Having passed through many bodies, shaped by the varied conditions of birth, the son of Bhṛgu found himself dwelling contentedly upon the bank of a splendid river. There he stood, steadfast and unmoving, as firm as a sturdy tree rooted in the earth. Time flowed on, and after many years, the body of Bhṛgu’s son, worn thin by the ceaseless wind and the harsh glare of the sun, finally fell to the ground, much like a tree whose roots have been severed. His mind, restless, drifted in search of enjoyment, wandering through many states and experiences, as a deer roams the endless forests. Confused and agitated, the mind spun everywhere, like a wheel set in motion, until at last it found a measure of rest upon the banks of the Samaṅgā river. Though now without a body, Śukra remained, experiencing the subtle yet dense state of transmigration, filled with endless events. His former body, lying on the slopes of Mount Mandara, was dried up from the intense heat of his ascetic practices, until only the skin remained. Through the hollows of this body, the cool wind passed, and she—the body—sang like a crow, joyful at the end of the pain of movement. Tears fell from her, as if exhaling while remembering the breath of life, her form tossed about on the forest floor by the fierce play of the winds. Her mind, miserable, lay fallen in the pit of existence, as if laughing, with a row of teeth shining whiter than bright clouds. The emptiness of her form was revealed by the gaping hollowness of her eyes, like a well in the wilderness with its mouth wide open. Scorched by the heat, drenched by heavy rains, and covered with dust stirred by the wind, she appeared as if stained by the marks of misdeeds. Swaying like dry wood, she rattled when falling, battered by the downpour at the coming of the clouds. Flooded by torrents of monsoon streams along the mountain riverbank, she stood chilled by the sharp wind, like a stone in the forest. Her form, crooked, with dried entrails serving as strings, was pure yet produced a rattling sound, like the veena of the goddess of the forest, her belly now an empty hide. Yet, because that sacred hermitage was purified by freedom from attachment and aversion, and because of Bhrigu's great austerity, it was not disturbed or consumed by beasts or birds. The mind of Bhrigu, his body made lean by discipline and restraint, wandered in austerity; his body, its blood drawn away by the wind, lay upon the great rocks for a long time. When Bhrigu looked ahead, he did not see his son, whose face was once bowed in humility; instead, he saw only the boundary of virtue, standing as if virtue itself had taken form. Before him stood only Time, vast and skeletal—misfortune embodied, as if poverty itself had assumed a body. There lay a body, dried by heat, its skin torn, joints protruding, and in the hollow of its dried belly, a parched frog rested in the shade. In the hollows of its eyes, forest insects slept; a swarm of silk-producing worms had woven themselves among the cage of flies. What was once a place of enjoyment, yielding both pleasure and pain, was now washed clean by streams, leaving only a dry heap of bones that seemed to laugh. The skull, pure and shining with the radiance of the moon, mocked the glory of a Shiva-linga head anointed with camphor. The neck, straight, dried, and ashen, retained only a remnant of flesh, as if stretching out the line of the self. The neck, pale as clay, had lost its flesh to the stream, and the face was marked only by the nasal bone, bearing the outline of its former shape. With a long neck and face turned upwards, it 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 from the fatigue and fear of a long journey. The belly, deeply sunken, was covered only by shriveled skin, as if displaying to the ignorant the utter emptiness of the heart. When Bhrigu saw that dried skeleton, like the frame of an elephant, he rose, his mind empty of memories of past or future contact. In the very moment of seeing, a thought flashed through Bhrigu's mind: "Is this my son, whose life departed long ago?" He could think only of his son's lost youth, and immediately, an intense and terrible anger arose within him toward Time itself. The great sage began to utter a curse upon Time, furious that his son had been taken away before his time. At that moment, Time—subtle in form and the devourer of all creatures—assumed a physical body and approached the sage. He appeared splendid, bearing a sword and a noose, adorned with earrings and armor, six-armed and six-faced, surrounded by a host of attendants. From his body leapt a network of flames, making the sky glow with the glory of a blossoming kimshuka tree upon a mountain. The circles of fire emanating from the tips of his trident shone in all directions, like golden earrings rising in the sky. The peaks of the earth, bound by the power of his noose, swayed and spun as if mounted upon a swing. The sun’s orb was darkened by the radiance of his sword, appearing as if enveloped by the smoke of a world consumed at the end of an age. That mighty-armed one approached the great sage, whose anger was as deep and turbulent as the ocean at the end of an age, and spoke first with words of conciliation: "O sage, those who have understood the ways of the world, who have seen both higher and lower realities, do not become deluded even by causes—how much less so, then, would the best among them, without any cause! You are a brahmin of boundless austerity, and we are the guardians of destiny. For this reason, O worthy one, you are to be honored—such honor is not given out of mere personal preference.