O Raghava, while living in this world and enjoying its pleasures with wisdom, strive always for what is best, aiming for the highest purpose, even as you remain established in what is truly beneficial. Let not the analogy of the rope, snake, and stick arise in your mind; instead, let there be for you an extreme freedom from sorrow, steadfast as a tree scorched by fierce light. When you hear the analogy of the rope, snake, and stick—let it not arise, O Brahman—what is this, you ask, spoken by the remover of worldly suffering? With noble and pure words, awaken me, you say, like the raincloud dispelling intense heat, or as the peacock is awakened in the rainy season. O Raghava, having heard this analogy and the steadfastness of the scorched tree, then do whatever you desire. There once lived in a wondrous and enchanting cave in the netherworld a king of demons named Shambara, an ocean of magical gems. He built temples for the gods in cities and gardens made of sky, and his own realm was adorned with artificial moons and suns of the highest kind. Delightful mountains filled with lotuses formed from precious stones were his, and his wealth was endless, overflowing with every kind of treasure. The music of the women in his jeweled palaces surpassed even the melodies of celestial nymphs. The trees in his pleasure gardens bore fruits as full as the moon. His lovely abodes were surrounded by clusters of blooming blue lotuses, and golden swans summoned flocks of golden lotuses and waterfowl. The tips of his golden trees bore buds of lotuses, while groves of karanja trees produced showers of mandara blossoms. His gardens, blooming in all seasons, surpassed even Nandana, the gods’ own paradise. Sandalwood from Malaya was guarded from illusory serpents and wild beasts. The women of his golden inner chambers outshone the beauty of all three worlds, and even the gods with discus and mace could not rival him in play. His city was adorned with countless rising streams of jewels like stars, and the women, decked in various flowers, had their knees touched by the abundance. At night, the sky of the netherworlds shone with hundreds of moons, resounding with the melodious songs and music of its own celestial women. The mighty elephant of the gods, Airavata, was driven away by the illusion of Shambara. His inner chambers were filled with the splendor and wealth of the three worlds. Endowed with all prosperity and supreme lordship, his commands were honored by all the chiefs of the demons. The assembly of gods found rest in the shade of his mighty arms, and he was adorned with earrings of gems drawn from the essence of all oceanic caves. For the god who had been driven out, there arose a vast and formidable army of demons, fierce in form and intent on the destruction of the gods. While the master of illusion slept, having gone to another land, the gods found an opening and entered the midst of his army. Shambara appointed powerful chiefs like Dudrika and Hvadrumā to guard his forces. But the leaders of the gods, seizing the opportunity, attacked them as hawks attack flocks of bewildered finches flying in the sky. The foremost of asuras again appointed other commanders, restless and loud-voiced like waves upon the sea. The gods swiftly slew them as well, which made Shambara furious. Filled with wrath, he advanced toward the celestial realm, intent on its destruction. There, the gods, frightened by his magic, vanished from sight like deer fleeing into the groves of Mount Meru at the approach of a tawny lion. He saw heaven empty, with the faces of the gods wet with tears, and the hosts of lesser immortals wailing—like a world at the end of an age. After raging there, Shambara seized what he could, burned the cities of the guardians of the worlds, and returned to his own abode. Thus, as the enmity between gods and demons grew ever stronger, the gods abandoned heaven and disappeared in all directions. Whichever commanders Shambara appointed with great effort, those very ones the gods, striving earnestly, slew. Until Shambara, seized by intense anger, flared up like fire fanned by the wind, breathing hard. Even after searching through the three worlds, he did not find the gods; with utmost effort, he found only the virtuous, as one finds the wicked. By his power of illusion, he created three fierce and mighty demons, who arose for the protection of strength, standing as embodiments of time. Formed by illusion, these terrifying beings had arms like the branches of wish-fulfilling trees; they were enormous in size, rising up like mountains agitated by wings. Named Dama, Vyala, and Kata, they were marked by these names; each acted as they found opportunity, possessing only the nature of consciousness. Because of the absence of impressions from previous actions, they lacked any latent tendencies; their activity was solely the vibration of pure consciousness, free from distinctions. Holding the subtle seed of action, which is of the nature of thought, yet unstrengthened and artificial within, they came into being. By succession, these warriors acted like the chance meeting of a crow and a palm fruit; they followed the natural course of action, having abandoned latent tendencies. Just as children half-asleep move only their own limbs, so too, lacking identification with impressions and ego, they acted in the same way. They knew neither falling nor being struck down, nor flight; neither life nor death, nor battle, nor victory and defeat. Simply seeing the soldiers before them, poised to strike, they attacked the enemies in battle, shattering them like mountains split by blows.