The yogis, through their deep insight, perceive Prakṛti—the primal nature—subtle and all-pervading, insentient yet the very source from which all creation springs, intimately joined to every being. This Prakṛti, they see, is everywhere: she has hands and feet in all places, faces, heads, and mouths in every direction, and ears in all the worlds. She pervades all things, abiding within everything that exists. Yet, united in yoga, the wise come to know the Lord—the eternal, all-pervading Puruṣa, the indwelling spirit of all beings—and are no longer deluded by the play of appearance. When one meditates upon the self within all creatures—the great, imperishable, supreme self, the all-encompassing Brahman—delusion falls away. This Puruṣa, the person within, is as subtle and elusive as the wind—present in all forms, difficult to grasp, yet dwelling within the body. But if one departs from this life still bearing the residue of karma, the soul, united with the seed of life and blood, enters again the womb, returning to the cycle of birth. From the union of man and woman, the lordly spirit is born anew, and in due course, the embryonic mass known as kalala forms. With time, this kalala becomes like a bubble, shaped as a lump of clay is molded on a potter’s wheel. The hands of nature further shape it into a sphere, and, filled by the vital wind and endowed with inner energies, it develops. Within the womb, the soul resolves: “When I emerge from here, I shall seek refuge in the great Lord.” Until the Vaiṣṇava wind touches the newborn, the soul contemplates worship of Mahādeva, the great god. This thought persists: “I will worship the great god,” and thus, in the due course of time, the human is born, according to their destined form and age. The process of embodiment unfolds: wind arises from space, water from wind, life from water, and from life, the seed of generation increases. The embryo is formed from thirty-three parts of blood and fourteen parts of semen; taking half of these together, the being is shaped. United with the embryo and enveloped by the five vital winds, each limb of the body develops, drawing its essence from the father. Then, nourished by the mother’s digested food, the vital airs enter through the navel, sustaining the developing being, for these vital airs are the very supports of embodied life. After nine months, the soul, afflicted and cramped, with head and neck bent and limbs compressed, is unable to move freely within the womb. Having dwelled there for nine months, the soul faces downward at the opening of the womb. By the force of its own past misdeeds, it is drawn toward suffering, experiencing a hellish state. It endures torments: the forest of sword-leaves, the cutting of the Śālmalī tree, beatings, and the consumption of pus and blood. Just as separated waters come together again, so too do those who are cut and broken return to face their suffering. The soul, tormented by the consequences of its own actions, must experience suffering or, if its deeds are otherwise, something different. Alone, it must leave behind all others; alone, it must enjoy the fruits of its actions. Thus, it is taught that only good deeds should be performed, for none but one’s own karma accompanies the soul on its journey. Those who are bound to the realms of Yama cry out in anguish, afflicted by unwelcome company and endless torment, their bodies withering under the weight of suffering. Whatever a person repeatedly does—by action, thought, or speech—that becomes their habit and carries them onward; therefore, one should always act virtuously. The chain of existence for embodied beings is without beginning, arising from previous actions. It enters the dreadful, dark cycle of transmigration, manifesting in six forms. From human birth, one may become an animal; from animal, a beast; from beast, a bird; from bird, a reptile; and from reptile, one certainly attains the state of a plant. There is no doubt: upon reaching the plant state, one remains until a new birth arises. Like a potter’s wheel turning endlessly, so too does the cycle of existence revolve—from human to plant and back again. This cycle, characterized by tamas (inertia and darkness), turns in this way; yet, there is also a sattvic (pure and luminous) cycle, beginning with Brahma. The cycle that ends with spirits is known among embodied beings in heavenly realms; in the Brahmic state, only sattva prevails, while in the plant state, only tamas reigns. Among these fourteen states, rajas (activity and passion) serves as the support. When the vital points are struck, the embodied being, afflicted by pain, suffers. O sage, how can one remember the supreme Brahman amidst such a cycle? The journey is propelled ever onward by the impressions of past actions. Yet, human birth is always attained—therefore, one should practice meditation, having understood this fourteenfold circle of transmigration. Afflicted by the fear of this endless cycle, one should always pursue righteousness; gradually, through transformation, one crosses over the ocean of existence. Therefore, one should always be devoted, intent on meditation, and practice yoga in such a way as to perceive the true self. This self is the supreme water, the highest light, the unsurpassed bridge; by its unfolding and union, it is the eternal essence of all beings. One should worship this bridge, the self, the fire with faces in all directions—Maheshvara, who dwells in the heart of all beings. Thus, one should contemplate the god within, adorned with his own power, manifest in eightfold forms and again in eightfold ways. For the sake of creation, the fire is established and then withdrawn, placed within the heart—thus should one meditate upon Lord Rudra, the ruler of the worlds. Having offered the five oblations properly, with the mind absorbed in contemplation, one should meditate, step by step as prescribed, on the Vaiśvānara fire established in the heart. In this way, the path to liberation and union with the supreme is revealed.