A noble woman approached a revered sage and spoke with deep respect, “Revered one, this noble boy is our son, whom I have raised with great care. He is said to be skilled in all the arts.” She continued, “Lord, there is only one thing he lacks—the supreme knowledge, the auspicious wisdom by which one is never again tormented by the endless cycle of worldly existence.” With humility, she pleaded, “Master, I beg you, please now graciously teach him this knowledge. For who, having a son born into a good family, would allow him to remain in ignorance?” Hearing her earnest words, the sage replied, “Leave your son here with me, gentle one, as my disciple.” With that, he dismissed her, and she departed, placing her trust in the sage’s hands. The boy remained there, disciplined and wise, serving his teacher with the devotion of a son before his father, as Aruṇa stands before the Sun. The sage, with words both varied and striking, instructed his disciple for a long time, imparting to him a knowledge that is rarely attained. He taught through hundreds of stories and narratives, using examples drawn from both direct experience and imagination, recounting ancient histories and drawing upon the conclusions of the Vedas and Vedānta. Always calm, the sage unfolded elaborate sequences of discourse, planting realization firmly in the mind of his wise pupil. Through the power of his own experience and with words both apt and full of profound meaning, the great sage enlightened his son standing before him—like a raincloud instructing the eager peacock in the sky. Once, as I journeyed along that path—myself unseen, moving through the skyway—I came to the river that flows from Kailāsa, intending to bathe. Emerging from the hollow sphere where the Seven Sages dwell in the heavens, I arrived at night at an open space atop a great 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. Hear now, O son of wisdom, the remarkable tale I heard—a story of wondrous marvels. There is a king of immense valor, renowned throughout the three worlds, named Svottha—a ruler 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 wondrous 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 as countless as the waves of the ocean. His strength surpasses even the strongest; he has never been overcome by weapons, missiles, or fire, just as the sky cannot be grasped with a fist. Even Indra, Upendra, and Hara do not attempt to imitate his expansive and radiant play of creation, not even in the slightest. This king possesses three mighty bodies, each capable of bearing the directions, drawing in the worlds, and distinguished as superior, inferior, and intermediate. He was born in the vast expanse of the sky, possessing these three bodies; and there he remained, like sound, wind, and wings. In that limitless sky, he constructed a city—adorned with fourteen grand avenues and embellished with threefold divisions. The city was rich with garlands of forests and gardens, beautiful with playful peaks, entwined with strings of pearls, and decorated with seven pools. It shone with twin lamps of coolness and warmth, was teeming with paths moving upward and downward, and bustled with merchants. Within that exceedingly vast city, the ruler created groups of inhabitants, charming and sheltered. Some were placed above, some below, and some in the middle; some perished slowly, others vanished quickly. The city was covered by dark veils, adorned with nine gates, constantly swept by strong winds, and furnished with many windows. It was illuminated by five lamps, supported by three pillars of white wood, smooth and soft with polished surfaces, and crowded with bustling streets. By means of illusion, that king, O wise one, created mighty yakshas as guardians among the inhabitants—beings always terrifying in appearance. Then, as the waves of enclosure moved, that ruler engaged in various amusements within the nests, like a bird. With his three bodies, he dwelled among them, together with the yakshas, delighting in play, and then swiftly departed again. Sometimes, O child, when his mind was unsettled, he would wish, “Let me go to some city yet to be created,” and this wish was unwavering. As if possessed by a spirit, impelled by force, he would rise and run forth, attaining that city as if it had been fashioned by gandharvas. At other times, when his mind was dull, he would desire, “Let me go to destruction,” and by that, he would perish at once. Yet, he would arise again swiftly, like a great wave rising from water, acting vigorously, then again beginning with sluggishness. By his own actions, at times he became distressed, lamenting, “What shall I do? I am ignorant, I am unhappy,” and he would grieve. Sometimes, joy would arise and grow abundant, just as a river swells with the delight of monsoon rains. He drank, frolicked, moved, stretched, quivered, shone and did not shine—this radiant one, O son, of great glory—like a king, lord of the earth, stirred by the wind as the lord of waters. Then, on a great night in Jambudvīpa, the son asked his father, who was seated at the tip of a kadamba branch and whose heart was pure. “Who is this, renowned as self-arisen, O father, of excellent form among kings? And what is this that has been spoken to me? Please tell me this truthfully.