Listen, O noble one, to a wondrous and strange account. There was a man, seized by a peculiar affliction: he would strike himself with powerful blows, as if fleeing from his very own self. His mind, wild with fear, raced away for hundreds of leagues, unable to find peace. As he fled in this frantic manner, he cried out, his voice echoing in every direction. He ran far and wide, until, exhausted and helpless, his limbs and feet battered and broken, he finally collapsed, overcome by his plight. In this state of helplessness, he soon fell headlong into a great, dark, and sightless well—a deep pit filled with the blackness of night and the suffocating arrogance of ignorance. There he remained for a long time, lost in the depths of darkness. But after a considerable while, he managed to rise from that blind well. Yet, no sooner had he emerged than he resumed his self-inflicted blows and once again fled from himself, as if unable to escape his own shadow. He wandered even farther, until he entered a dense thicket of karanja bushes, bristling with thorns. It was as if a grasshopper had leapt into a blazing fire—so painful was his experience. Yet, in a mere moment, he burst out of that prickly grove, only to resume striking himself and fleeing from himself. Again, he journeyed onward, and, blinded by his confusion, he plunged once more into the same dark well, his limbs flailing in his haste. Rising yet again from the well, he entered a grove of plantain trees, still beating himself and running from himself. He pressed on and found himself in a beautiful plantain forest, cool as moonlight, its atmosphere light and almost playful. But he did not linger; in a moment, he left the cluster of plantains and entered once more the bright but thorny karanja thicket. Thus he wandered in a cycle: from the karanja grove to the well, from the well to another plantain grove. No matter where he went, he kept striking himself and remained caught up in himself, unable to escape this strange compulsion. Observing this pitiable conduct, I watched him carefully. Then, summoning my resolve, I forcibly restrained him and roused him to awareness for a brief moment. I questioned him: “Who are you? What is this that you do? What is your name, and what do you seek? Why are you so utterly bewildered, running in vain?” To my questions, he answered, “I am no one, nor is this anything. O sage, I do not do anything at all.” Then he added, “You have exposed me; you are my enemy, O subduer of foes. Being seen by you, I am lost—both to sorrow and to happiness.” Having spoken thus, he gazed at his own limbs and stood still. Then, overwhelmed by misery, he wailed loudly, like a monsoon cloud pouring rain upon the earth. But in a moment, his weeping ceased. He looked upon his limbs, and as if the moon casting off its rays, he shed his pallor. Suddenly, he burst into laughter. Then, before my eyes, he began to abandon his limbs, one after another, in every direction. First his head fell, terrible to behold, then his arms, his chest, and finally his abdomen. In an instant, the man, his limbs, and all his confusion vanished entirely, like a dream dissolving upon waking. Reflecting on the mysterious power of fate, I prepared to depart. But in a secluded spot, I encountered yet another man behaving in the same way—striking himself all around with his own strong arms and fleeing from himself. He, too, would tumble into a well, then rise and run, only to fall into a thicket and flee again in distress. Sometimes, he entered a clear, cool forest for a moment, but then, angry or pleased, he would again strike himself. I observed this strange behavior for a long time, and, with a gentle smile, I approached and questioned him as before. Gradually, he wept and laughed, and as his limbs became shattered, he departed and was seen no longer. Again, reflecting on the power of fate, I set out, and in another secluded place, I saw yet another man behaving in exactly the same way. He, too, struck himself and fled from himself, until, while running, he fell into a deep, dark pit. I waited there for a long time, until finally, after much delay, that deceitful man emerged from the well. As I was about to leave, I saw him again, behaving just as before. I approached and spoke to him as before, but, O lotus-eyed one, he did not understand at all. That foolish man merely said, “I do not know anything at all—ah, wicked, evil Brahmin!” and then went off, absorbed in his own affairs. As I wandered further in that great forest, I saw many such men, all engaged in wrongdoing. Some, when questioned, would approach as if in a confused dream and then become calm; others ignored my words, just as dogs ignore barking. Some fell into dark pits and never rose again; others were caught in thickets of plantain trees and did not emerge for a long time. Some disappeared within the dense groves of karanja trees and never settled anywhere; others wandered about, devoted only to aimless roaming. O best of the Raghu lineage, such is the vast forest, which even now exists, and in which people dwell in this manner. O Rama, as one engaged in worldly life, you have seen that forest yourself, but due to the immaturity of childhood understanding, you do not remember it. That dreadful forest, filled with dangers and perils and thickest darkness, is not frequented by the wise, but only by those whose minds are clouded—just as a garden of flowering shrubs is not visited by the wise. Hearing this, you may ask, “O Brahman, what is that great forest? When did I see it, and how? Who are those people there, and what are they striving to do?