Once again, I approached that man quickly and spoke to him just as before, hoping he would understand. But, O lotus-eyed one, he failed to comprehend anything I said. Instead, that foolish man replied, “I know nothing at all—ah, wicked, evil Brahmin!” and then wandered off, absorbed in his own concerns. As I continued to wander through that vast forest, I saw many more such people, all engaged in misguided actions. Some, when I questioned them, approached in a state of confusion, almost as if they were dreaming, and then became calm; others paid no heed to my words, much like dogs ignoring distant barking. I saw some who had fallen into deep, dark pits and never rose again. Others were entangled in thick groves of plantains and did not emerge, no matter how much time passed. Some vanished into dense clusters of karanja trees, never settling anywhere, while others roamed aimlessly, devoted only to endless wandering. O best of the Raghu lineage, such is the nature of that great forest—a place that still exists even now, where people remain trapped in these ways. O Rama, you yourself have seen this forest in your journey through worldly life, but, being young and your understanding not yet mature, you do not remember it, O descendant of Raghu. That dreadful forest, filled with countless dangers and thick darkness, is shunned by the wise. Only those with clouded minds enter it, just as the wise do not visit gardens of mere flowering shrubs. Hearing this, Rama asked, “O Brahman, what is this great forest? When did I see it, and how? Who are the people there, and what are they striving for?” To this, the sage replied, “O mighty-armed Raghunatha, listen and 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, ever empty and changing—know, O Rama, that this is the great forest. That forest is filled by only one thing, attainable through the light of inquiry; nothing else joins it, for it exists solely as that. The mighty beings moving about within it are none other than 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 these and other things. It is by my discernment alone that these minds are understood by me, just as lotuses are revealed by the sun’s light. Through my awakening and by my grace, O wise one, some of those minds have attained supreme tranquility and have ceased their restless wandering. Yet some, deluded, do not welcome me—the discernment—and, rejected by me, they fall into those deep pits. Those blind and deep pits, O descendant of Raghu, are what are known as hells; into them, these minds fall, only to rise again within. The dense thicket of karanja trees is the taste of sensual pleasure; human life, pierced by the thorns of suffering, is driven by threefold craving. The minds that enter the karanja thicket are born as humans there, absorbed in a single flavor—worldly enjoyment. The plantain grove, cool with the rays of the moon, O descendant of Raghu, is heaven itself, delighting the mind. Just as anything entering a grove of plantains becomes lost within it, so too, O Rama, do minds absorbed solely in heavenly pleasures become immersed and do not emerge. Those minds, O Raghava, that have fallen into the deep, dark pits and never emerged, are bound by great sins. The minds that have entered the groves of karanja trees and have not come out—these are the minds of human beings. Some of these, having awakened, are freed from bondage; others, taking on many forms, pass from one birth to another. Some, purified by meritorious austerity, though possessing a harsh nature, sustain stable and appropriate bodies. Those ignorant ones who rejected me, calling me wicked, are minds devoid of self-knowledge, having cast aside their own discernment. Whatever the mind hastily utters—‘I have been destroyed by you, you are my enemy’—such lamentation is the mind’s cry as it slips away. The weeping, the loud cries, the many tears shed by a man, O Raghava, are the mind’s laments as it abandons the web of enjoyments. For one whose discernment is only half-attained and who has not reached the stainless state, when the mind gives up enjoyments, intense distress arises. When the limbs are seen weeping by one awakened through compassion, the mind wonders, ‘Alas, having abandoned these, where shall I go?’ For one whose discernment is incomplete, if the mind abandons the limbs, the distress only increases. But the laughter that arises in a person from the intoxication of awakening, O Rama, is the satisfaction of a mind endowed with complete discernment. For one who has attained full discernment and abandoned the cycle of worldly existence, when the mind lets go of forms, bliss increases greatly. When the limbs are seen laughing in a person out of mockery, those forms perceived by the mind indeed bring about deception. For a long time, I too was deceived by false imaginations born of delusion; thus, with mockery, my own limbs are seen by my mind. The mind that has attained discernment and rests in the infinite calmly beholds its former wretchedness from afar, laughing at its old folly. When I questioned carefully, discernment seized the mind, as I have shown. And when the limbs have fallen apart and vanished from sight, it is revealed that, without the mind’s desire for objects, they come to rest at last.