For sixty years, he dwelled in the valleys of Mandara mountain, as if residing in a celestial palace, surrounded by gentle fawns. Then, his journey carried him to the shores of the ocean of milk, where he lived amidst the inhabitants of Shvetadvipa, accompanied by women, spending half the Krita age in their company. With the passage of time, he delighted in the playful arrangements of gardens within the cities of the Gandharvas, imitating the endless creation of worlds in harmony with the flow of time itself. Afterward, Shukra once again found happiness, residing for eight cycles of the four ages in the city of Purandara, together with his beloved, the doe-eyed one. But as the fruits of his merit were spent, he fell from those heights to the earthly realm, accompanied by that proud woman, his radiance diminished. Deprived of his chariot and garden, his limbs shattered, he was overcome by anxiety and lay in ruins, like a warrior struck down in battle. When he fell to the ground, weighed down by long brooding, his body shattered into a hundred pieces, much like a waterfall struck by a rock. With both their bodies destroyed and their minds veiled by lingering impressions, the two wandered through the sky like birds without a nest. Then, in their minds, they entered a lattice of moonlit rays; becoming icy, they transformed into rice plants. In the land of Daśārṇa, the best of the twice-born ate the ripe grains from these plants, while in Mālava, the king ate rice that had grown from seed sown within a woman’s womb. Thus, in Daśārṇa, conception arose from eating, and in Mālava, a woman conceived by the king’s great fortune. The boy grew up in one place, and the girl in the other; thus, the former couple was born again on earth, as if fallen from heaven. When Śukra reached sixteen years of age, he was known as Sāraṅga—a handsome, youthful, and prosperous brāhmaṇa boy in his father’s house. The asura maiden, now named Mālā and blessed with bee-like eyes, blossomed as a maiden in the royal palace, flourishing like a vine in a splendid forest. With a pure heart, the princess Mālā worshipped Śaṅkara with garlands and prayers, ever yearning, “May I obtain my former accomplished husband.” Later, during a great sacrifice held by the king of Mālava, as the assembly of brāhmins gathered, Mālā saw Sāraṅga there, who had arrived with his father. Upon seeing him, her flawless form glowed with affection, limbs moist with love from their former bond, like a moonstone touched by the moon’s rays. 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, in due course, the aged king of Mālava, now infirm, bestowed his entire kingdom upon Sāraṅga and departed for the forest. Sāraṅga, together with Mālā, ruled the Mālava realm in great happiness, like Indra himself, for a hundred autumns. Yet, after a long time, the fickleness of the mind and the force of fate caused discord between the two spouses. Sāraṅga, worn out by old age and with his body ready to fall, became slack in breath and resembled a withered, dry leaf. Dispassion toward wife and offspring grew within him, and, weakened by extreme old age, his powerless body welcomed death. For one whose kingdom was devoid of essence and who lamented his suffering, delusion thickened around him, dense as a goblin in the forest. Fallen into the dark pit of delusion, ever attached to pleasures, lacking discernment, ignorant, and surrounded by wicked people, he was seized by death—his heart consumed by craving—like a frog snatched by a snake, helpless and crying out. Having experienced the fruits of his actions, both good and bad, he was reborn in another body as a fisherman, due to his negative disposition. There, for a hundred years, he performed the work of a fisherman, his mind battered by suffering, until he attained dispassion. Realizing, “This worldly existence is suffering,” he left that state and was born as a great king in the Solar dynasty. Through virtuous disposition, he gained some knowledge, and after abandoning his kingly life, he was born as a guru, a teacher of all. Through accomplishment in mantra practice, he became a Vidyādhara and enjoyed the city of the Vidyādharas for an entire aeon. When the aeon ended, he took on a form like the wind, and as creation began anew, he was born as the son of a sage. Through association with sages, he engaged in intense austerities, dwelling blamelessly for a manvantara in the caves of Mount Meru. There, a son was born to him from a deer, in human form. Out of affection for this son, he was again overtaken by deep delusion in an instant. His mind became preoccupied with thoughts such as, “May my son have wealth, virtues, and eternal life,” and thus he abandoned his steadfastness in truth. Having fallen away from thoughts of righteousness and absorbed in desires for his son’s enjoyment, death seized him—like a serpent snatching the wind—when his lifespan was spent. With his mind fixed solely on enjoyment, as his consciousness departed, he was born as the son of the king of Madra and became the ruler of Madra land. After ruling for a long time and subduing all enemies, old age came upon him there, like frost upon a lotus. He then abandoned the body of the Madra king, along with the ascetic’s garb, and was reborn as an ascetic, the son of a sage. This ascetic, possessing great wisdom and free from affliction, reached the bank of the great river Samaṅgā and engaged in austerities there, O Rama.