Beholding the abundant splendor of the king of mountains, the two travelers wandered together, marveling at the land adorned with cities and towns spread across the earth. In but a moment, their journey brought them to a river whose waves played among flowers, so beautiful and whole that it seemed as if the river itself were woven entirely from blossoms. There, upon the riverbank, Bhṛgu’s gaze fell upon a certain youth. This young man had turned away from his former body, having attained a different state of being. He sat with senses tranquil, immersed in meditation, his mind steady and unmoving—like one who, after long fatigue, had finally found true rest. It was as if he contemplated the endless cycles of worldly existence—those courses filled with unceasing joy and sorrow. Though once long enjoyed, they had now been long abandoned. His mind, having spun through the infinite revolutions of the worlds, had come to rest—immovable, like a wheel that has spun excessively and now stands still. Bhṛgu beheld him established in utter solitude, radiant by his own inner light, his actions pacified and his mind free from agitation or confusion. Seated in the absorption beyond thought, withdrawn from all opposites, he smiled serenely at the countless courses of the worlds, his mind cool and at peace. Bhṛgu saw before him one who knew all events, whose curiosity was entirely gone, who had dispelled the net of imagination, and who had taken refuge in the supreme state. He rested in infinite repose, established in the Self, not grasping at passing reflections, like a pure crystal lying still. Freed from the dualities of acceptance and rejection, his mind fully awakened and steadfast, Bhṛgu now recognized his own son. At that moment, Time spoke to Bhṛgu, his words resounding like the roar of the ocean: “That is your son.” At these words—“Awaken”—Bhārgava, the son, 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 as if the moon and sun had appeared together. Rising from his seat amid the kadamba creeper bower, he bowed to them, those two handsome and noble brāhmaṇas, like Hari and Hara meeting together. After exchanging greetings, they all sat together upon a rock, revered as if Brahmā, Viṣṇu, and Hara themselves were seated on the summit of Meru. Then, the brāhmaṇa named Śāntatapas, sitting on the riverbank, addressed them with gentle words, sweet as a stream of 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 could not be 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. With your feet, radiant with great splendor, you have sanctified this land—just as the moon and sun purify the sky.” When he had spoken thus, Bhṛgu addressed the son of his former birth: “Remember yourself—you are awakened, not ignorant, O best of the Raghu lineage.” Awakened by Bhṛgu’s words, he recalled his own states from previous births for a moment, his eyes opening in meditation. Then, his face bright with wonder and his heart joyful, that best of speakers uttered words, slow and thoughtful: “Victory to the ever-active power of destiny belonging to the Supreme Self, by whose command this world-wheel, full of enjoyment, revolves. My past births are countless and unknown; those states, filled with their own experiences, have now been remembered as appropriate. I have enjoyed many pursuits and extraordinary fortunes, and countless results of various states, stretching to the ends of aeons. I have witnessed the harsh struggles and delusions of amassing wealth, and have long wandered, free of sorrow, even on the slopes of Meru. “On the banks of the Mandakini, the gods drank fragrant milk tinged red by the blossoms of the heavenly coral tree, along with all kinds of delicacies. They wandered among groves of wish-fulfilling trees, amidst blooming golden creepers and tall palm trees, on Mount Meru’s slopes adorned with the shade and flowers of celestial trees. There is nothing that has not been enjoyed, nothing that has not been done, nothing that has not been seen, whether pleasing or unpleasing to the eye. Now, all that is to be known has been known, all that is to be seen has been seen without harm; long wearied, I have found rest, and all my delusion has departed. “Rise, dear one, let us go and see that body which remains on Mandara, now dried up like a withered forest vine. Here, there is nothing desired by me, nor is there anything I wish to avoid; I simply wander, observing the play of destiny. Why should I persistently follow that which is esteemed and favored by the noble, with a mind fixed on unity? Let whatever opinions are cherished by me be; I simply engage in this natural conduct.” Gradually ascending into the sky and passing through the openings among the clouds, they reached Mandara, the golden-caverned mountain, by the perfected path. At the foot of that mountain, in a field, Bhārgava saw a dried-up body, covered with moist leaves—a remnant from a previous birth. He said: “O dear one, this slender body is indeed the same, which you once cherished with pleasures and delights. This is that intoxicated body for whom cool beds were made with heaps of mandara flowers on the grounds of Meru’s gardens. This is that intoxicated body, once fondled by groups of divine women, now lying on the ground, crushed by the mouths of crawling creatures.