There, in my desperate search for survival, I grasped a vine clinging to a branch, holding it as tightly as a parched mountain would embrace a dark raincloud. As I hung suspended from that vine, the horse that had carried me so far departed, just as accumulated misdeeds abandon a person who seeks refuge in the sacred Ganga. Weary from my long and arduous journey, I found rest in that place, much like the sun pausing at the foot of the western mountain beneath the wish-fulfilling tree. As the sun sets, laying down the burdens of all worldly affairs upon the western slope, so too did I find a moment’s repose. Gradually, the world was enveloped by the darkness of night, and the wilderness awoke with its nocturnal activities. In a hollow of sparse, thin grass, I concealed myself, utterly exhausted, like a bird retreating to its nest after a long day. Misfortune had dulled my discernment; my hopes were cut off and my memory faded, leaving me like a wretched man sold into bondage, or one lost in the depths of a dark pit. Immersed in delusion, that night stretched before me as long as an age, just as it did for the sage Markandeya when he was tossed upon the single ocean. I did not bathe, nor rise, nor eat; the night simply passed as I bore the heavy burden of my misfortunes. Sleepless and restless, trembling along with the leaves around me, I endured the extreme length of suffering as the night dragged on. At last, as streaks of darkness faded away with the stars and the moon, and my own face grew pale and weary, the wild howls of jackals subsided, as did the chattering of teeth from the cold among those suffering in the night. In the morning, I saw the eastern sky glowing red, flushed as if by wine, and it seemed to laugh at me as I remained sunk within myself. In a moment, I beheld the sun rising at the sky’s gateway, appearing as knowledge does to the ignorant, or as gold comes to the poor. Rising up, I struck my shield, much like one captivated by the dance of twilight, beating on an elephant hide with a stick. Thus, I set out to wander that vast wilderness, as time itself moves through the world, consuming its beings like the fire of dissolution. In that ancient, desolate jungle, I saw no living thing—just as only a trace of virtue is found in the body of a fool. Only birds moved about, fearless and restless in their wandering, uttering their cīcī and kūcī sounds. When the sun had climbed an eighth of the sky, I noticed the vines looking freshly bathed, with only a trace of withered dew remaining. As I wandered, I saw a maiden carrying rice and holding a golden pot of nectar, her presence reminiscent of Mādhavī seized by a demon. Approaching her, I saw she was dark-skinned, with three stars for eyes, clad in pale garments—much as the moon approaches the night. “O girl,” I pleaded, “bring me some food quickly in this dire distress; for by removing the suffering of the afflicted, prosperity grows.” Hunger was growing within me, burning like a black serpent coiled in the hollow of an old tree. Yet, even as I begged, she gave me nothing at all, just as wealth, though earnestly sought, is granted by fortune only to the wicked. Only after much persistence, as I followed her, did a little food fall to me, as a shadow falls before one who stands. She then spoke: “Know me as a chandala woman, adorned with necklaces and armlets, fierce as a demoness, bearing 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 called back, “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. This food is given to him when he is established as husband; beloved men are to be honored, even with one’s life.” I replied, “I will become your husband, O virtuous one; for in adversity, distinctions of caste, duty, and family are considered.” Then she offered me half of the rice, just as half of Mādhavī’s nectar was once given to Indra and Agni. After drinking the juice of the jambu fruit, I ate the pukkasa’s rice, and there I rested, my mind overcome by delusion. She, dark as the monsoon, filled me like a lake, and, taking my hand, drew out my life as if it were outside my body. She then brought me before her father, a terrifying and dreadful figure, corpulent like Avīci, the hell of punishment. To him, she who was attached to me offered her own interest, just as a bee, silent and clinging, offers itself to the elephant. He replied, “Certainly,” and when the day drew to its close, he released us, as if we were two servants of Death bound by his teeth. At day’s end, we departed from that forest like ghosts, scattered in all directions as mist and clouds are swept away. In a moment, at twilight, we reached the village from the vast jungle, as if ghosts from a cremation ground had arrived at another great cremation ground.