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By religious merit, even King Indradyumna who had fallen could rise again—one’s deeds always matter.
Childhood play, youthful pride, and old-age detachment—all are transient—like dreams or illusions.
Though I’ve hosted rituals and wise priests, my heart feels no joy—fathers of daughters always worry.
Like Kubera, the generous one gives freely and earns reverence like a guru from his followers.
Even one beloved, nurtured and trusted, can turn wicked—like a snake sleeping on your lap will still bite.
After performing the war as a sacred yajña, using countless weapons, I now prepare to take the purifying bath—how could I do so without my beloved wif...
O deer! Why do you trust those shimmering, deceptive eyes? That fluttering lady is but a hunter’s bait in disguise.
O fawn! Why abandon the tender rice buds for this illusory field? That man, armed with straw-like arrows, is a fake hunter.
Why do my reason and learning flicker like a fading lamp before your blinding presence? Even deep knowledge dims before overwhelming passion.
The consequences of past karma are strange—those heads that once shone on Shiva's head now lie crushed under vulture’s claws.
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