As the day drew toward its end, a remarkable stillness settled over the royal palace. Even the women, usually lively and playful, stood motionless, as if painted upon a mural. The gentle sunlight waned, and the daily activities, along with the sun’s rays, gradually diminished. Soft winds, fragrant and heavy with the scent of blooming lotuses, drifted through the air, as if they too had come to listen to the wisdom being spoken. The sun, as if contemplating what it had heard, abandoned its usual course and moved toward the empty slope of the western mountain. Dusky darkness began to rise upon the forest grounds, as though a cool tranquility had emerged from the hearing of profound teachings. In all ten directions, people moved little, abandoning their activities out of careful attention and devotion to the words of Vasiṣṭha. Their shadows grew long, as if their necks were stretched in eager anticipation to hear Vasiṣṭha’s detailed exposition. At this moment, the chamberlain approached the king, bowed, 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 addressed the assembly: “Great King, let this much be heard by you all for today.” He promised, “Tomorrow morning I shall speak further,” and became silent. The king, having heard this, replied, “So be it,” wishing 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, including the king, sages, and seers, rose up, their faces adorned 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 at the edges of their chests. Gentle humming of bees resting on their headdresses and the soft rustling of falling hair created a low murmur among their heads. Golden ornaments shone brightly, making the directions appear golden. With their senses calmed, the sages’ minds and speech were established in wisdom. Those who move in the sky returned to the sky, those who dwell on earth to the earth’s expanse; all departed to their own abodes and resumed their daily routines. Meanwhile, the dark night appeared, like a young maiden in a house 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 in a grove of blossoming kimshuka trees. Birds hid within the hollows of mango, kadamba, and nipa trees, and in the sanctuaries of village shrines, just as tendencies withdraw into the mind. The western mountain, adorned by the sun’s radiance and tinged here and there with clouds, appeared as if draped in yellow robes, joined with the sky, splendid with a necklace of stars, resembling a sea of darkness. When the twilight worship was completed and departed as it had come, darkness rose everywhere, like circles of ghosts. A gentle, cool breeze, carrying the scent of necessity, playfully stirred the tender leaves and seemed to promise the coming of the water-lily. The directions, bright with shining stars, fell into deep darkness, like widowed women with their long, hanging tresses. A radiance then arose, filling the world with a flood of milky light; the sky became like an ocean of the moon’s nectar, appearing as the very form of ambrosia. Masses of darkness fled and vanished, just as the ignorance of kings disappears upon hearing words of knowledge. Sages, kings, ascetics, and brahmins rested in their own abodes, like diverse thoughts settling in the mind. Night, dark and thick as the body of Yama, advanced, heavy with darkness; and there, slowly, dawn appeared in the form of mist. Brilliant stars became invisible in the sky, as if swept away by the morning breeze, like showers of saffron dust. The dawn, with eyes opened by the sun’s light, became visible, like the newly arisen discernment in the minds of the great. Once again, those who move through the sky and those who walk upon the earth entered the assembly, following the same order as the previous morning, having completed their morning routines. The vast assembly, arranged as before, was entered; it appeared motionless, like a lotus at the mouth of the wind. Then, approaching the topic, Rama spoke with sweet words to Vasiṣṭha, the foremost among sages and the best of speakers: “Revered one, tell me clearly what is the nature of the mind, from which this entire cluster of faults arises.” Vasiṣṭha replied, “Rama, the form of the mind is not seen at all; apart from its name, it is like the empty, inert shape of the sky. The mind does not have a real form either outside or in the heart; know, Rama, that it is present everywhere, like the sky. This form of the mind, which has arisen from unreality, is like the water of a mirage; listen briefly to its nature, which resembles the illusion of a second moon. O noble one, whatever is the manifestation or appearance of meaning, whether real or unreal, know that as the mind and nothing else. That which is the appearance of an object—that is what is called mind; there is nothing else at any time that is called mind. Know that imagination is the mind; it is not different from imagination, just as liquidity is not different from water, and motion is not different from wind.