In the midst of the sacred assembly, the sage Vasiṣṭha spoke of the profound nature of reality and the mind. He explained that when great consciousness first awakens at the outset of spiritual effort, it remains pure and aware, untouched by the forgetfulness that veils the ethereal state. In such a state, the illusory condition of physicality does not arise; it is like a mirage—unreal and only a source of delusion and dullness. Vasiṣṭha continued: when Brahman is understood to be nothing but mind—not made of earth, water, or other elements—then the entire universe is also only mind. Whatever appears springs solely from this mind; there are no other causes for the unborn, and even for what is born, causes are but a few and not truly existent. All diversity of effects arises only from their causes, and nothing exists apart from this. As the cause is pure, so too is the effect that manifests. Yet, in this ultimate reality, the relation of cause and effect does not truly apply. Just as Brahman exists in its own nature, so too does the threefold world. The world is projected by Brahman through the power of mind, just as fluidity is projected from pure water and not from anything else. Everything is an appearance of the mind—unreal, spread out like a city imagined in thought, or like the fabled city of the Gandharvas. There is no physicality here, just as there is no snake in a rope; how then could awakened ones like Brahma and others remain in such an illusion? For one whose mind is awakened, even the subtle body ceases to exist, so there is no need to discuss the physical body at all. The realm of the mind, called ‘man’, takes on countless forms, and the world, as the kingdom of the mind, appears as if it were real. The mind itself is the creator, fashioned out of imagination; having expanded its own form, it projects this world. The creator is but a form of the mind, and the mind is the creator’s body; earth and the rest are not truly present—they are only imagined. Just as a lotus flower resides within the eye of another lotus, so within the heart of the mind is the visible world; the seer and the seen are never truly separate in the mind. Likewise, the sovereignty of the mind is akin to the dreaming and imagining of the wise; this is known through direct experience, for the visible world exists only in the heart. Yet, just as a demon dwelling in confusion of the mind destroys a child, so too does this inner faculty, which takes the form of the seen, destroy the seer. Like a sprout within a seed produces a radiant body according to time and place, so does the faculty of perception generate the visible world. If the suffering of what is seen never ceases, then it does not cease in the seen, nor does pure awareness arise in the knower. When the seen does not exist in the knower, the state of the knower also ceases—even if the seen remains, this is called liberation. As Vasiṣṭha spoke these extraordinary words, the entire assembly sat in silent attention, unified in their eagerness to listen. The gentle tinkling of ornaments ceased, and no one stirred; even the parrots in their cages paused their playful chattering. The women, usually animated and lively, stood still as if painted upon the palace walls. The day was drawing to a close, the soft sunlight fading, and daily activities, along with the sun’s rays, gradually diminished. The winds, fragrant with the scent of blooming lotuses, blew softly, as if they too had come to listen. The sun, as though contemplating the wisdom just spoken, abandoned its path and moved toward the empty slope of the western mountain. A dusky darkness rose upon the forest grounds, as if a cool tranquility had settled from the hearing of wisdom. People moved little in all directions, as if their attention to listening had stilled all activity. Their shadows grew long, as if their necks were stretched in eagerness to hear Vasiṣṭha’s continued exposition. At that moment, the chamberlain bowed before the king and said, “O Lord, the time for bathing and worshipping the twice-born has long passed.” Hearing this, the venerable Vasiṣṭha withdrew his sweet speech and said, “Great King, let this much be heard by you all for today.” He promised, “Tomorrow morning I shall speak further,” and then became silent. The king, hearing this, replied, “So be it,” for the increase of prosperity. With offerings of flowers, water for washing, respectful greetings, gifts, and worship, he honored the gods, seers, sages, and especially the brāhmaṇas with devotion. Then the entire assembly, with the king, sages, and seers, rose up, their faces alight with the radiance of earrings and garlands. As they moved, the armlets and bracelets on their arms clashed together, and the golden borders of their garments, struck by the weight of their necklaces, shone on their chests. The gentle humming of bees resting on their headdresses and the soft rustling of their hair created a low murmur among them. Their golden ornaments gleamed, making the directions themselves appear golden, while their senses calmed and their minds and speech remained established in wisdom. Those who moved in the sky returned to the sky, those who dwelt on earth to the earth’s expanse; all returned to their homes, resuming their daily routines. Meanwhile, the dark night appeared, like a young maiden in a house now emptied of crowds. The lord of the day departed to illuminate another land, for everywhere, the true vow of the noble is to bring light. All around, twilight arose, adorned with clusters of stars, like the splendor of spring emerging among blossoming kimshuka trees. Birds hid within the hollows of mango, kadamba, and nipa trees, and in the sanctuaries of village shrines, just as latent tendencies withdraw into the quietude of the mind.