The cycle of actions and qualities, shaped by past experiences and mistaken for the true self due to ignorance, comes to an end simply through clear observation. The self itself is never something to be grasped or abandoned. Just as the rising sun dispels the darkness for human eyes without ever creating it, so too does sharp discernment banish the gloom of ignorance from a person’s mind. This self-luminous, unborn, immeasurable reality is the supreme experience, the witness of all experiences. It is the one without a second, the foundation by which speech and life are directed, and which remains when all words fall silent. The illusion of selfhood is nothing more than the perception of difference within what is truly pure; apart from the self, there is no other support for one’s own being. Everything that is apprehended by name and form—though divided fivefold and uncontradicted—amounts to mere praise, even if it seems meaningless. Such duality is cherished only by those who consider themselves wise. For a yogi whose practice is not yet mature, disturbances may arise in the body and become obstacles; for such cases, the prescribed disciplines are given. Through the power of yogic concentration, some overcome afflictions with postures and breath retention; others dispel disturbances through austerity, mantras, or medicinal herbs. Some remove inauspicious influences by meditating on me, reciting my name, or following the path of accomplished yogis. There are wise ones who, having established a strong and youthful body, then pursue various methods to attain perfection. Yet, such skill is not to be overvalued, for that effort is ultimately fruitless—the body is perishable, like the fruit of a tree. Even if constant practice of yoga grants the body long life and strength, the wise should not become attached to it, but rather set aside yoga and devote themselves fully to me. A yogi who takes refuge in me, pursuing this path, remains undisturbed by obstacles, free from desire, and tastes the happiness of his own being. Consider the beloved wife who, unaware that her dear husband has departed, sits firmly in her place and continues as before. But when she no longer feels the warmth in his feet as she worships him, her heart grows anxious, like a doe separated from her herd. Helpless and friendless, she grieves for herself, weeping and pressing her breasts in the forest, crying out in a clear voice: “Rise, rise, O royal sage! You must protect this land, encircled by the ocean, which trembles in fear of robbers and outcast warriors.” 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 she mourned. At that moment, an old friend appeared—a self-realized brāhmaṇa—who gently consoled her with soothing words as she wept. He asked, “Who are you? To whom do you belong? Who is this for whom you grieve? Do you remember me as a friend, with whom you once wandered? Do you recall yourself, O friend, as my unknown companion? You left me, seeking another place, absorbed in worldly pleasures. “O noble one, you and I were swans, friends dwelling in the lake of the mind; for thousands of years, we were never separated. But you abandoned me, O companion, and went to earth with a worldly mind. Wandering, you came upon 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 families are the collection of senses. The marketplaces are the powers 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, delighted and lost your memory and hearing; from that association, you have come to this fallen state. 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 mistake 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 see no flaw between us, not even the slightest. Just as a person sees himself as one, yet as two in a 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 original state; with that realization, he regained his lost memory. O Barhiṣmat, this has been shown in a spiritual and indirect manner, for the Lord, creator of the universe, delights in such indirect instruction. Now, the Blessed Lord, seeing the autumn nights adorned with blooming jasmine, wished to enjoy, invoking his yogic power. The moon, king of the stars, rose with gentle rays, painting the eastern sky with a reddish hue, cleansing the hearts of the virtuous like a beloved appearing after a long absence. Seeing the unbroken circle of the moon, radiant as a lotus face, tinged with saffron, and the forest adorned by gentle cows, Krishna sang a sweet, enchanting melody for the lovely-eyed women. Hearing that song, which stirred their longing, the women of Vraja—whose minds were already captivated by Krishna—came together, unnoticed by each other, to where their beloved stood, his earrings swinging. Some, while milking, left the task unfinished in their eagerness; others, leaving milk on the stove, hurried away without feeding their children. Some, serving food, abandoned their duties; some, while feeding their infants, left them; others, attending to their husbands, departed without finishing their meal. Still others, applying ointment, cleaning themselves, or painting their eyes, with garments and ornaments disarranged, all hastened to Krishna’s side.