Amidst a land adorned with rice fields and sandalwood groves, majestic mountains rose, their summits draped in the white garments of snow and clouds. These peaks, reflecting the fresh adornment of the ocean’s waters, were ringed with dense forests teeming with trees, serving as the very inner chambers of the world. They seemed to wear garments cleansed in the waters of spring, brightened by the saffron rays of the sun, festooned with flowers of every kind, and anointed with sandalwood as pale as moonlight. Upon a broad leaf of a skyward creeper, surrounded by winding forest vines and gentle breezes, a sage sat joyfully, his gaze embracing the women of the three worlds, each direction perpetually adorned with blossoms. From that time onward, he became renowned among the ascetics of that hermitage as Kadamba Dāśūra—a hero steadfast in severe austerity. There, seated upon the leaf, he beheld the quarters for a moment before settling firmly into the lotus posture, withdrawing his mind from all directions. Though unaware of the highest truth and devoted only to ritual, his heart fixed on offering the fruits of action, he performed a sacrifice. Dwelling in the forest, seated upon the leaf high in the sky, he completed all sacrificial rites in their proper order, using only his mind. For ten years he worshipped the gods mentally, offering sacrifices of cows, horses, and humans, bestowing abundant gifts. Over time, as his mind became pure, knowledge arose within him by the grace of the self, entering forcefully and dissolving the coverings of ignorance. The stains of latent impressions fell away, and the sage, free from all impurity, remained upon that leaf. One day, on that very creeper before him, he beheld a forest goddess, her wide eyes shining, her flower-laden garment swaying gently. Her face was like that of a passionate beloved, her eyes rolling with intoxication, fragrant with blue lotuses, and exceedingly captivating. The sage addressed her, flawless in form and with a bowed face, as a cuckoo might address a flowering forest vine: “Who are you, O lotus-eyed one, whose heart is stirred by love? Why do you, adorned with blossoms, dwell upon this vine as if it were your companion?” Thus addressed, the doe-eyed, fair, full-breasted woman replied with charming innocence, “Whatever rare things are desired on earth are swiftly obtained by the request of the great. I am the forest goddess of this grove of creepers, adorned by your presence, O Brahman, dwelling in the play of the vines. “On the thirteenth day of the bright half of Chaitra, during the festival of love, there was a gathering of the forest goddesses in the Nandana grove. With joyful flowers, buzzing bees, and the song of cuckoos and honeybees, I went there, O Lord, to the assembly of the beauties of the three worlds. During the festival, I saw all my friends—some with children, some without—and because I was childless, I was deeply distressed. With you here, the great wish-fulfilling tree for all seekers, how can I, O Lord, be lamented as childless, as if I were helpless? “Grant me a son, O blessed one; if not, I will offer my body to the fire here, making an oblation to relieve the burning sorrow of childlessness.” The eminent sage, smiling at the slender woman who had spoken thus, compassionately gave her a flower held in his hand and said, “Go, slender-limbed one; within a month you will bear a son worthy of worship, with beautiful eyes, just as a creeper produces a lovely flower. But he will be possessed by the taint of death, for you have requested him with difficulty; therefore, he will be ignorant and hard to obtain.” Having spoken thus, the sage dismissed the maiden, whose face was bright with happiness as she expressed her desire to serve him. She returned to her own abode, while he remained immersed in himself; and time passed, marked by the turning of seasons and years. After a long time, the lotus-eyed goddess, having completed twelve years, brought her son to the sage. Bowing and seating herself before him, her face radiant as the moon, she spoke gently, “Revered one, this noble boy is our son, whom I have raised; he is said to be skilled in all the arts. Lord, only knowledge has not been imparted to him—the auspicious knowledge by which one is not tormented again in this wheel of worldly existence. Master, please now graciously teach him knowledge; for who would allow a son born in a good family to remain in ignorance?” To her, the sage replied, “Leave your son, O gentle one—my disciple—here with me,” and then dismissed her. When she had departed, the sage remained there with the boy, disciplined and wise, as a pupil before his father, like Aruṇa before the Sun. Then, with varied and striking words, the sage instructed his son for a long time, imparting knowledge that is rarely attained. With hundreds of stories and narratives, with examples both seen and imagined, as well as accounts from history and the conclusions of the Vedas and Vedānta, he always taught calmly, with elaborate sequences of discourse, instilling realization—firmly established in the minds of the wise. By the force of his own experience, with apt and meaningful words full of profound essence, the great sage enlightened his son standing before him, like a cloud instructing a peacock in the sky. Once, traveling along that path, I—myself unseen, moving along the skyway—came to the river that flows from Kailāsa to bathe.