O sage, do not let anger cloud your heart, for adversity follows its own mysterious order. In the midst of confusion, truth often reveals itself. We are not moved by authority or pride; we act only out of necessity, compelled by its inherent force. The wise pursue their natural duties according to this necessity, unlike those who are swayed by pride. Actions are undertaken by those skilled in their work, who rely on the state of deep sleep; they do not act from causes that bring destruction. Where now is your vision born of knowledge, your greatness, your steadfastness? Why do you wander in confusion, like a blind man on a path well known to others? Even though you hold in your mind pure perception across past, present, and future, you become bewildered like a fool, disregarding the course of the world. Without reflecting on your son’s condition—arising from the ripening of his own actions—why, though all-knowing, do you curse me in vain? Do you not realize that for all embodied beings, the body is of two kinds: the physical and the mental? The physical body is inert and destined for destruction, but the restless mind is not worn away by affliction. Just as a charioteer guides a chariot with four horses, so the mind drives the body, carrying out its own actions. The unreal is imagined and made real; the true body perishes. In a moment, the mind can create a man of clay, just as a child does. Here, the mind alone is the person; what it does is said to be done. It is bound by imagination, and freed when imagination ceases. This is the body, this is the eye, this is the limb, this is the head—this ever-changing transformation is what is called the mind. The mind is the living being, the jīva; discernment is intellect, and ego arises from self-identification, giving rise to diversity. With its inclination toward the body, the mind perceives other bodies and its own as if they are physical forms. When the mind truly observes, abandoning the false notion of the body, it attains supreme peace. That mind of your son, established in samadhi within you, has journeyed far along its own path of desire. Leaving the body of Ushanas behind in the cave of Mandara, it soared to the celestial realms, like a bird departing its nest. There, in the groves of mandara trees, amidst the houses of parijata, in the clusters of Nandana gardens, and in the cities of the guardians of the worlds, your son spent eight cycles of four ages serving Vishvachi, the divine beauty, like a bee attending a lotus. Driven by intense longing and in a world shaped by his own resolve, when his merit was exhausted, he vanished like mist in the night. With wilted flowers on his head, his limbs weary and adorned with sweat, he fell together with her, like a fruit ripened by time. Leaving behind that celestial form, he entered the sky as a subtle body, passed through elemental space, and was born again upon the earth. He became a twice-born in Dasharna, a king in Kosala, a fisherman in the great Anga forest, and a swan on the banks of the three rivers. He was a king of the solar dynasty in Paundra, a devotee in Salva, a learned Vidyadhara for an age, and a wise and prosperous son of a sage. He ruled in Madra, then became a young ascetic named Vasudeva, dwelling on the bank of the Samaṅgā river. In countless other strange places, driven by the force of his own impressions, your son wandered through diverse births. He was a cowherd in the Vindhya forest, a hunter in Kekaya, a vassal in Sauvira, and a regional chief in Trigarta. Among the Kirātas he was in the bamboo thicket, in the wilderness a deer, beneath the palm a creeping reptile, and in the tamāla tree a wild fowl. Once, having become foremost among those skilled in mantras, your son recited the knowledge that grants the status of a Vidyādhara. By virtue of this, O venerable Brahman, he became a great Vidyādhara in the sky, adorned with pearl necklaces and armlets, delighting in playful assemblies. He was like the sun to the lotus-faced maidens, another Cupid with his flower-bow, beloved by Vidyādhara women, and an ornament of the Gandharva city. After reaching the end of an aeon in the realm of the twelve suns, he was reduced to ashes, like a moth in the fire. Then, in the vast sky devoid of worlds, his latent impression wandered like a bird without a nest. When time brought a wondrous new beginning, at the reversal of Brahmā’s night, the tumult of worldly existence commenced again. That mental impression, carried by the wind, assumed the state of a brāhmaṇa at the start of the new creation, being born again upon the earth. O sage, that boy—Vasudeva—was born among the wise and mastered all the scriptures. Having become a Vidyādhara for an age, today, O great sage, your son practices austerity on the bank of the Samaṅgā river. Driven by various difficult tendencies, he wandered into the hollows of acacia and karanja trees, into the wombs of aged beings in the world, and into the densest forest thickets. With matted hair and a rosary, having subdued the confusion of all his senses, he remained there in firm austerity for eight hundred years.