Freed at last from all coverings and the stains of latent impressions, the sage, now pure and untainted, dwelled peacefully upon a single leaf. One day, as he sat there, his gaze fell upon a creeper before him, and there he beheld a forest goddess. She had wide, enchanting eyes and a garment woven with swaying flowers. Her face radiated the charm of a passionate beloved; her eyes, rolling with intoxication, were as fragrant as blue lotuses—captivating beyond measure. Moved by her flawless form and bowed countenance, the sage spoke to her gently, 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?” Addressed thus, the doe-eyed, fair, full-breasted goddess replied with innocent and charming words: “O sage, whatever rare things are desired on earth, all these are swiftly obtained by the request of the great. I am the forest goddess of this grove of creepers, adorned now by your presence, O Brahman, and dwelling amidst the play of the vines. “On the thirteenth day of the bright half of Chaitra, during the festival of love, all the forest goddesses gathered in the Nandana grove. Joyful flowers bloomed, bees and cuckoos sang, and honeybees adorned the air. I too went there, O Lord, to the assembly of the beauties of the three worlds. “But there, during the festival, I saw all my friends—some with children, some without—and as I alone was childless, I became deeply distressed. Now, with you—the great wish-fulfilling tree for all seekers—standing here, how can I be lamented as childless, as if 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.” Hearing her plea, the eminent sage smiled compassionately at the slender woman. He offered her a flower from 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. Yet know this: he will be touched by the taint of death, for you have asked for him with great difficulty; therefore, he will be ignorant and hard to obtain.” Having thus spoken, the sage dismissed the maiden, her face now bright with happiness as she expressed her desire to serve him. She returned to her abode, while the sage remained in his solitude. Time passed, marked by seasons and years. After a long while—twelve years—the lotus-eyed goddess returned, bringing her son to the sage. Bowing before him, her face radiant as the moon, she spoke with gentle words, as a bee might to a mango tree: “Revered one, this noble boy is our son, whom I have raised. He is said to be skilled in all the arts. Only knowledge—the auspicious knowledge by which one is freed from the wheel of worldly existence—has not yet been imparted to him. Master, please graciously teach him this 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.” Thus dismissed, she departed. The boy remained, disciplined and wise before the sage, as Aruṇa stands before the Sun. With varied and striking words, the sage instructed his son for a long time, imparting that rarest of knowledge. He wove together hundreds of stories and narratives, examples both seen and imagined, accounts from history, and the conclusions of the Vedas and Vedānta. Always calm, with elaborate discourse, he established realization firmly in the mind of his disciple. Drawing from the force of his own experience, the sage enlightened his son with apt and meaningful words, rich with profound essence—like a cloud instructing a peacock in the sky. Once, as I myself traveled along that path—unseen, moving through the sky—I came to the river that flows from Kailāsa to bathe. Emerging from the hollow of the sphere of the Seven Sages in the sky, I arrived at night at the open space atop a Dāśūra tree. As I listened, I heard from the hollow of a tree in the forest a voice, faint as the hum of a bee enclosed in a lotus bud. Listen, O son of wisdom, to this wondrous story. There is a king of immense valor, renowned throughout the three worlds—Svottha—prosperous and capable of conquering the universe. All the leaders in every realm uphold his commands with reverence, as if bearing the finest crest jewel upon their heads. He delights in daring exploits and marvelous adventures, and in all three worlds, none has ever subdued this great soul. The thousands of undertakings he initiates, bringing both joy and sorrow, are countless, like waves in the ocean. His strength surpasses even the strongest; no weapon, missile, or fire has ever overcome him, just as the sky cannot be grasped with a fist. Even Indra, Upendra, and Hara do not attempt to imitate his radiant play of creation, not even in the slightest. He possesses three bodies, mighty-armed and capable of bearing the directions, drawing in the worlds—distinguished as superior, inferior, and intermediate.