In the heat of battle, the demon warriors met a terrible fate. Their breastplates were torn and impaled upon the unyielding spikes of silk-cotton trees; their heads were shattered in countless ways, dashed against hard stone slabs. Though these demon chiefs came fully armed, the moment they fell, death claimed them instantly. Their very dust was scattered far and wide, vanishing as swiftly as water disappears into the ocean. Among these fierce beings was Shambara, who, burning with wrath as fierce as the fire that consumes the world at the end of an age, unleashed his fury upon the Dāmavyālakaṭa demons. So intense was his rage that the Dāmavyālakaṭas, seized by terror, abandoned their own kind and fled downwards, seeking refuge in the seventh subterranean realm, where they chose to remain hidden. In that dark and distant place, the Kukuhā—servants of Yama, so dreadful they could terrify even ghouls—stood as the guardians of the ocean of hell. Over time, like worries thickening into clouds, the Dāmavyālakaṭas gradually gave their daughters in marriage to these fearsome executioners. Thus allied, they dwelled together, their minds gripped by relentless, destructive impulses, living out ten thousand years in that region. Bound by delusion, they spent their days in attachment and rivalry, each thinking, “This beautiful woman is mine; she belongs to me; I am her master.” In this way, caught in the bonds of false affection, their time slipped away. Then, by chance, the Lord of Dharma himself arrived in that realm, seeking to investigate the conditions of the great hells. But the three asuras, blinded by ignorance, failed to recognize him. Mistaking the Lord of Dharma for a mere servant, they did not offer him respect or homage, unwittingly sealing their own doom. By the command of Vaivasvata, they were cast upon blazing, fiery ground, their faces set in grim determination. There, together with their beloved friends, wives, and relatives, they cried out in agony, consumed by flames like leafy trees devoured in a forest fire. Because of their own harsh tendencies, these beings were born again and again in similar forms—executioners, hunters, royal servants—never escaping the cycle of suffering. Abandoning one birth, they took another: first as crows among the Suhmas, then as vultures, and later as herons. Their crooked minds led them to become corpses among the Trigartas, sheep among the Barbaras, and insects among the Magadhas. Such is the bewildering cycle of births in this world. Even today, O Rama, some of them exist as fish in the marshes and forests of Kashmir. Scorched by wildfires, caught in shallow, muddy filth, they hover between life and death—neither truly alive nor dead, but worn out and decaying like rotting moss. They have endured countless forms of existence, rising and falling again and again, just as waves surge and vanish in the ocean. Carried long by the winds of their own tendencies, they have entered the vast ocean of existence, their bodies like fleeting waves of grass. Even now, O Rama, they remain restless and unfulfilled—such is the dreadful power of ingrained tendencies. All this suffering springs from the pursuit of non-discrimination; the mind, through its own play, creates its own calamity, leading to endless sorrow. Reflect, O Rama: where is the lordship that once destroyed the hosts of gods and demons, and where now is this pitiful state—being a fish, battered and decayed in burning heat and filth? Where is that courage that scattered the armies of the gods, and where is this condition—reduced to a petty servant, a tribal chief, or a minor king? Where is the noble steadfastness of consciousness, free from ego, and where is the false imagination of ego, arising from the influence of delusive tendencies? The dense creeper of worldly existence, with its spreading branches, arises solely from the sprout of ego and extends everywhere. Therefore, O Rama, diligently root out the ego within. Erase the notion “I am someone,” and happiness will follow. The cool, nectarlike orb of the moon of ultimate reality is hidden by the cloud of ego, rendered invisible. The three demons—greed, anger, and delusion—though not real, appear to exist only because of the power of the ego’s illusion. Even now, O Rama, on the marshy banks of the great lotus lake in Kashmir, those fish remain, delighting in the tender shoots of water plants. But know this: the unreal has no true existence, and the real can never cease to be. Tell me, how can that which is unreal ever become real and established? It is so, mighty-armed one: the unreal never truly comes to be, in any place or time. Sometimes it appears as something large or subtle, but it never actually exists. What is it that seems unreal yet appears real, and what is real that appears unreal? With this very example, I will guide you to understanding. Only that which truly exists remains as existent, O Brahman; in truth, we are of that nature. Yet, things like ropes and the rest, though actually nonexistent, are said to exist by you and others. Just as ropes and the like appear established here as creations of illusion—unreal, yet seeming real, like water in a mirage—so too do we, along with gods, demons, and all others, seem to exist. We move and act, but it is all mere appearance. Your sense of self is only imagined, and so is mine; though it is experienced, it is unreal in nature, like dying in a dream. Just as a friend who dies in a dream, though experienced, is made of unreality, and the notion “he is dead” arises—so too is this world. Such talk belongs only to the deluded; it does not shine forth. Through practice, delusion is dispelled—direct experience cannot be denied. A conviction that has taken root within, without effort or repeated practice, never perishes in this world for anyone, at any time. Whoever declares, “This world is unreal; Brahman alone is real,” is mocked by the deluded, just as madmen laugh at another madman. There can be no unity between the knower and the ignorant, just as there can be none between the blind and the seeing, or between shadow and sunlight.