O mighty-armed Raghunatha, listen closely as I reveal all to you. The great forest I speak of is not far away, nor are its inhabitants distant from you. This very path of worldly existence—deep, hollow, empty, and ever-changing—is itself the great forest, O Rama. Within it, only one thing fills the space: the light of inquiry. Nothing else joins it; it exists solely as that. Those mighty beings who wander there are none other than minds, fallen into suffering. O wise one, I am the witness who perceives them all with discernment. By discrimination, O Raghava, I have seen these and many other things. It is through my discernment alone that these minds are understood—just as lotuses are revealed by the sun’s own light. Through my awakening and by my grace, some of those minds have reached supreme tranquility and ceased their wandering. Others, lost in delusion, do not welcome me—discernment—and, rejected by me, they fall into deep pits. These blind pits, O descendant of Raghu, are known as hells; into them, minds fall and rise again within, bound by their own suffering. The dense karañja thicket is the taste of sensual pleasure. Human life, beset with the thorns of suffering, is driven by threefold craving. Minds that enter the karañja thicket are born as humans there, absorbed in a single flavor of worldly enjoyment. The plantain grove, cool with the rays of the moon, O descendant of Raghu, is heaven itself, delighting the mind. Just as whatever enters a grove of plantains becomes immersed in it, so too, O Rama, minds absorbed solely in heavenly pleasures become lost in their delight. Minds that have entered a deep, dark pit and have not emerged are bound by great sins. Those that have entered the grove of karanja trees and remain there are the minds belonging to human beings. Some awaken and are freed from bondage; others, taking on many forms, move from one womb to another. Some, purified by meritorious austerity, though harsh in nature, sustain bodies that are stable and fitting. Ignorant men who rejected me as wicked—minds devoid of self-knowledge—cast aside their own discernment. Whatever the mind says in haste—“I have been destroyed by you, you are my enemy”—is but lamentation as the mind slips away. The weeping, loud cries, and many tears shed by a man, O Raghava, are the mind’s lamentations as it abandons the web of enjoyments. For one whose discernment is only half attained and who has not reached the stainless state, abandoning enjoyments brings intense distress. When limbs are seen weeping by one awakened through compassion, the mind wonders, “Alas, having abandoned these, where shall I go?” For such a person, if the mind abandons the limbs, distress only increases. 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 complete discernment and abandoned the cycle of worldly existence, when the mind lets go of forms, bliss increases. When the limbs are seen laughing in mockery, those forms perceived by the mind bring deception. For a long time, I was deceived by false imaginations constructed by delusion; thus, with mockery, my own limbs are seen by my mind. The mind that has attained discernment and rests in the infinite state calmly beholds its former wretchedness from afar, laughing. When I carefully questioned discernment, it forcibly seized the mind, as has been shown. When the limbs fall apart and vanish from sight, it is shown that, without the mind’s desire for objects, they come to rest. The description of a man with a thousand eyes and arms illustrates the mind’s capacity for infinite forms. When a person strikes himself with repeated blows, it is the mind striking itself with imagined blows. When a person flees from himself, striking himself, it is the mind fleeing from its own impulses and striking itself. He strikes his own mind by his own will and flees; see how ignorance manifests. All minds, scorched by their own tendencies, flee by themselves, eager to reach that state of rest. This widespread suffering is produced by the mind itself; and when the self is greatly afflicted, it flees from itself. Within the net of desires and mental impressions, bondage arises by itself; the mind, with threads spun from its own fancies, binds itself like a silkworm weaving its cocoon. Just as a restless child plays and encounters misfortune, unaware of the suffering to come, so the mind engages in its own difficult games, not foreseeing the pain ahead. Just as a monkey, not noticing the danger of its testicles caught in a hole in wood, brings itself pain by trying to pull them out, so too does the mind bring suffering upon itself. Through long practice and sustained contemplation, the mind attains stability. Having reached its own natural state by repeated effort, it no longer grieves.