In the land of Daśārṇa, a most excellent brāhmaṇa, one of the twice-born, first conceived a son through the merit of his food. Meanwhile, in Mālava, a princess was conceived, her birth owing to the great fortune of the king. In these two places, the boy and the girl grew up, each maturing in their respective homes. They were, in truth, the same couple who had once lived together in a previous life, now reborn on earth as if fallen from the heavens. When the boy reached sixteen years, he was known as Sāraṅga, a handsome and prosperous young brāhmaṇa living in his father’s house. The asura maiden, named Mālā, blossomed in the royal palace of Mālava. Her eyes were like bees, and she flourished with grace and beauty, like a tender vine in a splendid forest. Mālā, pure of heart, devoted herself to worshipping Śaṅkara with garlands, constantly praying, “May I obtain my former accomplished husband.” In time, during a great sacrifice held by the king of Mālava, an assembly of brāhmaṇas was gathered. There, Mālā saw Sāraṅga, who had come with his father. Upon seeing him, memories of their ancient bond filled her heart with affection, and her form glowed with love, radiant as a moonstone touched by the moon’s light. Amidst the sacrificial gathering, Mālā, daughter of the king, chose the young brāhmaṇa from Daśārṇa as her husband. After their marriage, the aged king, infirm and ready for renunciation, bestowed the entire kingdom upon Sāraṅga and departed for the forest. Sāraṅga, together with Mālā, ruled the Mālava realm in great happiness, their reign lasting a hundred autumns, like Indra enjoying his sovereignty. Yet, after a long time, the fickleness of the mind and the power of fate brought discord between the two. Sāraṅga, now worn by old age, his body frail and breath slack, resembled a withered, dry leaf. Dispassion grew in him toward wife and offspring, and, weakened by age, he welcomed death. The kingdom, now devoid of essence, became a place of suffering for him. Delusion thickened around him, as dense as a goblin lurking in the forest. He fell into the dark pit of ignorance, constantly attached to pleasures, lacking discernment, and drawn to wicked company. Death seized him—his heart consumed by craving—like a frog helplessly snatched by a snake. Thereafter, experiencing the results of his deeds, both good and bad, he was reborn as a fisherman, shaped by his negative disposition. For a hundred years, he toiled as a fisherman, his mind battered by suffering, until he attained dispassion. Realizing, “This worldly existence is suffering,” he fell from that state and was reborn as a great king in the Solar dynasty. By the force of a virtuous nature, he gained some knowledge in that life, and, upon abandoning his royal body, 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 aeon. When the aeon ended, he took a form like the wind, and, as creation began anew, was born again as the son of a sage. Associating with sages, he engaged in intense austerity, dwelling blamelessly for a manvantara in the caves of Mount Meru. There, a son was born to him from a deer—human in 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 he abandoned his steadfastness in truth. Because he turned away from thoughts of righteousness and was absorbed in desires for his son’s enjoyment, death seized him—like a serpent snatching the wind—when his lifespan was spent. At the moment of death, with his mind fixed solely on enjoyment, he was born as the son of the king of Madra and became the ruler of Madra land. He ruled Madra for a long time, subduing all enemies, until old age crept upon him, like frost upon a lotus. At last, he abandoned the body of the Madra king, along with the trappings of royalty, and became an ascetic, the son of a sage. This ascetic, wise and free from affliction, reached the bank of the great river Samaṅgā and engaged in austerities there, O Rāma. Thus, compelled by the various conditions of birth, the son of Bhṛgu followed the succession of bodies and dwelt happily on the riverbank, steady as a sturdy tree. After a long time, his body, worn by wind and sun, fell to the earth like a tree whose root had been severed. His mind, restless from countless enjoyments and states, wandered among the forests like a deer. Confused and agitated, his mind spun like a wheel, yet eventually found rest on the bank of the Samaṅgā river. Śukra, though now bodiless, continued to experience the subtle and endless journey of transmigration. His body, once situated on the slopes of Mount Mandara, had dried up from the heat of ascetic practice, leaving only the skin behind. The cool wind flowed through the hollows of his body, and, as if in relief at the end of suffering, she sang like a crow. Tears flowed as if exhaling, remembering the breath of life, while the body was tossed about on the forest floor by fierce winds. The mind, wretched, lay fallen in the pit of existence, as if laughing with teeth shining whiter than bright clouds. The emptiness of her form was revealed by the gaping hollowness of her eyes, like the wide-open mouth of a well in the wilderness.