Action, in this world, is performed by living beings, each one prompted by some cause or by the force of fate. Yet, the wise—though they remain within the realm of nature—having renounced all thirst for enjoyment, find true happiness within themselves. Whether standing or sitting, walking or lying down, attending to bodily needs or eating food—whatever state the self assumes—the mind that is established in its own true nature does not recognize these as anything separate or distinct. If one perceives something unreal through the senses, and, by various forms of reasoning, sees something contrary, the wise do not take it as real—just as a dream vanishes upon awakening, so too does illusion disappear in the light of knowledge. The patterns of the guṇas and actions, accumulated from before and mistaken for the self due to ignorance, dissolve merely by observation; the true 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 keen discernment dispel the darkness of ignorance from the intellect, without creating it. This self-luminous, unborn, immeasurable one is the great experience—the experience of all; it is the one without a second, the point at which speech ceases, yet by whom both speech and life are directed. The root of delusion is nothing but the notion of difference within the pure self; apart from the self, there is no other support for one’s own self. All that is apprehended by name and form, in its fivefold nature and uncontradicted appearance—even if devoid of meaning—is but praise of duality, cherished by those who believe themselves wise. For a yogi whose practice is not yet mature, disturbances may arise in the body and hinder his progress; for this, prescribed disciplines have been given. By the power of yogic concentration, some destroy afflictions through postures and breath retention; others dispel disturbances with austerities, mantras, and medicinal herbs. Some eliminate inauspicious influences by meditating on me, by chanting my name, or by following the path of the masters of yoga. There are wise ones who establish their bodies 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 ultimately fruitless; the body, being perishable, is like the fruit of a tree. If, through constant practice of yoga, the body becomes fit for longevity, the intelligent should not place their faith in it. Rather, they should abandon such yoga and devote themselves to me alone. A yogi who pursues this path, taking refuge in me, remains undisturbed by obstacles, free from desire, and experiences true happiness within himself. In another tale, when a beloved woman, unaware that her dearest has departed, sits firmly in her place, she continues her duties as before. But when she no longer feels the warmth of her husband’s feet as she worships him, she sits with an anxious heart, like a doe separated from her herd. She grieves for herself, feeling helpless and friendless, weeping with tears, pressing her breasts in the forest, and cries out in a clear voice, “Rise, rise, O royal sage! You must protect this land encircled by the ocean, which now fears 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. At that moment, an old friend, a self-realized brāhmaṇa, approached and 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 recognize me as a friend, with whom you once wandered? Do you remember, O friend, that you were 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 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 both memory and hearing; from that association, 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 distinction 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 true state; by that correction, he regained his lost memory. O Barhiṣmat, this has been explained in a spiritual, indirect manner, for the Lord, the creator of the universe, delights in what is indirect. Now, as the nights of autumn were adorned with blooming jasmine, the Blessed Lord, seeing their beauty, desired to enjoy, resorting to his yogic power. The moon, king of stars, with gentle rays, anointed the eastern sky with a reddish hue; it rose, cleansing the hearts of the virtuous, like a beloved reappearing 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 the tender cows, Krishna sang a sweet, enchanting melody for the lovely-eyed women. Hearing that song, which only increased their longing, the women of Vraja, whose minds were captivated by Krishna, came together, unnoticed by each other, to where their beloved stood, his earrings swinging gently.