In the quiet hours before dawn, a king sat in deep reflection, pondering the strange and sorrowful nature of worldly existence. He thought of how, in childhood, ignorance strikes like a blow; in youth, passion wounds the heart; and later in life, anxieties about family and loved ones torment the mind. He wondered, in such a state, what hope does a dull-witted person have, and when might they find peace? His mind, clouded by delusion, failed to see how tasteless this worldly life truly is—a life marked by constant coming and going, spoiled by ever-changing fortunes, and devoid of any real essence. Even the most magnificent sacrifices, such as the Rājasūya or Aśvamedha, he considered, grant only a fleeting taste of heaven, and nothing lasting. He asked himself: Is there any place—whether in heaven, on earth, or in the netherworld—where suffering and calamity do not assail, creeping in like wicked temptresses? How could one ever prevent these afflictions and diseases, which are like serpents emerging from the cave of one’s own mind and sprouting throughout the body? He saw that unreality sits upon reality, unpleasantness upon pleasant places, and sorrow follows happiness; so what, he wondered, could he truly rely upon in this world? Common creatures are born and die in endless succession, filling the earth without pause, while the noble and virtuous are rare indeed. He reflected on the fleeting nature of worldly pleasures: women with eyes like blue lotuses, adorned with love, exist only for brief amusement, vanishing in a moment. Even those whose very blinking brings about the creation and dissolution of worlds have come and gone—so what significance is there in counting ordinary people like himself? He realized there are pleasures more delightful than the delightful, and things more stable than the stable, yet what is the value of such prosperity if it all ends in anxiety? If the mind clings to wealth, even great undertakings become misfortunes; if it accepts misfortune, even suffering can be transformed into prosperity. He saw that the world is nothing but a transformation of the mind, as fragile as a drop of water. Where, then, is the meaning in saying “this is mine,” or in seeking anything imperishable? The very existence of the world arises by coincidence, and the mind’s cleverness simply imagines acceptance and rejection in vain. Among all the fragmented pleasures of the world, he questioned which one truly held him, like a moth drawn to the flames. He thought it might be better to writhe in the fires of hell and be consumed, rather than remain battered by the endless cycles of worldly existence. For this world is truly the boundary of all suffering—how could anyone trapped within it ever find happiness? Those who remain in this world of great, uncontrived suffering, he mused, come to consider all other pains as almost sweet by comparison. He himself, afflicted by distress, had become like those ignorant ones—unmoved, as if made of wood or earth, untouched by real substance. He saw that the sprout of the tree of worldly existence, with its countless branches, fruits, and leaves, grows from the root of the mind. That sprout, he realized, is nothing but thought itself; by ceasing these thoughts, the tree of worldly existence would wither and die. Now, recognizing the restless, monkey-like movements of his mind—charming only in appearance—he no longer found delight in these tasteless things. He had experienced the cycles of worldly existence, woven with countless cords of desire and filled with repeated misfortunes; now, he resolved, he would desist. He remembered how, again and again, he had lamented, “Alas, I am ruined, I am lost, I am dead.” But now, having grieved, he was finished with sorrow—he would mourn no longer. He felt awakened, delighted, and had seen the true thief—his own mind. He resolved to slay this mind, for too long it had slain him. At last, the fruit of freedom from mind, which had always remained unpierced, was now within his grasp—ready to be enjoyed. He felt his mind, like a particle of frost, would soon dissolve in the sunlight of discernment, bringing lasting peace. He acknowledged that he had been awakened by the wise, the virtuous, and the accomplished, and now he would follow his own true self, the means to supreme bliss. Having found and beheld his own self—the precious jewel—he abided in happiness, like a spotless autumn cloud after the lightning had passed. Casting aside, with force, the false notions of “I am this,” “this is mine,” and the like, he resolved to slay the exceedingly impure enemy—the mind—and attain peace. He offered reverent salutations to discernment. As he reflected in this way, dawn arrived. The doorkeeper appeared before him, just as Aruṇa stands at the front of the Sun’s chariot. With respectful words, the doorkeeper addressed him: “O lord, pillar of the gods, you who bear the weight of the earth at rest—rise and fulfill the royal duties appropriate for this day.” He described how women, bearing pitchers of water scented with flowers, camphor, and saffron, stood ready at the bathing place, like rivers given form. A pavilion of cloth had been prepared for the queen, adorned with bees wandering among lotuses and blue water-lilies, as if it were a living grove. The banks of the lotus-pond were filled with parasols, chariots, horses, and elephants bearing fans, all serving those who would come for the bathing occasion. Places for the king’s worship had been made ready, covered in canopies of fresh flowers, jewels, and medicinal herbs. The twice-born, purified by bathing and reciting sacred hymns, awaited him alone as the one worthy of their offerings. Women stood ready to fan him, and the dining halls, cooled and prepared by his beloveds, awaited his presence. “Rise quickly, O lord, and blessings to you,” urged the doorkeeper. “Perform your duty with discipline, for the great do not delay in their actions.” Hearing these words, the king began once more to reflect deeply on the strange and sorrowful nature of worldly existence.