In this world, people, bewildered by ignorance, desire, and action, wander endlessly along higher and lower paths, not knowing their own true destination. Seeing their confusion, the Blessed Lord Hari, full of boundless compassion, decided to reveal to the cowherds his own divine realm—a world beyond all darkness. He showed them that supreme reality: truth, knowledge, and infinity—Brahman, the eternal radiance. This is the realm that the sages behold when all the qualities of nature have ceased and their minds are fully absorbed. Leading the cowherds, Krishna brought them to the lake of Brahman; there, he immersed them and then lifted them out, granting them vision of that transcendental world—just as Akrura had once seen. Nanda and the others, beholding that place, were filled with the highest bliss. Amazed, they witnessed Krishna being praised there with sacred hymns. This is the conclusion of the twenty-eighth chapter of the first half of the tenth book in the great Purana, Srimad Bhagavata, the scripture revered by the supreme, swan-like sages. Krishna then imparted wisdom, explaining that knowledge, discrimination, scripture, austerity, direct perception, tradition, and inference—all these, along with time and causality, have something present at their beginning and end; and that very reality alone exists in the middle as well. Just as gold, existing before and after, pervades all golden objects, so too, amidst various designations, Krishna himself is present as the underlying essence. He continued, "O dear one, knowledge is threefold in its states, composed of the three guṇas—cause, effect, and agent. Yet, by observing both their conjunction and separation, one sees that the truth is the fourth state, beyond these. That which is not before, nor after, nor in the middle, is merely a designation; whatever is established as existent by the supreme, that alone truly is—this is my understanding. "That which, though not existing, yet appears, is a transformation born of rajas. Brahman, being self-luminous, shines forth as the wondrous variety of Brahman itself, the senses, their objects, the mind, and all their modifications. Thus, by clear reasoning that discerns Brahman, and with skill in refuting opposing views, one should cut off all self-doubt and become tranquil, satisfied in one’s own bliss, indifferent to objects of desire. "The self is not the body made of earth, nor the senses, nor the gods, demons, wind, water, or fire. The mind is only food, intellect is sattva, ego is space, and earth is the balance of elements. How could the senses, composed of guṇas, affect the one whose true abode is clearly distinguished? Or what fault is there if they are agitated? Just as clouds, even when present, do not affect the sun once they have departed. "Just as space is not attached to the qualities of wind, fire, water, or earth, as they come and go with their own properties, so too the imperishable self is untouched by sattva, rajas, and tamas—the causes of transmigration in the mind. Nevertheless, association with the guṇas, which are creations of māyā, should be avoided until, by firm devotion to me, the impurity of rajas is removed from the mind. "There are those false yogis, hindered by obstacles created by gods or humans, who again practice yoga by the force of previous habit, but not according to the method of karma. Action is performed, and the living being acts, impelled by some cause or by fate; but the wise one, even while situated in nature, having renounced all thirst for results, experiences his own happiness. "Whether standing, sitting, walking, lying down, releasing, or eating food—whatever state the self assumes, the mind established in the self does not see it as anything other than itself. If one perceives an unreal object of the senses, and by various reasoning sees something contrary, the wise do not consider it real—just as, upon waking, a dream disappears. "The pattern of guṇas and actions, previously acquired and not distinguished from the self due to ignorance, ceases by mere observation; the self is neither grasped nor abandoned. Just as the rising sun destroys darkness for human eyes but does not create it, so too does my keen discernment destroy the darkness of ignorance in a person’s intellect. "This self-luminous, unborn, immeasurable one is the great experience, the experience of all; the one without a second, when speech ceases, by whom speech and life are directed. The very notion of difference in the pure is the delusion of self; apart from the self, there is no support for one’s own self. "That which is apprehended by name and form, fivefold and uncontradicted—even if meaningless—is merely praise; such duality is the mark of those who consider themselves wise. "For a yogi whose yoga is not yet mature, disturbances arising in the body may hinder him; for this, a prescribed rule is given. By the power of yogic concentration, some destroy afflictions through postures accompanied by breath retention; others dispel disturbances with austerity, mantras, and medicinal herbs. Some eliminate inauspicious influences by meditating on me, by chanting my name, or by following the path of the great masters of yoga. Certain wise ones establish the body as stable and well-formed in youth, and then engage in various methods to attain perfection. "But such skill is not to be esteemed, for that effort is fruitless; the body is perishable, like the fruit of a tree. If, through constant practice of yoga, the body becomes fit for longevity, the intelligent should not place faith in it, but abandon yoga and devote themselves to me. A yogi who pursues this practice of yoga, taking refuge in me, remains undisturbed by obstacles, free from desire, and experiences his own happiness. "Consider the beloved woman, unaware that her dearest has departed; she sits firmly in her seat, behaving as before. But when she does not feel warmth in her husband’s feet while worshipping him, she sits with an anxious heart, like a doe separated from her herd. She grieves for herself, helpless and friendless, weeping with tears; pressing her breasts in the forest, she cries out in a clear voice: ‘Rise, rise, O royal sage! You must protect this land encircled by the ocean, which fears the robbers and kṣatriya outcasts.’ "Thus lamenting, the young woman followed her husband into the forest; falling at his feet, she shed tears without restraint. She built a wooden funeral pyre, placed her husband’s body upon it, and, preparing to follow him in death, fixed her mind while lamenting. "There, an earlier friend, a self-realized brāhmaṇa, gently consoled her with soothing words as she wept. The brāhmaṇa said: ‘Who are you? Whose are you? Who is this lying here, for whom you grieve? Do you know me as a friend, with whom you once wandered?