In the vastness of the sky, not far from where he journeyed, Hiraṇyagarbha—Brahmā, the lotus-born—beheld something pure and radiant, shining with an unearthly clarity. He wondered, “Is this a lotus stalk growing in the sea, or does it stand suspended in the very heavens? How could such a thing be here?” As he drew closer, he saw that this wondrous form was not a lotus but a ketakī leaf, emerging from the heart of the lotus itself. Moved by curiosity and hope, Hiraṇyagarbha reached out and took hold of the spotless ketakī leaf. Thus, for a hundred thousand years, he soared onward through the sky, seeking the source and meaning of this vision. Yet, as the ages passed, his hopes began to falter. The lotus-born pondered deeply, his vow unfulfilled, and in his humility, he took refuge even in lowliness. He reflected, “In this trial, what can my limited strength accomplish? My very limbs feel as though they are falling apart, as if I am being drawn downward into collapse.” With heavy sighs, he thought, “What more can I say with so many words? Let the knot of pride and arrogance be broken from my mind.” He recognized that his effort exceeded the very measure of the world’s expanse, and he confessed, “Of this mass of splendor, I am neither Nārāyaṇa nor anyone else. I do not have the power to rise from here or to turn back.” At this moment, Brahmā addressed the leaf, asking, “Who are you, and from where have you come?” The ketakī leaf replied, “By Śiva’s command, I was made a ketakī leaf, endowed with consciousness. Desiring to dwell upon the earth, I have now arrived here.” Hearing these words, the lotus-born was reassured, his heart finding some peace. He then perceived that countless universes were attached all around to this one, each connected in a mysterious design. After passing through forty thousand yugas, he recounted, he had finally fallen downward, ending his long search. As these words were spoken, the lotus-born bowed in reverence. Brahmā then spoke openly: “A rivalry was created by me, Brahmā, together with Viṣṇu. In our pride, both of us forgot the glory of Śiva. Let that shameful conversation be set aside for now, for I am still present before you. The friendship of seven steps is renowned—may you, too, consider me your friend. Setting aside those with unpraising minds, you ought to grant your favor. “We assumed the forms of a swan and a boar, each seeking to surpass the other and dispel our sense of equality. Yet I do not know such a state of longing to see its end. I am utterly exhausted, as if separated from my very life. Therefore, make this request of your friend fruitful for me. This must be done by you; with hands joined, I make this plea. Even when one does not perceive, one has attained equality with me. Now, the responsibility for avoidance rests with you alone. “Speak this single statement before the wielder of the discus: ‘I have seen the highest point; here I stand as witness.’ This one is greatly honored, just as a father is honored by his grandfather. Having said this, let my great assistance be rendered by you.” With these words, Brahmā addressed Viṣṇu, who dwelled in brilliance at the summit, and spoke the remainder of his thoughts. Yet, Viṣṇu, discerning and wise, concluded within himself that the summit had not been seen by Brahmā. He understood that, to show him favor in his ignorance and to destroy the pride born of fate, the truth must be revealed. For, by the inability to perceive the root, the pride of his own brilliance was checked, and so humility dawned upon him.