From the grove of karanja trees to a well, and from that well to another thicket of plantain trees, he wandered—a man lost in himself. Striking his own body, he remained absorbed, established only within his own being. I watched his strange conduct with care and, moved by concern, I restrained him forcibly. For a brief moment, I awakened him from his bewilderment. I questioned him: “Who are you? What is this you are doing? For what purpose? What is your name? What do you desire? Why are you so utterly confused, exhausting yourself in vain?” To these questions, he replied, “I am no one, nor is this anything. O sage, I do not do anything at all.” Then, turning toward me, he said, “By you I have been exposed; you are my enemy, O subduer of foes. Seen by you, I am lost—lost to both sorrow and happiness.” Having spoken thus, he looked at his own limbs and stood still. Then, as misery overtook him, he wailed loudly, like a cloud pouring rain upon the earth. But in a moment, his weeping ceased. Gazing again upon his own form, he seemed to shed his whiteness, as the moon casts off its rays. Suddenly, with a burst of laughter, that man began to abandon his limbs, one after another, in every direction. First his head fell, dreadful to behold; then his arms, his chest, and after that, his abdomen. In but a moment, the man, his limbs, and all confusion vanished completely, just as a dream disappears upon waking. Reflecting on the mysterious power of fate, I continued on my way. In a secluded place, I encountered yet another man in much the same condition. He too struck himself with his own strong arms, and seemed to be fleeing from himself. He fell into a well, then, rising from the depths, he ran again; once more he fell into a thicket, and again, distressed, he fled. He entered a cool, clear forest for a moment, but soon became angry, then pleased, and struck himself again. I observed this strange behavior for a long time, then, smiling, I approached and questioned him. Gradually, he wept and laughed, and as his limbs shattered, he departed and was no longer seen. Again I pondered the power of fate, and continued my journey. In another secluded place, I saw yet another man, behaving in just the same way—striking himself, fleeing from himself. While running, he fell into a great, dark pit. I waited there for a long time, until that deceitful man finally emerged from the well after a great while. As I was about to leave, I saw him again, behaving exactly as before, making the same efforts. Once more I approached and spoke to him, but, O lotus-eyed one, he did not understand at all. That foolish man merely said to me, “I do not know anything at all—ah, wicked, evil Brahmin!” and then went off, absorbed in his own affairs. As I wandered through that vast forest, I saw many such men, all engaged in their own forms of wrongdoing. Some, when questioned by me, would approach as if in a dreamlike confusion and then become calm; others ignored my words, just as dogs ignore barking. Some fell into dark pits and never rose again; others, caught in thickets of plantain trees, did not emerge even after 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 that vast forest, which exists even today, wherein people remain in this manner. O Rama, as one engaged in worldly life, you too have seen that forest here; but due to the immaturity of understanding in childhood, you do not remember it, O descendant of Raghu. That dreadful forest, filled with dangers and perils, dense with the 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 them. Then Rama asked: “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?” To this I replied: “O mighty-armed Raghunatha, listen, I will tell you everything. That great forest is not far away, nor are those people distant from you. This very path of worldly existence—deep and hollow—know, O Rama, that empty and ever-changing one as the great forest. That forest is filled by the one thing attainable through the light of inquiry; it is not joined by anything else, it exists solely as that alone. Those mighty beings who move about there—know them to be the minds, fallen into suffering. O wise one, I am the witness who perceives them all with discernment; by means of discrimination, O Raghava, I have seen those and other things. It is by my discernment alone that these minds are understood by me, just as lotuses are ever revealed by the sun’s own light. Having attained my awakening and through my grace, O wise one, some of those minds have reached supreme tranquility and have ceased. Some do not welcome me—discernment—due to delusion; under the sway of rejection by me, they fall into pits indeed. Those deep, blind pits, O descendant of Raghu, are known as hells; into them those minds fall and rise again within. That which is called the dense karanja thicket is the taste of sensual pleasure; human life, beset with the thorns of suffering, is driven by threefold craving.