Once, in the freshness of spring, as young creepers blossomed and clusters of flower buds adorned the groves, a certain king wandered amidst the joyous chorus of intoxicated cuckoos. The air was alive with their jubilant songs. Drawn by the beauty of the season, he entered a grove resplendent with blooming vines, so delightful and charming it seemed as if Indra himself were savoring the pleasures of the celestial Nandana garden. Within that splendid and pleasing forest, the king moved through lovely bowers, the breeze carrying the sweet fragrance of kesara flowers. He wandered alone, his attendants remaining respectfully at a distance. As he strolled beneath the shade of tamāla trees, he suddenly heard voices—words spoken by siddhas, the perfected beings, though they themselves remained unseen. These siddhas, dwelling always in mountain caves with minds free from attachment, sang songs filled with the essence of realization. “O lotus-eyed one,” they intoned, “we worship that pure essence of self, which arises from the union of seer and seen, and is the certainty of bliss born of direct knowledge. Abandoning the seer, the seeing, and the seen, along with all impressions, we worship the self, the first light of awareness. We ever worship the self, which has neither appearance nor mental constructions, is incomparable to any manifestation, and whose experience is the contemplation of non-being. We worship that Self, the illuminator of illuminations, which always abides in the middle of the two positions—existence and non-existence. We worship our own Self, without head or form, established in all forms, resounding ceaselessly. Those who abandon the Lord dwelling in the cave of the heart and seek another deity are like one who, having the Kaustubha gem in his own hand, throws it away to search for a common jewel. Indeed, by abandoning all desires, this fruit is attained, by which the poisonous creepers of desire are uprooted at the root. Even after realizing the utter hostility of objects, if a foolish person again binds his mind to them, such a man is not even a donkey. Again and again, one must destroy the senses, whether risen or not, with the thunderbolt of discrimination, just as Hari destroys mountains with his thunderbolt. Let the pure-hearted one, by the power of tranquility, attain the happiness of peace; with the mind pacified, abiding in one’s own true nature, supreme happiness endures for a long time.” Hearing these profound songs of the siddhas, the king was overcome with despair, just as the timid are struck with fear at the sound of battle. He returned to his household, his retinue following like the swelling waters of the rainy season carrying the trees along the riverbank toward the ocean. Once home, he dismissed his entire retinue and, alone, ascended to his lofty chamber, like the sun rising to the summit of a mountain. Restless and troubled, his mind fluttered like the wings of birds at dusk. He gazed upon the ways of the world and, in his distress, lamented: “Alas, how grievous are these ever-changing states of the world! I am tossed about among stones, like a stone, helplessly and in vain. Of endless time, only a fragment is lived by me; upon that I fix my thoughts—shame on me, whose mind is so base. How small indeed is this so-called kingdom I have enjoyed in life! What is it worth? Without it, I remain in sorrow, my mind ruined as before. In the beginning and end, I am infinite, yet in the middle my life is frail; like a child marveling at the painted moon, why do I stand firm in vain? This world, constructed by the magician of illusion, is a net of magic; alas, I am bewildered—by whom have I been so thoroughly deluded? Whatever thing is delightful, noble, and genuine—none of that is truly found here; so, upon what should my resolve be fixed? Even what is far away or near, if it occupies my mind, having discerned this, I abandon all mental fixation on external things. The world’s nature is crooked and deceptive, fragile like a whirlpool of water; even now it brings sorrow—so what reliance can there be on it for happiness? Year by year, month by month, day by day, and moment by moment, pleasures are pierced by pain, while pains return again and again. Again and again examined, seen, questioned, and observed—there is nothing here that is not hollow, in which the wise might find abiding. Those who today are at the summit of greatness fall down in a few days; with the mind’s greatness destroyed, how can you place your trust in this? I am bound by a rope that is no rope, I am unstained yet tainted; I have fallen though I am above—alas, my own state is ruined. How has this delusion suddenly come upon me, even though I am wise? My vision is darkened, like the sun’s peak covered by a black cloud. What are these great enjoyments to me? Who are these relatives of mine? Like a child frightened by imaginary beings, by what am I disturbed? I myself bind myself to old age and death; why do I hold to this resolve regarding possessions, which is laden with anxiety? Let it come or remain—what hold does this prosperity have over me? For like the beauty of a bubble, it is falsely presented in this way. Those great riches and enjoyments, those dear and affectionate relatives—all have entered the realm of memory; what steadfastness is there even in the present? Where are the treasures of kings, or of Brahmās, or even the worlds themselves? All that was before has passed away; what is this trust I have? The marks of Indra’s sovereignty have vanished like bubbles on water; the virtuous will laugh at me, who clings to life with hope. Millions of Brahmās have passed away, the cycles of creation have gone; kings have departed like dust—what steadfastness do I have in life? If I place reliance in this empty delusion, this body-based confusion, which is like a bad dream in the night of saṃsāra, then let me be condemned for such a state.” Thus, the king’s heart was filled with disillusionment, and his mind turned inward, seeking the truth beyond the fleeting play of the world.