The mind, though intangible and fleeting, possesses a wondrous power: it imagines the unreal and, through its own conjuring, makes it appear real. Even the true, physical body—so tangible to our senses—perishes in time, while the mind, in but a moment, can fashion the figure of a man from mere clay, just as a child might in play. Here, it is the mind alone that constitutes the person; whatever actions are attributed to a person are, in truth, the workings of the mind. Bound by its own imaginings, the mind remains in bondage; yet, when these imaginings cease, it attains true freedom. This mind, swelling with transformations, is what we perceive as the body, the eye, the limbs, the head. The mind itself is the living being, known as the jīva; discernment is the intellect, and ego arises from self-identification, giving rise to the manifold diversity of existence. Inclined toward the body, the mind, by its own power, perceives not only its own form but also the forms of others as if they were solid and real. But if the mind truly observes and lets go of the false notion of the body, then supreme peace is attained. O sage, know that the mind of your son, established in deep samadhi within you, has journeyed far—indeed, farther than far—driven along its own path of desire. Leaving behind the body of Ushanas in the cave of Mandara, your son’s mind soared to the celestial realms, just as a bird leaves its nest. There, amidst the groves of mandara trees, in the splendid houses of parijata, among the clusters of Nandana gardens, and within the cities of the guardians of the worlds, your son dwelled. For eight cycles of four ages, he served Vishvachi, the divine beauty, with the devotion of a bee to a lotus. Compelled by intense longing, in a world shaped by his own resolve, he remained there until the merit that sustained his stay was exhausted, at which point he vanished like mist at night. Adorned with wilted flowers, his limbs weary and glistening with sweat, he fell with her, like a fruit ripened and released by the passage of time. Abandoning that celestial form, he entered the sky as a subtle body, and then, passing through the elemental space, he took birth once more upon the earth. Thus, he became a twice-born in Dasharna, a king in Kosala, a fisherman in the great Anga forest, and a swan upon 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 known as Vasudeva, dwelling on the banks of the Samaṅgā river. Driven by the force of his own impressions, your son wandered through countless and diverse births—in strange places and varied forms. 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 the bamboo thicket; in the wilderness, the deer; beneath the palm, the creeping reptile; and in the tamāla tree, the wild fowl. At one point, your son became foremost among those skilled in mantras, reciting the knowledge that grants the status of a Vidyādhara. By this, O venerable Brahman, he became a great Vidyādhara in the sky, adorned with pearl necklaces and armlets, delighting in playful assemblies. He shone like the sun among lotus-faced maidens, another Cupid with his flower-bow, beloved of the Vidyādhara women, an ornament of the Gandharva city. When the end of an aeon arrived in the realm of the twelve suns, he was reduced to ashes, like a moth consumed by fire. Then, in the vast sky, devoid of any created worlds, his latent impression wandered like a bird without a nest. When time brought about a new and wondrous beginning—at the end of Brahmā’s night—the tumult of worldly existence began anew. That mental impression of his, carried by the wind, became a brāhmaṇa at the dawn of this new creation, and he was born once more upon the earth. O sage, that boy, known as 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. Compelled by many difficult tendencies, he wandered into the hollows of acacia and karanja trees, into the wombs of aged beings, 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. If you wish, O sage, to see this son whose mind wanders so, then quickly open the eye of knowledge and behold him. When the Lord of the universe spoke thus, the sage, with an even gaze, reflected with the eye of knowledge on his son’s welfare. In a moment, by the power of intuition, he saw the entire story of his son reflected in the mirror of his intellect. Then Bhṛgu, coming from the bank of the Samaṅgā, entered his own body once again, standing on the slope of Mount Mandara at the appointed time. Gazing with a smile of wonder, the passionless sage looked at Time and spoke these words to the beloved, who was also free from passion: “O Lord, Master of past and future, we are but children, untainted; only the wise like you, O god, possess a mind that perceives the three times—past, present, and future—pure and clear. This course of the world, though full of many forms and changes, and appearing real though it is unreal, creates confusion even for the steadfast. You alone, O god, know what dwells within you—the true nature of this mental activity, which produces the illusion, like a magician’s trick. O Lord, it is said that death does not exist for this son of mine; therefore, seeing him dead, I became bewildered. I thought, ‘Time has taken my son, whose life was not yet spent’; but, O god, by the force of destiny, your curse has manifested in me.