Who in this world, indeed, can accomplish anything that has not already been shaped by the inclination of their own mind? All the pleasures and pains of heaven and hell, and every desire that arises for either, are but the outpourings of one’s own mind; their fruit is only the dullness and suffering of inertia. Why speak further with elaborate words? Arise, O venerable one, let us go to where your son now abides. Having experienced all things with the subtle body of mind, Śukra, in a single moment, was now, through the union of the moon’s rays, established in the heat of the sun. The vital wind, joined with the mind and bearing the fruit of the moon’s rays, had become like rain, standing as virility within man. Thus having spoken, the venerable Kāla, as if smiling at the ways of the world, took Bhṛgu by the hand, just as the sun gently draws the moonbeam to itself. Softly, Kāla said, “Indeed, how wondrous are the arrangements of destiny.” At these words, the venerable Bhṛgu rose up like the sun rising from the eastern mountain. The two great ones, arisen together like twin treasures of light, shone resplendently in the forest amid the dark tamāla trees, as if the full moon and the sun were ascending together into the clear sky, ready to wander as the cloud-laden moon and the radiant sun. As the sage finished speaking, the day moved toward evening and the sun set. The assembly, offering their salutations, departed to bathe, accompanied by the gentle rays of the setting sun. As Kāla and Bhṛgu descended from the mountain, they beheld celestial beings of great brilliance, sleeping in groves adorned with clusters of fresh golden creepers. Heavenly maidens played nearby with vine bracelets and swings, their gazes innocent as deer, their enchanting eyes recalling the beauty of lotuses. Lions sat upon lofty rocks, embodiments of vigor, gazing indifferently upon the three worlds. Elephant chiefs, their hands resting on tall palms and creepers, stood drowsy with intoxication, as if embodying pride itself. They saw camaras with bodies reddened by flower pollen and wind, their tails fluttering and moving beautifully in auspicious patterns across the earth. Bees were continually immersed in showers of falling flowers, taking refuge among the branches of sarja and date palms. Monkeys, fierce in their wandering, with faces colored by minerals, made loud noises, defeating the reeds with their playful fruit-throwing. Mountain slopes, groves, and palaces were all concealed beneath canopies of vines, where accomplished beings were attended by celestial women adorned with mandāra flowers. The banks were covered by layers of minerals and veiled by sheets of clouds, untouched by people, resembling Buddhist ascetics who had renounced worldly contact. Rivers flowed with waves bound by clusters of jasmine and mandāra, as if the ocean itself had seized them, decorated with the freshness of spring. The trees, shaken by the wind and weighed down by masses of flowers, appeared exhausted from receiving honey, their bees swirling with restless eyes. Beholding the abundant splendor of the king of mountains, Kāla and Bhṛgu wandered here and there and finally arrived at the earth, adorned with cities and towns. In a moment, they reached a beautiful river whose waves played among flowers, appearing as if the river itself was entirely composed of blossoms. There, on its bank, Bhṛgu saw a certain youth who had turned away from his former body, having attained a different state of being. His senses were tranquil, established in meditation, his mind steady and unmoving, as if he had rested after long fatigue. The endless cycles of worldly existence, filled with unceasing joy and sorrow, seemed as if they were being contemplated—though long experienced, now they had been long abandoned. His mind had attained immovability, like a wheel that, having spun excessively, finally comes to rest, as if by the extraordinary turning of the infinite revolutions of the worlds. Bhṛgu beheld him established in utter solitude, lovely, relying on his own radiance alone; his actions pacified, free from the agitation and confusion of the mind. Seated in the absorption beyond thought, withdrawn from the play of opposites, he smiled gently at all the courses of the worlds, his mind cooled and serene. He was one who knew all events, whose curiosity had vanished, who had dispelled the net of imagination and found refuge in the supreme state. He rested in a state of infinite repose, established in the Self, not grasping at reflections, like a pure crystal lying still. Freed from the dual notions of acceptance and rejection, with a mind fully awakened and steadfast, Bhṛgu recognized his son. Seeing him thus, Time spoke to Bhṛgu with words resounding like the ocean’s roar: “That is your son.” At the words, “Awaken,” Bhārgava gradually emerged from deep samādhi, like the lord of birds rising at the sound of thunder. Opening his eyes, he saw before him the two mighty Kālabhṛgus, radiant like the moon and sun appearing together. Rising from his seat on the kadamba creeper bower, he bowed to them—those two noble and handsome brāhmaṇas, like Hari and Hara meeting together. Having exchanged greetings, they all sat together on a rock, revered as if Brahmā, Viṣṇu, and Hara themselves had gathered on the summit of Meru. Then the brāhmaṇa named Śāntatapas, sitting on the riverbank, addressed them with gentle words, sweet as nectar: “Today, by seeing you both, I have attained contentment, just as the world is gladdened when the cool moon and the warm sun appear together. The delusion of my mind, which was not dispelled by scriptures, austerity, knowledge, or learning, has now faded by seeing you. Even the inner showers of pure nectar do not bring such joy as does the sight of the great ones.