw the vines as if freshly bathed, with only a trace of withered dew upon them. As I wandered, I saw a maiden carrying rice, holding a golden pot of nectar—like Mādhavī seized by a demon. I approached her: she was dark-skinned, her eyes like three stars, clad in pale garments, as the moon approaches the night. “O girl,” I pleaded, “bring me some food quickly in this dire distress; by removing the suffering of the afflicted, prosperity grows. Hunger, growing within me, burns like a black serpent coiled in the hollow of an old tree.” Even as I begged, she gave me nothing at all, just as wealth, though earnestly sought, is given by fortune only to the wicked. Only after a long time, as I followed her persistently, did a little fall to me, as a shadow falls before one who stands. She said to me, “Know me as a chandala woman adorned with necklaces and armlets, fierce as a demoness, with the faces of men, horses, and elephants. O king, by mere asking you will not obtain food from me, just as true nobility is not found in one born outside the village.” Having spoken thus, she departed, stumbling at every step, sinking into the thickets, her words trailing off playfully. She offered, “I offer this food if you become my husband; the world does not grant benefit without mutual affection. Here, my father, a pukkasa, drives the docile ones for slaughter, hungry and dust-covered like a ghoul in the cremation ground.” Such was the strange encounter in that desolate wilderness, where hunger and hope mingled with the shadows of fate.