That radiant couple, intoxicated with delight, wandered together through the forest clearings, their joy shining like two bees drunk on nectar, swaying amidst lotuses touched by the pale breeze. Amidst groves thick with coral trees, he, intoxicated by the nectar of the gods, enjoyed the company of his beloved, who shone like a second spotless moon. They roamed together among golden-lotused ponds, where drunken swans floated, and along the banks of the celestial river, accompanied by the music of kinnaras and charanas. In bowers woven from parijata branches, they drank the nectar flowing from the moon, surrounded by gods and playful companions. In the enchanting swing-groves of Chaitraratha, they sported for a long time with the eager hosts of vidyadharas. The pleasure-gardens of Nandana, with the Mandara mountain rising like an ocean, surged with excitement as Shiva’s attendants gathered. In caves tangled with young golden creepers, they wandered, mad with passion, like bees among the blooming lotuses of Meru. In the groves of Kailasa, he passed moon-white nights with his beloved, filled with the songs of celestial hosts. She, adorned from head to toe with golden lotuses, rested with him upon the summits of Mount Gandhamadana. Together, Rama played and laughed in the wondrous and captivating regions at the edge of Lokāloka mountain. For sixty years, as if dwelling in a celestial palace, he lived among the valleys of Mandara mountain, accompanied by gentle fawns. On the shores of the ocean of milk, surrounded by women, he spent half of the Krita age with the inhabitants of Shvetadvipa. Through playful arrangements of gardens in Gandharva cities, he imitated the endless creation of worlds, following the course of time. Then, once again, Shukra dwelled happily with his doe-eyed beloved for eight cycles of four ages in the city of Purandara. But as his merit was exhausted, he fell to the earthly realm together with that proud woman, his radiant form diminished. His limbs shattered, deprived of his chariot and garden, he was overcome by anxiety and lay ruined, like a warrior struck down in battle. When he fell to the ground, his body shattered into a hundred pieces, like a waterfall struck by a rock. With both bodies destroyed and their minds veiled by lingering impressions, the two wandered in the sky like birds without a nest. In their minds, they entered a moonlit lattice of rays, swiftly becoming icy and then transforming into rice plants. In Daśārṇa, the best of twice-born ate those ripe rice grains, while in Mālava, the king ate grains that had grown from the seed in a woman’s womb. In Daśārṇa, the best of twice-born first conceived from eating, and in Mālava, a woman conceived from the king’s great fortune. There, the boy grew up, and there, the girl grew up; the former couple were born again on earth, as if fallen from heaven. At sixteen years of age, Śukra, now called Sāraṅga, was a handsome, youthful, and prosperous brāhmaṇa boy in his father’s house. The asura maiden, named Mālā, with bee-like eyes, grew up as a princess in the royal palace, flourishing like a vine in a splendid forest. With a pure heart, the princess worshipped Śaṅkara with garlands, constantly praying, “May I obtain my accomplished husband from before.” Later, at the king of Mālava’s sacrifice, as the assembly of brahmins gathered, Mālā saw Sāraṅga, who had arrived with her father. Seeing him, she—faultless in form and filled with affection from their former bond—shone with limbs moist with love, like a moonstone touched by the moon. In the midst of the sacrificial assembly, Mālā, daughter of the Mālava king, chose the young brāhmin from Daśārṇa as her husband. After their marriage, the aged and infirm king of Mālava bestowed the entire kingdom upon Sāraṅga and departed for the forest. Sāraṅga, together with Mālā, ruled the Mālava realm in great happiness, like Indra, for a hundred autumns. Yet, after a long time, due to the fickleness of the mind and the force of fate, the two spouses became displeasing to each other. Sāraṅga, worn out with old age and his body ready to fall, became slack in breath and looked like a withered dry leaf. Dispassion toward wife and offspring, and extreme old age, led his weak and powerless body to welcome death. For one whose kingdom was devoid of essence and who proclaimed excessive suffering, delusion became exceedingly dense, like a goblin lurking in the forest. He fell into the dark pit of delusion, constantly attached to pleasures, lacking discernment, ignorant, and devoted to wicked people. Death seized him, whose heart was consumed by craving, like a frog snatched by a snake, helpless and crying out. Having experienced the results of his actions, both good and bad, in another body, he was born as a fisherman due to his negative disposition. There, performing the work of a fisherman for a hundred years, his mind battered by suffering, he finally attained dispassion. Thinking, “This worldly existence is suffering,” he then fell from that state and was born as a great king in the Solar dynasty. Then, due to the force of virtuous disposition, he attained some knowledge, and, having abandoned the kingly body, was born as a guru, teacher of all.