At the end of a dreadful age, under harsh and calamitous conditions, the land was scorched by relentless heat. In that time and place, people were driven to desperation. Some, gathering their wives and friends, departed for other lands, scattering like autumn clouds driven from the sky. Others, bound together with their bodies, limbs, sons, wives, and closest kin, perished where they stood, falling like trees felled in a forest. There were those who, as they left their homes, were seized and devoured by wild beasts, much like fledgling birds snatched by hawks as they leave the nest. Some, overcome by despair, rushed into blazing fires like moths, while others tumbled into deep chasms, as rocks fall from mountain heights. As for myself, I abandoned my relatives, in-laws, and my own people, leaving that land with only my wife, and even this was done with great difficulty. Evading fires, fierce winds, watchful guards, and even lurking predators, I barely escaped the terrors of death, journeying onward with my wife. At last, reaching the border of that forsaken land, I paused beneath a palm tree. There, I set my children down from my shoulders, as if laying aside the burdens of misfortune that had weighed so heavily upon me. Exhausted from long toil, I rested—feeling as one freed from hell, yet scorched by the fire of suffering, like a lotus withered in the summer heat, deprived of water. As I lay there, a caṇḍāla’s daughter also rested beneath the tree, sleeping in the cool shade, embraced by two children. Before me stood my son, Thutthaka, our youngest and most beloved, radiant in appearance. With sorrowful heart and tears streaming from his eyes, he pleaded with me, "Give me flesh quickly, and let me drink blood at once." Again and again, my young son cried out in hunger, his voice growing weaker as he neared death. I told him repeatedly, "Son, there is no flesh," but, lost in his desperation, he insisted, "Give me flesh from your body." Overwhelmed by affection and weighed down by intense sorrow, I said, "Son, eat my cooked flesh." Even this he accepted, again saying, "Give me your flesh," and, with his strength spent and limbs slack, he ate of my flesh. Desiring only to remove his suffering, deluded by love and compassion, I rose quickly for my son, who was on the brink of death. Braving the searing heat, I gathered wood from the forest and built a funeral pyre for myself, intending to end my life. I kindled the pyre, its flames leaping upward, crackling and snapping, eager for my body. Then my daughter spoke: "When you fall upon this pyre, you must quickly tear off and eat your own flesh, piece by piece." As I was about to hurl myself into the flames, I suddenly tumbled down—not into the fire, but from my very throne, O King. In that instant, I was 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 had been plunged into a deep delusion, just as a living being is enveloped by ignorance and wanders through countless states of experience. In this way, I have recounted to you the story of my own self, just as Markandeya once told the tale of endless suffering in a cosmic age to the kings of the gods. When the illustrious King Lavana had finished speaking, Shambarika vanished instantly from that place. Those who were present, their minds filled with astonishment, looked at one another with eyes wide as lotus petals and exclaimed, "Ah, truly, how marvelous and extraordinary is this illusion! Who indeed is this so-called Shambarika, and where has he gone? The powers of the Creator are wondrous and manifold; for even a discerning mind is bewildered by such illusion. This king, who understands the ways of the world—where is he now? And where are those confusions, fit only for ordinary minds? Nor is this illusion, arising from Shambarika, merely a delusion in the mind; for such Shambarikas are always intent on gain. They strive earnestly for wealth and do not vanish; thus, we are tossed about, standing in the swing of doubt." O Rama, at that time I was present in that very assembly; what I saw then was directly witnessed by me, not merely heard from another. Therefore, direct your own mind, which has grown unruly through excessive imagination, toward tranquility, great-souled one; when your mind rests in its true nature, you will attain that supreme, pure state. In the beginning, due to a cause beyond, consciousness falls into the state of subject and object, and from this arises the realm of imagination, from which further imaginations of impurity are born. Indeed, Rama, in the delusions of unreal things, the mind behaves in such ways, becoming insignificant amidst dense illusions and remaining so for a long time. The mind’s tendency toward unreality may become feeble, yet it spreads far, bringing suffering with countless faults, like a child haunted by a Vetala. Even what is real, for a moment, may lead to great suffering by producing unreality; yet a pure mental tendency dispels darkness like the sun. The mind brings what is near to a distance and what is distant to nearness, leaping among beings like a child among fledgling birds. For one whose mind is filled with tendencies, fear arises from what is truly fearless; from afar, the bewildered traveler sees a tree as a demon. The mind, stained by impurity, suspects enmity in a friend; and the creature whose intellect is seized by intoxication, wandering, sees the very earth as spinning.