Listen now to the ancient wisdom as it unfolds, a tapestry of the soul’s journey and the ways of righteousness. The souls, after departing from their former bodies, enter into every part of creation: trees, herbs, the flowing waters, the moving winds, the earth beneath, and the vast sky above. They take form as all creatures—those who walk on four legs, those who walk on two, and all beings that move and breathe. In this way, they become embodied once more, taking shape as embryos within the womb. A question arises: When a being enters the womb, does it assume a new body, or does it enter with the same form it had before? How, indeed, does one attain a human birth? By what means does the body grow to such stature? How do the eyes and ears come to possess their powers? These mysteries are pondered, and it is asked of the one who knows the field—the knower of the body and its ways. It is said that the wind stirs the embryo within the womb, nurturing its growth. And when death arrives, the seed of being—accompanied by the subtle essence of its former actions—departs, carrying within itself the potential for flower and fruit. With mastery over the subtle elements, it gradually develops the new form here. When the child is born and assumes a new body, consciousness awakens afresh. With ears, it hears sounds; with eyes, it beholds forms. The nose takes in fragrance, the tongue tastes flavors, the skin feels touch, and the mind perceives thoughts. Thus, the embodied soul is endowed with eight faculties, each opening a window to the world. Yet, when the body perishes—burned, buried, or cast away—what then becomes of the self? How does it perceive itself after destruction has come? Just as one who sleeps leaves behind the waking world, so does the soul, at death, abandon the body and its deeds, whether good or evil. It follows the path of the wind, departing this frame to enter another womb, O lion among kings. Those who have performed righteous deeds are born into virtuous families; those whose deeds were evil are born into evil wombs. The wicked descend even to the forms of insects and moths. Thus, all creatures—on four legs, two, or six—are born anew according to their actions. This is the law, fully revealed. Now, you ask: By what actions does a mortal attain the highest worlds? Is it by austerity, or by knowledge? By which path does one reach auspicious realms? The wise declare that this is the way: He who, though learned, uses his knowledge to diminish others, forfeits the fruits of Brahman and attains only fleeting worlds. There are four dangerous acts that, when performed with pride, become sources of fear: pride in the fire-offering, pride in silence, pride in study, and pride in sacrifice. Let none take joy in being honored, nor suffer from dishonor. The good honor the good; the wicked cannot fathom the mind of the virtuous. Declarations such as “I will give,” “I will sacrifice,” “This is mine,” “This is my vow”—these are said to be causes of fear and should be relinquished. The wise, who seek the ancient refuge and restrain their minds, attain supreme blessedness and peace, both here and after death. Turning now to the ways of life, it is asked: How does the wandering householder practice righteousness? How does the mendicant? How does the teacher fulfill his duties? What of the forest-dweller, who treads the path of discipline? The student, or brahmacārin, who rises early, serves the teacher, is gentle, self-controlled, steadfast, and devoted to study—such a one succeeds in learning. The householder, having earned wealth by righteous means, performs sacrifices, gives generously, feeds guests, and never takes what is not given—this is the ancient way. The forest-dweller, living by his own strength, abstaining from wrongdoing, giving to others, and never causing harm, disciplines his food and conduct and attains the highest perfection. The mendicant does not live by crafts, is ever virtuous, has mastered his senses, is detached, sleeps wherever he finds shelter, is light in movement, and wanders through many lands. The wise seek to conquer the “night”—the time when the world’s desires and pleasures are overcome. Striving for that state, the self-controlled sage in the forest seeks to become one with it. The forest-dweller regards ten ancestors before him, ten descendants after, and himself as the twenty-first. Performing good deeds, he relinquishes his body in the forest and is freed. Curiosity arises about sages and the forms of silence. For the forest-dweller, if the village lies behind him, or for the villager, if the forest lies behind, that sage is lord among men. How is this so? The forest-dweller should not use anything from the village, thus leaving it behind in spirit. The sage is without fire, without a fixed abode, without family ties, and should desire only a simple covering. As long as the intention to sustain life remains, he may seek food; thus, even in the village, the forest lies behind him. The one who abandons desire and action, having mastered the senses and adopted the sage’s silence, attains perfection here. Who would not honor one who is clean, bathed, adorned, and pure in deeds, though dark in complexion? Emaciated by austerity, with flesh, bones, and blood diminished, such a sage conquers this world and attains the higher one. When, established in silence and free from dualities, he conquers this world, he reaches the supreme world. When he seeks food with his mouth like a cow, the entire world becomes fit for his immortality. The universal duty is to abandon anger, greed, malice, impatience, envy, deceit, pride, hypocrisy, and slander. He who has no anger, greed, or possessiveness is truly a knower of dharma. Whether one always eats, is a celibate, a householder, a forest-dweller, or a sage—one must not incur unrighteousness through food. Eight mouthfuls are prescribed for the sage, sixteen for the forest-dweller, thirty-two for the householder, and unlimited for the celibate. By these measures, one discerns the auspicious and inauspicious results of the Aṣṭakā rites. Finally, a question is asked: Of these two, O King, who reaches the gods first, as both hasten onwards like the sun and the moon? Thus the teachings are revealed, each truth flowing into the next, showing the path of the soul and the ways of righteousness for all who seek understanding.