With clear reasoning and skillful refutation of distracting doubts, one should cut away uncertainty and become tranquil, content in the bliss of the self, indifferent to all objects of desire. The self is not the physical body made of earth, nor the senses, nor any of the deities, demons, wind, water, or fire. The mind is formed from food, the intellect from sattva, ego from space, and earth is simply the balance of elements. How could the senses, which are composed of the guṇas, affect the one whose true abode is clearly distinguished? And what fault is there if the senses are agitated? Just as clouds, even when present, do not affect the sun once they have departed, so too, the self remains untouched. 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 the imperishable self is untouched by sattva, rajas, and tamas—the causes of transmigration in the mind. Yet, association with the guṇas, which are creations of māyā, should be avoided until, through firm devotion to the Lord, the impurity of rajas is cleansed from the mind. There are those false yogis, hindered by obstacles created by gods or humans, who again practice yoga by force of habit, but not according to the proper method of karma. Action is 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 perceive it as anything else. If one perceives an unreal object of the senses, and by 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 merely by 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, the Lord’s 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. This much is the delusion of self: 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—this, 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 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 breath retention; others dispel disturbances with austerity, mantras, and medicinal herbs. Some eliminate inauspicious influences by meditating on the Lord, by chanting His name and similar practices, or by following the path of the masters of yoga. Certain wise ones establish this body as stable and well-formed in youth, 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 the Lord. A yogi who pursues this practice of yoga, taking refuge in Him, remains undisturbed by obstacles, free from desire, and experiences his own happiness. At this point, the story turns to a poignant scene. When the beloved woman, unaware that her dearest has departed, sits firmly in her seat, she behaves 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 follows her husband in the forest; falling at her husband’s feet, she sheds tears without restraint. She builds a wooden funeral pyre, places her husband’s body upon it, and, preparing to follow him in death, fixes her mind while lamenting. There, an earlier friend, a self-realized brāhmaṇa, gently consoles her with soothing words, addressing her as she weeps: “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. 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, delighting, lost memory and hearing; from that association, O master, you attained such a 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. 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 flaw between us, not even the slightest. Just as a person sees himself as one, yet as two in the mirror and in his own sight, so too is the inner nature of both of us.” Thus, through gentle words and deep wisdom, the brāhmaṇa reveals the truth of unity and self, dispelling the sorrow and illusion of separation.