It is said that, by my boon, your very soul remains within the house of the brahmin. There, within that sacred dwelling, is his royal seat, and within that seat, his own hall. In that very house lies the entire circle of worldly existence; there stands your own house, hesitant at its beginning. Within your own mind—clear, pure, and open as the sky—this entire appearance of worldly confusion is spread out. Just as it is said that this is my birth, so too is the Ikshvaku lineage mine; these are my names, and these were my ancestors in times past. I was born into this world, grew into a child, and when I reached the age of ten, my father, having chosen the path of renunciation, went to the forest, installing me upon the throne. Thereafter, having conquered all directions and made the kingdom free from obstacles, I ruled the earth with the help of these ministers and citizens. For seventy years, I performed sacrifices, upheld righteousness, and protected my subjects; thus, the years of my life passed. Now, a fierce and hostile force has come against me; after fighting them, I have returned home, just as before. Upon my return, I worship these two goddesses, for when deities are worshipped, they indeed grant the desired boons. Of these two, one is mine—she bestows knowledge and the memory of past births; here, the goddess has caused the lotus of the heart to blossom. Now, my purpose is fulfilled. I am reborn, free of doubt, at peace, completely extinguished, and I rest in pure contentment. Thus, this delusion of yours—so greatly agitated, filled with countless pursuits and enjoyments, wandering through different worlds—has been prolonged. At the very moment, in the past, when you approached death, at that instant, this insight spontaneously arose in your heart. Just as a stream of water, leaving one whirlpool, quickly enters another, so too does the stream of consciousness swiftly assume another cycle after abandoning one. As a whirlpool, mingled with other eddies, continues to revolve, so too does the glory of creation—sometimes mixed, sometimes unmixed—grow and diminish in this way. At that moment of your death, insight dawned for you; this web, though unreal in its nature, appears to abide in the portion of consciousness as if it were real. Just as, in a fleeting dream, a hundred years may seem to pass, and as, in the creation of imagination, life and death repeat again and again—just as, in the city of the Gandharvas, there are walls, halls, and chambers, or as, in the commotion of a boat journey, trees and mountains seem to appear—just as, when the humors of the body are disturbed, the city and mountains appear to dance, or as, in a dream, one may see oneself cutting off one's own head—in all these ways, this powerful delusion, taking many forms, is entirely false. In reality, you have never been born, nor have you ever died. You are of the nature of pure consciousness, abiding in peace within yourself. Though you appear to see all this, in truth, you see nothing at all. By your very nature, you always shine forth as the Self within the Self, like a great, noble jewel or radiant light. In reality, this earth-seat does not exist, nor do you exist as this; these mountains and villages are not truly here, nor are we here at all. For the mountain-village brahmin, in the open space of the pavilion, this world appears as a splendid play of royal sovereignty. There, the royal pavilion of play, adorned in form, shines forth; within its inner space, this entire world of yours is spread out. In whatever world, in whatever house, within which we now stand, for those pavilions, the space within is pure space alone. In those pavilions, there is neither earth nor city, no forests, no clusters of mountains, no clouds, rivers, or oceans. Only people dwell there, in emptiness within their homes; they do not see the world, nor earthly beings, nor mountains. If this is so, then how, O Devi, are these attendants of mine here with me? Are they established in themselves, or do they depend on the self? The world appears like a dream there; in the dream, there are no new mountains. How can what is true in the self be real, and what is untrue not be? Tell me. O King, among those who know what is to be known, whose nature is pure awareness, nothing in this world has a form like the consciousness-space self. For one whose self is pure awareness, how can the illusion of the world arise? When the illusion of a snake in a rope is pacified, how can the illusion of a snake arise again? When the unreal is recognized, how can the illusion of the world persist? Once the mirage is known, how can the mind again believe there is water? When one's own dream is recognized, how can the death within the dream remain? In one's own dream, fear of dream-death arises only for what is immortal. Whatever remains, apart from the words "I" and "world," in the pure, awakened, stainless, clear, and immaculate mind—that alone is truly indicated by the wise. After the sage had spoken thus, the day drew to its evening close; the sun set, and the assembly, having offered their salutations, departed to bathe, accompanied by the sun’s fading rays. For one whose mind is unawakened, deluded, and fixed in ignorance, this world—though truly insubstantial—appears as real and solid as adamant. Just as a goblin brings only suffering and death to a child, so too, for the deluded mind, the unreal world appears in the form of reality. As a mirage causes thirst in deer, so too, for those of deluded intellect, the unreal world appears as if it were real. And just as death in a dream appears real to a living being but has no actual effect, so too, this world seems real to the ignorant but brings about no true result.