In the course of time, there were those who sought yoga with impure hearts, false yogis whose practice was obstructed by obstacles set by gods and men. Yet, driven by the force of their past habits, they resumed their efforts, but not in accordance with the true method of karma. Action continued, and beings acted, compelled by some cause or by fate. But the wise, even while dwelling within nature, having renounced thirst and desire, found happiness within themselves. Wherever the self might be—standing, sitting, walking, lying down, releasing, or eating—the mind established in the self knows no other state. If one perceives an unreal object through the senses, and by reasoning finds it contrary, the wise do not accept it as real, just as a dream vanishes upon waking. The patterns of guṇas and actions, acquired in ignorance and mistaken for the self, cease merely by observation; the self is neither grasped nor abandoned. Just as the rising sun dispels darkness for human eyes without creating it, so too does keen discernment destroy 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, the director of speech and life, when speech itself ceases. The delusion of self is merely the notion of difference in the pure; apart from the self, there is no support for one's own self. What is apprehended by name and form, fivefold and uncontradicted, is mere praise—even if meaningless—and such duality belongs to those who consider themselves wise. For the yogi whose yoga is not yet mature, disturbances may arise in the body and hinder him; for this, prescribed rules are given. Some destroy afflictions through yogic concentration, employing postures with retention; others dispel disturbances with austerity, mantras, and medicinal herbs. Some eliminate inauspicious influences by meditating on the Lord, chanting his name, or following the path of yoga masters. Certain wise ones establish their bodies as stable and well-formed in youth, then engage in various methods to attain perfection. Yet, such skill is not to be esteemed, for the effort is 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 faith in it, but abandon yoga and devote themselves to the Lord. A yogi who pursues yoga, taking refuge in the Lord, remains undisturbed by obstacles, free from desire, and experiences his own happiness. In the midst of this, a beloved woman, unaware that her dearest had departed, sat firmly in her seat, behaving as before. When she no longer felt 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 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. He 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. This abode of woman had five gardens, nine gates, one guardian, three chambers, six families, five marketplaces, and fivefold nature. 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, the swan of the mind, awakened by the swan, returned to his own state; by that correction, he regained his lost memory. "O Barhiṣmat," said the brāhmaṇa, "this has been shown in a spiritual manner, indirectly; for the Lord, creator of the universe, delights in what is indirect." Then, as autumn nights were adorned with blooming jasmine, the Blessed Lord, seeing them, desired to enjoy and resorted to his yogic power. The moon, king of stars, with gentle rays, anointed the eastern sky with a reddish hue and rose, cleansing the hearts of the virtuous, like a beloved appearing after a long absence. Seeing the unbroken circle of the moon, radiant as the lotus face, newly tinged with saffron, and the forest adorned by tender cows, the Lord sang a sweet, enchanting melody for the lovely-eyed women.