Listen, dear one, to this profound account, woven from the sacred words of the Bhāgavata Purāṇa: There exists a wondrous transformation, a play of appearances, born from the restless power of rajas. Though these things—worlds, senses, objects, mind—seem to exist, they are but the shining forth of Brahman itself, which is self-luminous. All this variety, all these modifications, are nothing but Brahman appearing in manifold forms. With clear reasoning that discerns the truth of Brahman, and skill in dispelling doubts and false arguments, one should cut away all inner uncertainty. Then, tranquil and content in the bliss of one’s own true self, one becomes indifferent to all objects of desire. Know that the self is not the body made of earth, nor the senses, nor the gods, demons, wind, water, or fire. The mind is born of food, the intellect from sattva, ego from space, and earth is but a balance of the elements. How then could the senses, which are composed of the guṇas, affect the one whose true abode is clearly distinguished? Even if the senses are agitated, what harm is there? Just as clouds, though present, do not touch the sun once they have passed, so too the self remains unaffected. Just as space is untouched by the qualities of wind, fire, water, or earth, which come and go, so the imperishable self is never tainted by sattva, rajas, or tamas—the causes of the mind’s wandering and transmigration. Still, until one’s devotion to me is firm and the impurity of rajas is cleansed from the mind, one should avoid association with the guṇas, which are the creations of māyā. There are those false yogis, hindered by obstacles from gods or men, who, driven by old habits, again take up yoga, but not in the true spirit of karma. Actions are performed, and the living being acts, impelled by some cause or by fate. But the wise one, even while remaining in the world, having renounced all thirst for enjoyment, finds happiness within himself. Whether standing, sitting, walking, lying down, releasing, or eating—whatever state the self assumes, the mind established in the self sees nothing else, but only the self. If one perceives some unreal object of the senses, and through reasoning recognizes it to be otherwise, the wise do not accept it as real—just as a dream vanishes upon waking. The patterns of guṇas and actions, acquired in the past and mistaken for the self due to ignorance, dissolve by mere observation. The self is neither something to be grasped nor abandoned. Just as the rising sun destroys darkness for human eyes but does not create it, so too does my clear discernment dispel the darkness of ignorance in the intellect. This self-luminous, unborn, immeasurable one is the great experience, the experience of all, the one without a second. When speech ceases, it is by this one that speech and life are directed. The delusion of self is only the notion of difference in the pure; apart from the self, there is no support for anything. All that is apprehended by name and form, in its fivefold, uncontradicted nature, is but empty praise—duality clung to by those who consider themselves wise. For a yogi whose yoga is not yet mature, disturbances may arise in the body; for these, specific rules are prescribed. Some destroy such afflictions through yogic postures and breath retention; others dispel them with austerity, mantras, or medicinal herbs. Some remove inauspicious influences by meditating on me, chanting my name, or following the path of the great yogis. Some, wise in their ways, establish the body as healthy and strong in youth, and then pursue various methods to attain perfection. Yet, such skill is not to be highly esteemed, for all such effort is ultimately fruitless—the body is perishable, like the fruit of a tree. If, through constant yoga, the body becomes fit for long life, the intelligent should not trust in it, but rather abandon yoga and devote themselves wholly to me. A yogi who follows this path, taking refuge in me, remains undisturbed by obstacles, free from desire, and experiences happiness within himself. Now, hear this moving tale: When a beloved woman, unaware that her dearest has departed, sits in her place, she acts as before. But when she no longer feels the warmth in her husband’s feet as she worships him, her heart grows anxious, 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 robbers and outcast kṣatriyas.” Thus lamenting, the young woman followed her husband into the forest. Falling at his feet, she wept without restraint. She built a funeral pyre of wood, placed her husband’s body upon it, and, preparing to follow him in death, fixed her mind while lamenting. At that moment, an old friend appeared—a self-realized brāhmaṇa—who gently consoled her with soothing words as she wept. He spoke: “Who are you? Whose are you? Who is this lying here, for whom you grieve? Do you recognize me as a friend, with whom you once wandered? Do you remember, O friend, that you were once 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 then, you abandoned me, O companion, and went to earth with a worldly mind. Wandering, you saw a place fashioned by a certain woman—a place with 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. There, you, touched by Rāma, lost your memory and hearing, and from that association, O master, you fell to this degraded condition. You are not the daughter of Vidarbha, nor is this hero your friend. You are not the husband of Purañjanī, who was confined by her at the ninth gate. All this is illusion, created by me, by which you consider the man and the virtuous woman as real. Neither is true, just as the two swans observe the course of both of us. I am you, and you are not other than me; you alone are I—understand this, O friend. The wise never see any difference between us, not even the slightest.” Thus, the truth of the self is revealed: beyond all appearances, beyond all sorrow and illusion, the self alone exists, one without a second.