Listen, dear one, to the profound wisdom spoken in the midst of sorrow and inquiry, as the mystery of existence is gently unfolded. At the beginning and end of all—knowledge, discrimination, scripture, austerity, direct perception, tradition, inference, time, and causality—there is but one reality that exists in the middle, unchanging and eternal. Just as gold, created by oneself before and after, permeates every golden ornament, so too, amid countless names and forms, the true self remains ever-present. This knowledge, dear one, manifests in threefold states, shaped by the three guṇas—cause, effect, and agent. Yet, through their union and separation, only the fourth state, beyond these qualities, is the ultimate truth. That which is neither before, nor after, nor in the middle, is but a mere designation; only that which is established by the Supreme truly exists—such is my understanding. That which appears though it does not truly exist is a transformation born of rajas. Brahman, self-luminous, shines forth as the wondrous variety of Brahman itself, the senses, their objects, the mind, and all its modifications. Through clear reasoning that discerns Brahman, and skill in refuting opposing views, one should cut off self-doubt, become tranquil, satisfied in one’s own bliss, and indifferent to all objects of desire. The self is not the body made of earth, nor the senses, nor 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 one whose abode is clearly distinguished? Or what fault is there if they are agitated? Just as clouds, 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, creations of māyā, should be avoided until, by firm devotion to me, the impurity of rajas is removed from the mind. Those false yogis, hindered by obstacles created by gods or humans, again practice yoga driven by previous habit, but not according to the method of karma. Actions are performed, and the living being acts, impelled by some cause or fate; but the wise one, even while situated in nature, having renounced thirst, 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 know it as anything else. 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 a dream disappears upon waking. The patterns of guṇas and actions, previously acquired and not distinguished from the self due to ignorance, cease 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 my keen discernment destroys 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 only delusion is the notion of difference in the pure; 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 mere praise; such duality belongs to those who consider themselves wise. For a yogi whose yoga is not yet mature, disturbances arising in the body may hinder him; for this, the prescribed rule is given. By the power of yogic concentration, some destroy afflictions through postures accompanied by retention; others dispel disturbances with austerity, mantras, and medicinal herbs. Some eliminate inauspicious influences by meditating on me, chanting my name, or following the path of yoga masters. Certain wise ones establish this 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; since 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, taking refuge in me, remains undisturbed by obstacles, free from desire, and experiences his own happiness. Now, in the forest, a beloved woman, unaware that her dearest had departed, sat firmly in her place, behaving as before. When she did not feel warmth in her husband’s feet while worshipping him, she sat with an anxious heart, like a doe separated from her herd. She grieved for herself, helpless and friendless, weeping with tears; pressing her breasts in the forest, she cried 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 in 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 asked, “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?” “Do you remember yourself, O friend, as my unknown companion? Leaving me, you sought another place, absorbed in earthly pleasures. O noble one, you and I were swans, friends dwelling in the lake of the mind; for thousands of years, there was no separation between us. But you abandoned me, O companion, and went to earth with a worldly mind; wandering, you saw a place fashioned by a certain woman.” He described: “Five gardens, nine gates, one guardian, three chambers, six families, five marketplaces, and fivefold nature—the abode of woman. The five sense objects are the pleasures; the nine gates are the channels of life; the digestive fires and food are the compartments; the family is the collection of senses. The marketplace is the power of action; the elemental nature is imperishable; the lord of power is the person who has entered here, yet does not realize it.” Thus, through gentle words and profound allegories, the brāhmaṇa sought to awaken the grieving woman to her true nature, guiding her from sorrow toward the eternal, unchanging self.