Wearing a garment patched from countless scraps of linen, I wandered through the forest, burdened with a heavy load of firewood. My appearance was the very image of misfortune itself. Sometimes I wore nothing more than a foul-smelling loincloth, damp and stained with the filth and infirmity of old age. In such a state, I was led beneath the grand houses of the wealthy, where dark, heavy clouds gathered above, indifferent to my suffering. Together with my wife—herself worn down by hardship and shivering in the biting winds of winter—I hid deep within the desolate forest, far from any comfort or companionship. Strife and quarrels erupted all around us; the heat of discord was so intense that tears, tinged with blood, streamed from my eyes. The women of our group, drenched by relentless rain, fed themselves on wild boar meat in the forest. Huddled in the corners of makeshift huts on cold stone floors, they were overwhelmed by the storms. Over time, affection faded; my wife grew distant and unresponsive. With relatives unfriendly and constant quarrels filling our days, suspicion took root everywhere. Our children, restless and noisy like fledgling birds, chattered ceaselessly. My heart was miserable, and for years I lived in the homes of others, never finding peace. The harsh words and fierce rebukes from outcasts wore me down, leaving my face battered and weary—like the moon scarred by Rahu’s jaws. I gnawed on scraps of leopard flesh, my lips bruised, the meat resembling the tongues of hell-dwellers—food bought and consumed in a living hell. I endured the piercing winter winds that swept from the caves of the Himalayas, their chill striking my bare body like arrows loosed by Death himself. In my decrepitude, feeble-minded and old, I dug up the roots of withered trees again and again, just as the merit of the virtuous is slowly extracted, one by one. In the forest, I hungrily ate cooked mud from small bowls—mud that others had left unwashed—as if forced to share a meal with a wicked wife. My own portion of food, my meager fortune, was often taken and sold elsewhere by those with many mouths and twisted faces, leaving me exhausted and weak. In my desperation, I cut the flesh of my own living body, selling it piece by piece in the lands of the Vindhya outcasts, as if trading away my very lifespan. My accumulated sin, gathered over thousands of births, scattered and mingled in pleasure-gardens and parks, ever increasing. Once, I gazed directly and affectionately at a simple spade, and in that moment, even a crow—like one fallen into the Raurava hell—seemed to look upon me with tenderness. I wandered among the thickets and bushes of the Vindhya forest, covering myself with rows of leaves, as though forging kinship with the wild tribes. My wife and children survived on coarse food begged from villagers or taken by force, as I subdued the strong with my staff. We spent our nights on dry palm leaves, listening to the cries of wild animals, sharing the cold and darkness with forest monkeys, our teeth chattering in the chill. In the rainy season, my body bristled with hair, and drops of water clung to me like strings of pearls. Hunger gnawed at us, and once, in the great forest, my wife and I quarreled bitterly over a mere piece of ginger or ajwain root, her stomach shrunken by want. I looked like a goblin to my own kin: teeth chattering, eyes wide with cold, limbs stained with soot. I wandered along riverbanks, fishing with a hook, as relentless as Death himself, who roams the worlds with his noose, seeking the living. After many fasts, I drank the warm, fresh blood of a slain animal, just as an infant eagerly drinks its mother’s milk. Those around me—intoxicated, blood-stained, and covered in palāś leaves—dwelt in cremation grounds, fleeing like forest ghouls driven by a fierce goddess. In the forest, I spread nets to capture beasts and birds, just as hope is cast out, seeking fulfillment through children, wives, and family. Through my actions, I ruined worlds woven of illusion, destroyed birds made of threads, and tore apart nets—as if unraveling the very directions of the virtuous. My mind, propelled by evil deeds, stretched hope ever further, like a river swollen by the monsoon. Compassion slipped away from me, cast off in shame like a snake shedding its skin. I embraced cruelty, loud anger, and violence, adopting them like dark clouds that gather at summer’s end. Those who prospered, whole and unbroken, shunned me, as if I were a bearer of long-hidden misfortune, lurking unseen in a chasm. In corners crowded with dogs and crows, in fields of suffering, I sowed seeds of evil deeds, watered by the rains of delusion. Like a merciless hunter in a mountain cave, I moved among animals, casting my net—Death among the living. Weary, I rested my head against the mud walls of peasants’ huts, sleeping in ignorance, like the serpent coiled on the limbs of sleeping Vishnu. Clad in fluttering leaves, my body smoky from the gleam of arrows, I dwelt in the cold caves along the Vindhya’s slopes. For a long time, I wore a tattered black garment on my shoulder, thick with filth, as the earth bears the wild boar’s weight in the heat of summer. Again and again, I became like the fire at the end of an age, consuming the creatures of the forest, imitating Time that devours the world. There, my wives and even my children were born to me—hard to manage, like iron fetters or relentless misfortunes, bringing only suffering. With only one child, a little boy, I spent sixty brief years in that place, afflicted by faults that could not be cured. Bound by the chains of bad habits, I endured much: being shouted at, harsh words, weeping in misfortune, eating poor food, and sleeping in ruined huts. Such was my life, O noble ones.