Through the power of his devoted mantra practice, he ascended to the realm of the Vidyādharas, becoming one among them. For an entire aeon, he enjoyed the pleasures and wonders of the Vidyādhara city, basking in their mystical delights. But as the aeon drew to its close, and the wheel of creation turned once more, he, now subtle like the wind, was born again—this time as the son of a sage, at the dawn of a new cycle. In this birth, his path led him into the company of great sages. Inspired by their presence, he undertook severe austerities, living without blemish for the span of a manvantara, secluded within the caves of Mount Meru. During this period, a son was born to him from a deer, yet in full human form. Deep affection for this child quickly overtook him, and in but a moment, he found himself ensnared by delusion. His mind became filled with constant thoughts: “May my son have wealth, virtue, and live forever.” These desires drew him away from his steadfastness in truth. Thus, abandoning thoughts of righteousness and becoming absorbed in hopes for his son’s enjoyment, he let go of his spiritual discipline. When his lifespan was spent, death came for him—sudden and inescapable, like a serpent snatching the wind. At death, his mind fixed solely on enjoyment, he was reborn as the son of the king of Madra and eventually ascended the throne, ruling the Madra land. He reigned there for a long time, subduing all his foes. Yet, as with all things, old age crept upon him, settling gently but inexorably, like frost upon a lotus. When his time as king ended, he abandoned both his royal body and the garb of an ascetic. Once more, he was born as the son of a sage, this time as an ascetic endowed with great wisdom and free from affliction. He journeyed to the bank of the great Samaṅgā river, where he devoted himself to austerities. Thus, through countless births and the ever-changing conditions of existence, the son of Bhṛgu found himself dwelling contentedly on that riverbank, steadfast as a sturdy tree. After a long time had passed, his body, worn by the wind and sun, finally fell to the earth, like a tree whose roots have been severed. Meanwhile, his mind wandered restlessly, seeking enjoyment and passing through many states, like a deer roaming the forests. Confused and agitated, his mind spun everywhere, like a wheel let loose, until at last it came to rest again by the Samaṅgā river. Śukra, even without a body, continued to experience the subtle, unending sequence of transmigration, filled with countless events. His former body, left on the slope of Mount Mandara, was dried up by the heat of his austerities, until only the skin remained. The body, now empty, was cooled by the wind blowing through its apertures and, as if relieved by the end of movement’s pain, it seemed to sing like a crow. Tears seemed to fall from it, as if exhaling in memory of the breath of life, while fierce winds tossed it about the forest floor. The mind, wretched, lay fallen in the pit of worldly existence, its teeth shining white as clouds, as if in a strange laughter. The skull’s hollow eyes revealed its emptiness, like a gaping well in the wilderness. Scorched by heat, soaked by rain, and covered with dust raised by the wind, the body seemed stained by the marks of past actions. Swaying like dry wood, it rattled when it fell, battered by the monsoon rains. Flooded by torrents on the riverbank, it stood like a cold stone in the forest, chilled by the sharp wind. The entrails, dried and stringy, made the body resemble a veena played by the goddess of the forest, its belly a hollow hide. Yet, because the hermitage was free from attachment and aversion, and owing to Bhrigu’s great austerity, no beast or bird consumed the remains. Bhrigu’s mind, his body made lean by discipline and restraint, wandered in the practice of austerity, while his body, its blood dried by the wind, lay for a long time upon the great rocks. He did not see his son—whose face, had he been present, would have been bowed in humility. Instead, he saw only the boundary of virtue, standing before him as if virtue itself had taken form. Before him stood only Time, in the shape of a vast skeleton—misfortune embodied, poverty given form. The body he saw was dried by heat, its skin torn and joints protruding, with a parched frog resting in the shadow of its hollowed, dried belly. In the hollow eye sockets, forest insects slept, while silk-producing worms wove themselves into a cage of flies. The place that had once been an abode of enjoyment, yielding fruits both pleasant and painful, was now washed clean by streams, leaving behind only a dry heap of bones that seemed to laugh. The pure skull, shining with a moonlike radiance, mocked the glory of a Shiva-linga anointed with camphor. The neck stood straight, dried and ashen, with only the faintest trace of flesh, as if elongating the form along the line of the self. Its clay-pale neck, flesh washed away in a stream, left the face marked only by the nasal bone, holding the outline of its former shape. The long neck, face turned upward, seemed to watch the departing breaths vanish into the hollow sky. The shins, knees, and arms were doubled in length, as if measuring the endless expanse, worn out by fatigue and the fear of a long journey. The belly, deeply sunken, displayed only shriveled skin, as if showing the ignorant the utter emptiness of the heart. Upon seeing this dried skeleton, like the frame of an elephant, Bhrigu rose, unable to recall any past or future contact. In that very instant, it struck him: “Is this my son, whose life departed long ago?” The thought flashed through his mind, and immediately, his heart was consumed by a terrible and intense anger—directed toward Time itself, for the loss of his son’s youth.