Endowed with a powerful sense of urgency, he moved through a world shaped by his own will. Yet, when the store of his merit was spent, he vanished as quietly as mist dissolves into the night. His head was crowned with wilted flowers, his limbs weary and glistening with sweat; together with her, he collapsed, like a fruit that falls to the ground when fully ripened by time. Abandoning his celestial form, he ascended into the sky as a subtle being, and from there, passing through the elemental space, he came to be born again upon the earth. In this manner, he took on many lives: he was a twice-born in Dasharna, a king in Kosala, a fisherman in the vast Anga forest, and a swan gliding along the banks of three rivers. He became a king of the solar dynasty in Paundra, a devoted worshipper in Salva, a learned Vidyādhara for an entire age, and a wise, prosperous son of a sage. He ruled in Madra and later lived as a young ascetic named Vasudeva, residing on the banks of the Samaṅgā river. Driven by the force of his own deep-seated impressions, this son of yours wandered through countless and diverse births, appearing in strange places. 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 dwelled in the bamboo thicket; in the wilderness, he was a deer; beneath the palm tree, a creeping reptile; and in the tamāla tree, a wild fowl. In one life, he became foremost among those skilled in mantras and recited the knowledge that grants the status of a Vidyādhara. By that power, 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 of Vidyādhara women, and an ornament to the Gandharva city. When the aeon ended in the realm of the twelve suns, he was reduced to mere ashes, like a moth drawn into the fire. Then, in the vast sky, empty of all creation, his subtle impressions wandered like a homeless bird. When time brought forth a new and wondrous beginning at the reversal of Brahmā’s night, the tumult of worldly existence began anew. That mental impression of his, carried on the wind, assumed the state of a brāhmaṇa at the dawn of this fresh 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. Pushed by various 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 in hand, having subdued the confusion of all his senses, he remained steadfast in his austerities for eight hundred years. O sage, if you wish to see that wandering-minded son, then quickly open the eye of knowledge and behold him. When the Lord of the universe spoke thus, the sage, steady in his gaze, turned the eye of knowledge toward his son’s welfare. In a single moment, by the power of intuition, he saw the entire story of his son reflected in the mirror of his intellect. Then Bhṛgu, returning from the bank of the Samaṅgā, re-entered his own body, standing upon the slope of Mount Mandara at the appointed time. Smiling in wonder, the passionless sage looked at Time and spoke 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 world, though full of many forms and changes, appears real though it is unreal, and it confuses even 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. It is said that death does not exist for my son; so when I saw him dead, I was 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. Yet, knowing the ways of the world, we do not fall under the sway of joy or anger, whether we meet with misfortune or fortune. Anger arises at one who acts wrongly, and favor toward one who acts rightly—such is the established order in this world, O Lord. ‘This is to be done, this is not to be done’—such is the way of the world for as long as one lives; just as long as fire exists, so long are heat and burning perceived. But for one who thinks, ‘This is to be accepted, this is to be rejected,’ the very existence of the world is to be abandoned, O teacher of the world. It was only because, not seeing our child, we were agitated with thoughts about her, O blessed one, that we came to you; let this be spoken. Now, O Lord, by your reminder, I have seen my son on the riverbank with Samaṅgā; thus, he has been seen by me. I think, among beings in the world, there are not two bodies; for the mind alone is the body, by which this world is conceived. You have spoken truly, O Brahman, that the mind alone is our body; it fashions the body by imagination, just as a potter shapes a pot. It creates what was not formed and instantly destroys what was made; by imagination, the mind, out of delusion, acts like a child with a clay doll. In the same way, in confusion, dream, and false knowledge, radiant powers appear in the mind, taking the form of illusory Gandharva cities.