Just as the rising sun dispels the darkness from human vision without ever creating it, so too does my sharp discernment remove the shadows of ignorance from a person’s intellect. This self-luminous, unborn, and immeasurable being is the great experience—indeed, the experience of all. It is the One without a second, the reality where speech itself falls silent, yet by whom both speech and life are directed. Delusion arises only from the notion of difference within the pure Self; apart from this Self, there is no true support for one’s own existence. All that is apprehended by name and form, in its fivefold, uncontradicted nature—even if it seems devoid of meaning—is but praise of this reality. The perception of duality persists only among those who consider themselves wise. For the yogi whose practice has not yet matured, disturbances may arise within the body, hindering progress; for such cases, certain prescribed disciplines are given. Some yogis, by the power of concentration, destroy these afflictions through postures and breath retention; others dispel obstacles through austerity, mantras, or medicinal herbs. Still others remove inauspicious influences by meditating on me, chanting my name, or following the path of great yoga masters. Some wise ones, establishing the body as youthful, stable, and well-formed, engage in various methods to attain perfection. Yet such skill is not to be esteemed, for the effort is fruitless—after all, the body is perishable, like the fruit of a tree. Even if constant yogic practice grants longevity and strength, the wise should not place their faith in the body, but rather abandon attachment to yoga and devote themselves wholly to me. A yogi who thus takes refuge in me, pursuing the path of yoga with a steady mind, remains undisturbed by obstacles, free from desire, and finds happiness within himself. To illustrate, consider the beloved woman who, unaware that her dearest has departed, sits steadfastly in her place, behaving as she always did. But when she no longer feels the warmth in her husband’s feet as she worships him, she sits with an anxious heart, like a doe separated from her herd. She grieves, 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 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 appeared—a self-realized brāhmaṇa—who gently consoled her with soothing words as she wept. He asked, “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? Do you recall yourself, O friend, as my unknown companion? Leaving me, you sought another place, absorbed in earthly pleasures.” He continued, “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. There, 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; elemental nature is imperishable; the lord of power is the person who has entered here, yet does not realize it.” He revealed, “Touched by Rāma, you delighted and lost your memory and hearing; through that association, you reached this fallen state. But 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. All 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.” He declared, “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 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, this has been shown in a spiritual manner, indirectly, for the Lord, creator of the universe, delights in what is indirect. Now, as the autumn nights blossomed with jasmine, the Blessed Lord, seeing their beauty, desired to enjoy them, employing his yogic power. The moon, king of the stars, rose in the eastern sky, its gentle rays painting a reddish hue and cleansing the hearts of the virtuous, as if a beloved had returned after a long absence. Beholding the unbroken circle of the moon, radiant as a lotus face tinged with saffron, and the forest adorned by tender cows, Krishna sang a sweet, enchanting melody for the lovely-eyed women. Hearing that song, which fanned the flames of love, the women of Vraja—whose hearts were captivated by Krishna—quietly left their homes, unnoticed by one another, drawn to where their beloved stood, his earrings swinging. Some, while milking, left their task unfinished, eager to go; 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 behind; others, attending to their husbands, departed without finishing their meal. Some, applying ointment or cleaning themselves, others painting their eyes, with garments and ornaments disarranged, all hurried to Krishna’s side. Though restrained by husbands, fathers, brothers, and relatives, their hearts stolen by Govinda, they could not be held back, so enchanted were they by his call.