In that dreadful time, the forest was transformed into a scene of utter devastation. The trees stood stripped of their leaves, their trunks scorched and blackened, while the air grew thick with ashes. The ground itself was smeared with the remains of creatures, their bodies licked by blood-drinking cats. The winds rushed through the jungle, carrying the tumult of dense, blazing flames; everywhere, clusters of fire leaped and flared, tinging the jungle yellow with their fierce glow. From the burned dens of serpents, columns of smoky, fleshy clumps arose, and the sky was streaked with clouds colored by the wind-driven tongues of flame. Whirling pillars of ash filled the air, tossed about by wild winds, while the cries of children—whose teeth had been bitten off—echoed amidst the wailing of men. Amidst this chaos, a great corpse lay, its teeth torn out by the tumult of men, its flesh devoured swiftly by packs of blood-soaked fingers. The corpse’s complexion was darkened by smoke, yellowed by the sound of rustling leaves and creepers, while fierce vultures circled above and devoured its flesh. Meteors roamed the sky, adding to the terror. Limbs were torn apart by one another, and panic swept through the place; its heart and belly were split open by the crackling of blazing fire. The terrifying forest fire, roaring with the sound of rushing wind, leapt about as trees fell like burning coals at the hiss of frightened serpents. That region, hollow and dry, had reached such utter ruin that it resembled a world scorched by the fire of twelve suns. The forest, with its blazing, flame-haired trees and winds sweeping all before them, became like the burning pleasure-houses of the sun’s own children. At that time, in that place, under such harsh and calamitous conditions, at the end of a terrible age, the heat was relentless. Some people, gathering their wives and friends, departed for other lands, like clouds dispersing from the autumn sky. Others, merged with their bodies and limbs, sons, wives, and closest kin, perished there, like trees cut down in a forest. Some were devoured by wild beasts as they left their homes, like fledgling birds seized by hawks when leaving their nests. Some entered the blazing fire like moths, while others fell into chasms like rocks tumbling from mountains. As for myself, abandoning my relatives—my in-laws and my own people—I departed from that land with only my wife, and with great difficulty. Evading fires, winds, guards, and even predators, I escaped the terrors of death, departing with my wife. Having reached the border of that land, beneath a palm tree, I set down my children from my shoulders, as if laying aside burdensome misfortunes. Exhausted from long toil, I rested, feeling as one freed from hell, scorched by the summer forest fire, like a lotus deprived of water in the heat. Then, as the daughter of a caṇḍāla rested beneath the tree, sleeping in the cool shade, two children embraced her. A son of mine named Thutthaka stood before me; he was our youngest, exceedingly dear to us, and radiant in appearance. He, with a sorrowful heart and eyes brimming with tears, pleaded with me: “Give me flesh quickly, and let me drink blood at once.” Again and again, my young son kept saying this, crying out from hunger, and soon reached a state near death. I told him repeatedly, “Son, there is no flesh,” but still, in his great folly, he kept insisting, “Give me flesh from your body.” Then, overwhelmed by affection and weighed down by intense sorrow, I said to him, “Son, eat my cooked flesh.” Even that he accepted, again saying, “Give me your flesh,” and, with his strength exhausted and limbs slack, he ate my flesh. Desiring to remove all suffering, deluded by love and compassion, I quickly rose for the sake of my son, who was near death. Bringing wood from the forest, scorched by the heat of summer, I built a funeral pyre there for myself, intending to die. The funeral pyre was kindled, its flames licking upward, and in a moment it stood there, crackling and snapping, eager for my body. My daughter said to me, “When you fall upon this pyre, you must quickly tear off and eat your own flesh, piece by piece.” Having said this, as I was about to throw myself onto the pyre, I suddenly tumbled down from this very throne, O King. Then, surrounded by the sound of drums and cries of victory, I awoke abruptly, regaining my senses and awareness. Thus, by the power of Shambarika, I was plunged into delusion, just as a living being is enveloped by ignorance, experiencing countless states. In this way, I have recounted to you the story of my own self, just as Markandeya once told the endless suffering of a cosmic age to the kings of the gods. When the illustrious King Lavana had spoken thus, Shambarika instantly vanished from that place. Those assembled there, their minds filled with astonishment, looked at one another with eyes wide as lotus petals and spoke: “Ah, truly, how marvelous and extraordinary is this illusion! Who indeed is this so-called Shambarika, and where has he gone ahead?” “Indeed, the powers of the Creator are wondrous and manifold; for even a discerning mind is bewildered by this illusion. This king, who knows the affairs of the world—where is he now? And where are those great confusions fit only for ordinary minds? Nor is this illusion, arising from Shambarika, a delusion in the mind; for these so-called Shambarikas are always intent on gain.