After a long passage of time, the marriage between Sāraṅga and his spouse, once harmonious, was troubled by the restless nature of the mind and the inexorable pull of fate. The affection they once held for each other faded, leaving them displeased with one another. Sāraṅga, now aged and frail, his breath shallow and body weakened, appeared like a withered leaf, dried and ready to fall. Dispassion grew within him—not only toward his wife and children but toward all worldly ties. Extreme old age rendered him powerless, and his body, drained of strength, welcomed the approach of death. His kingdom, once vibrant, was now devoid of essence. Suffering was proclaimed everywhere, and delusion thickened around him, dense and haunting like a goblin lurking in the forest. He fell into a dark pit of confusion, his mind clinging to fleeting pleasures, lacking discernment, ignorant, and surrounded by wicked companions. Death came for him, his heart consumed by craving, just as a snake seizes a helpless frog crying out in distress. After death, he experienced the results of his actions—both virtuous and harmful—and, due to his negative disposition, was born again as a fisherman. For a hundred years, he labored as a fisherman, his mind battered by hardship and suffering, until he finally developed dispassion. He reflected, "This worldly existence is suffering," and, having fallen from that state, was reborn as a great king in the illustrious Solar dynasty. This time, the force of his virtuous nature allowed him to attain some knowledge. After relinquishing his kingly body, he was born as a guru, a teacher to all. Through his mastery of mantras, he became a Vidyādhara, enjoying the city of the Vidyādharas for an entire aeon. When that aeon ended, he took on a form like the wind as creation began anew, and was born as the son of a sage. Through association with sages, he practiced intense austerity and lived 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 deep affection for his son, he was suddenly overtaken by delusion. His thoughts constantly dwelled on his son's prosperity, virtues, and eternal life, causing him to abandon his steadfastness in truth. Absorbed in thoughts of enjoyment for his son's sake and neglecting righteousness, he was seized by death—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 ruler of the Madra land. He ruled Madra for a long time, subduing all enemies, until old age descended upon him like frost settling on a lotus. Eventually, he 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, wise and free from affliction, reached the bank of the great river Samaṅgā and engaged in austerities there. Compelled by the various conditions of birth, the son of Bhṛgu dwelt happily on the riverbank, steadfast as a sturdy tree. After a long time, his body, worn by wind and sun, fell to the earth like a tree whose root has been severed. His mind wandered through restless enjoyments and various states, roaming among diverse forests like a deer. Confused and agitated, his mind spun everywhere like a wheel, but finally found rest on the bank of the Samaṅgā river. Śukra, though bodiless, continued to experience the state of transmigration, dense with endless events—subtle yet firm. The body of the wise one, situated on the slope of Mount Mandara, dried up from the heat of asceticism, leaving only the skin. Cool winds flowed through the body's apertures, and she sang like a crow, rejoicing at the end of the pain of movement. She shed tears, exhaling while remembering the breath of life, tossed about on the forest floor by fierce winds. Her mind, wretched, lay fallen in the pit of existence, as if laughing with teeth shining whiter than bright clouds. She revealed her emptiness—her unfeigned form—through the hollow gaping of her eyes, like a well in the wilderness with its mouth wide open. Scorched by heat, drenched by rainwater, and covered with dust raised by the wind, she appeared as if stained by misdeeds. Swaying like dry wood, she rattled when falling, battered by the downpour at the coming of clouds. Flooded by monsoon torrents on the riverbank, she stood like a forest stone, chilled by sharp winds. Crooked, with dried entrails as strings, pure yet rattling, she resembled the veena of the goddess of the forest, her belly made of empty hide. Because the sacred hermitage was free from attachment and aversion, and due to the great austerity of Bhṛgu, it was not consumed by beasts or birds. The mind of Bhṛgu, whose body was made lean by restraint and discipline, wandered in austerity; his body, its blood removed by the wind, lay for a long time upon the great rocks. He did not see his son ahead, whose face was bowed in humility; instead, he saw only the boundary of virtue, standing as if virtue itself had taken form. He saw only time—a vast skeleton before him; misfortune embodied, as if poverty had assumed a body. His body, dried by heat, skin torn, joints protruding, sheltered a parched frog resting in the shadow of its hollow, dried-up belly. In the hollow of the eye, forest insects slept; a swarm of silk-producing worms was woven into a cage of flies. Thus, the journey of Sāraṅga, through countless births and states, illustrates the ceaseless cycle of suffering, delusion, and the transformative power of dispassion and austerity.