O Rama, just as this universe is neither truly established, nor arisen, nor even existent in any ultimate sense, so too, O Brahman, let us seek to understand this with clarity and determination. Know that I am not endowed with speech, yet listen, O Raghava, as I explain: this entire world appears unreal, much like the imagined son of a barren woman in a desert—a thing that cannot be. In the beginning, nothing was produced; therefore, in truth, nothing at all exists. What appears before us is only a manifestation within the mind, like the fleeting city seen in a dream. At the dawn of creation, the mind itself is unproduced, possessing only an unreal form. Pay heed, and I shall explain how this is experienced. The mind, woven from perceptions, generates this fault—decay and change—which is itself unreal, appearing as unreality does, like one dream layered within another. By its own freedom, the mind swiftly imagines the body; and through this, the splendor of its magic is spread and extended throughout experience. The mind flashes and moves, it dances, begs, becomes, sinks, and withdraws by its own power. It even seems to attain immortality, yet it only fluctuates, ever restless—such is the nature of the mind. At this, Rama asks: “O Lord, tiger among sages, what truly is this confusion of the mind? How does it exist? How is the mind produced, and from where does this mind, woven of illusion, arise? O Lord, please tell me briefly about its origin at the very beginning; afterwards, you may explain the rest, O best among those who speak.” Thus, the sage responds: When the great dissolution arrives and non-being prevails, at the very start of creation, only peacefulness remains—all appearances have vanished. In that stillness abides the radiant, unborn, divine, and flawless Lord, who never sets; always and everywhere present, the supreme Self, the great Lord, the source of all. From Him, words return, for He is realized only by the liberated. Even the names such as ‘self’ are mere imaginations, not arising from His own nature. He is recognized by the Sāṅkhya philosophers as Brahman, by the Vedāntins as pure consciousness, and by the knowers of knowledge as utterly pure awareness. For those who contemplate emptiness, He is emptiness; for those who praise the sun’s brilliance, He is the illuminator. He is always the speaker, the rememberer, the true enjoyer, the seer, and the doer. In the world, He is both existent and non-existent; though abiding in the body, He remains far away—He is the light of consciousness, just as radiance springs from the sun. From Him arise gods such as Viṣṇu, like rays from the sun; from Him, countless worlds emerge, like bubbles rising from the ocean. Into Him, all objects of perception merge, as streams flow into the great ocean; He illumines Himself and all things, just as a lamp shines. He abides in space, in bodies, in stones, in waters, in vines, in dust, in mountains, in the winds, and even in the netherworlds. He swiftly floods the eightfold city—the body—here and there; by Him, the deluded are rendered mute, like stones absorbed in meditation. By His power, the sky is made empty, mountains are made solid, waters flow swiftly, and the sun shines brightly. From Him arise the varied visions of worldly existence, like showers from a cloud filled with inexhaustible nectar. In Him, the waves of the three worlds—appearance and disappearance—ceaselessly shimmer, like sunbeams in sunlight. He is of the nature of destruction, yet indestructible Himself, dwelling within all things—hidden, distinct, yet present in every being. He is the natural vine grown in space, bearing the fruit of the cosmic egg; the mind and senses are His leaves, and He dances in the wind. This consciousness-gem shines forth, emerging through every body; within Him, like rays in the moon, the streams of the world’s web flicker. In the tranquil mass of consciousness, in the nectar-raining brilliance, the elements flow like streams, and perceptions flash like lightning. Objects sparkle mutually by His illumination; by Him, the unreal is born as unreal, and the real attains true existence. This moving body acts without desire in the presence of that supreme jewel, which abides in the self—silent and inert. By Him, fate, space, time, movement, vibration, and actions have come and gone, as He approaches all beings. Because of His pure consciousness-nature, He becomes like space through knowledge of space; through knowledge of objects, He assumes the state of objects, yet remains unestablished. Even while performing the boundless activities of the great worlds, He never truly acts at any time; He is established solely in His own undiminishing, changeless awareness, having abandoned all notions of arising and abiding. For this God of gods, the supreme Self, the highest attainment comes only through knowledge—not through the weariness of ritual practice. Here, only knowledge and its application are useful; nothing else is required. It is like the experience that brings relief from the illusion of water in a mirage. This is neither distant nor in the sky, nor difficult to attain. It is the radiance of one’s own bliss, found within one’s own body. Practices such as austerity, charity, or vows do not help here at all. Except for resting in one’s own nature, there is no other means. Scripture, association with the wise, and the guidance of true yogis alone are the means and illumination here—whatever dispels the net of delusion without artifice. By the mere recognition, “This is that God,” suffering does not arise for the living being, and one attains liberation while living. By this very recognition of the self within the self, faults such as death and others never afflict again. How could this great God, the God of gods, be attained from afar—by what intense austerity, by what hardship, or by how much effort? O Rama, that God is known through one’s own effort, through expanding discernment—not by austerity, bathing, or ritual actions.