Rāma, listen as I recount to you the story of Dashura, an illustration that reveals the true nature of the world’s illusion. Upon this earth lies a great and renowned land called Magadha, celebrated for its wondrous trees and vibrant flowers. Its expanse is filled with kadamba groves and wild stretches shaded by palms, alive with flocks of marvelous birds—a sight delightful to behold. Fields thick with crops border this land, city gardens embellish its towns, and every riverbank is adorned with lotuses, blue lilies, and water-lilies. The air resounds with the jingling of women’s ornaments as they play on garden swings, and the fragrance of night-blooming flowers drifts through moonlit groves. On the slope of a certain mountain, dense with karṇikāra trees, shaded by clusters of bananas and radiant with nīpa shrubs, partridges coo in the thickets, waterfalls thunder, mango creepers bloom, and cuckoos sing melodious songs. Wild tribal women play beneath palm-covered skies, and ponds filled with lotuses teem with living creatures. The wind stirs clouds of pollen from masses of flowers, tinged with saffron dust, while the cries of waterfowl echo over autumnal lakes. In this noble and sacred mountain, amidst trees alive with wondrous birds, dwelled a sage of supreme righteousness and great austerity. His name was Dashura, endowed with remarkable ascetic discipline. He lived upon the branch of a kadamba tree, free from passion and blessed with great intellect. Rāma, you may wonder why this ascetic sage chose to dwell in the forest, residing on the branch of a great kadamba tree. Dashura’s father was Sharaloma, renowned by that name—a sage like another Brahma, living upon that very mountain. Sharaloma had only one son, as Kacha was to the preceptor of the gods, and together, father and son spent their lives in the forest. After many ages had passed, Sharaloma departed this world, abandoning his body and ascending to the abode of the gods, like a bird leaving its nest. In that forest, Dashura wept alone, bereft of his father, lamenting pitifully like a kurara bird deprived of its parent. Afflicted by sorrow at the loss of his parents, he withered away, just as a lotus fades in the winter. Then, as the boy’s spirit was dejected, a forest deity comforted him, though its form was unseen. “O son of a sage, great in wisdom,” the deity spoke, “why do you weep like one ignorant? Do you not know the restless nature of worldly existence? Always is the worldly person thus; the cycle of existence is unstable—one is born, lives, and inevitably perishes. Whatever is seen—be it Brahma or anything else—all is destined to pass away; there is no doubt. Therefore, do not indulge in useless sorrow for your father’s death. What is born must surely set, just as the sun must set.” Hearing these words, “He is bodiless,” Dashura, his eyes reddened by grief, regained his composure, as one calmed by thunder. Rising up, he performed the necessary rites for his father with reverence, then firmly resolved to undertake austerity for the highest attainment. Through his Brahmanical actions and austerity in the forest, Dashura attained the state of a learned sage, composed of endless resolve. Yet, despite his noble learning and knowledge of the known and unknown, his mind did not find rest, even upon this pure earth. Though the earth is pure, seeing it as impure, he found no delight anywhere. Then, by his own resolve, Dashura determined: “Let my dwelling be only upon the purified treetop.” He resolved, “Now I shall undertake austerity, by which, through penance, I may attain the state of a bird, abiding on branches and leaves.” With this thought, he kindled a blazing sacrificial fire and, cutting flesh from his own shoulder, offered it into the fire. At that moment, the voices of the entire host of celestials spoke through my mouth: “Let not the flesh of the brahmin be reduced to ashes.” The divine seven-flamed Fire, assuming form, appeared before Dashura, radiant as the lord of speech. The Fire spoke: “O noble one, accept the boon you desire, established and ready, as one takes a jewel from a casket.” When the Fire thus spoke, Dashura, adorned with offerings of flowers and water, worshipped him with praise and replied: “O Lord, the ground of this earth, filled with beings, is sacred; yet I cannot reach it. Therefore, may my dwelling be upon the trees.” When Dashura spoke thus, Śikhī, the lord whose face is all the gods, replied, “So be it,” and then vanished from sight. As the god disappeared, Dashura, his desires fulfilled, shone like the full moon as evening clouds fade away. Having attained his cherished wish, his face radiant with joy, he laughed contentedly, resembling the moon surrounded by its full digits, a blooming white lotus, and a smile bright with shining teeth. Then, in the midst of the forest, where the circle of clouds was kissed and the midday sun’s horses found shade beneath the pavilion of tree trunks, the trees stretched their long, branch-like arms, as if measuring the womb of the directions, gazing upon the quarters with the eyes of blossoming flowers.