How could the senses, which are themselves woven from the ever-shifting guṇas, truly disturb one who dwells in the clear light of self-knowledge? Even if the senses are stirred, what fault is there for such a person? Just as clouds, though they may gather and obscure the sky, do not affect the sun once they have passed, so too does the self remain untouched by the movements of the senses. Consider space itself: it is never tainted by the qualities of wind, fire, water, or earth, though these elements come and go, each with their own nature. In the same way, the imperishable self remains untouched by sattva, rajas, and tamas—the three guṇas that cause the mind to wander through cycles of birth and death. Yet, it is wise to avoid entanglement with these guṇas, which are the creations of māyā, until, through steadfast devotion to Me, the turbulence of rajas is cleansed from the mind. There are those who, hindered by obstacles created by gods or humans, fall from their yogic practice; such false yogis, driven by the force of past habits, may resume their efforts, but not in accordance with the true method of karma. Action is performed, and living beings act, each impelled by some cause or fate. But the wise, even while living amidst nature, having renounced all thirst for pleasure, experience the happiness that arises from their own self. Whether standing, sitting, walking, lying down, cleansing themselves, or eating—no matter what state the self assumes—the mind established in the self perceives no difference, recognizing all as the same. If one perceives an illusory object through the senses, and, through reasoning, sees its contrary nature, 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 not distinguished from the self due to ignorance, dissolve simply through observation; the self is neither something to be grasped nor abandoned. Just as the rising sun dispels darkness for human eyes without creating it, so too does My sharp discernment dispel 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, the silent witness by whom speech and life are directed, even when speech itself falls silent. The root of delusion is the notion of difference within the pure self; apart from the self, there is no true foundation for one’s existence. All that is apprehended by name and form, in its fivefold nature and without contradiction, is ultimately meaningless praise—such duality belongs only to those who imagine themselves wise. For a yogi whose practice is not yet mature, disturbances may arise in the body and become obstacles; for this, certain prescribed rules are given. Some yogis, by the power of concentration, destroy afflictions through postures combined with breath retention; others dispel disturbances with austerity, mantras, or medicinal herbs. Still others remove inauspicious influences by meditating on Me, chanting My name, or following the path of the great yogic masters. Some wise ones, having established the body as stable and well-formed in youth, then pursue various methods to attain perfection. But such skill should not be highly esteemed, for all this effort is ultimately fruitless; the body is perishable, like the fruit of a tree. If, through constant yoga practice, the body becomes fit for longevity, the intelligent should not place their trust in it; rather, they should abandon attachment to yoga and devote themselves to Me. A yogi who follows this path, taking refuge in Me, remains undisturbed by obstacles, free from desire, and finds happiness within himself. Now, consider the plight of a devoted woman: unaware that her beloved husband has departed, she sits firmly in her place, behaving as before. But when she no longer feels the 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 robbers and kṣatriya outcasts.” Thus lamenting, the young woman follows her husband into the forest. Falling at his feet, she weeps 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. At that moment, an old friend—a self-realized brāhmaṇa—appears and gently consoles her with soothing words as she weeps. The brāhmaṇa asks, “Who are you? Whose are you? Who is this for whom you grieve? Do you remember me as a friend, with whom you once wandered?” He continues, “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. “There were five gardens, nine gates, one guardian, three chambers, six families, five marketplaces, and a 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 chambers; 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 your memory and hearing; from that association, you attained this fallen 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, the swan of the mind, awakened by the swan, returned to his own state; by that correction, he regained his lost memory. “O Barhiṣmat, all this has been spoken in a spiritual manner, indirectly; for the Lord, the creator of the universe, delights in what is indirect.