Once, in their search for the highest fulfillment, three princes found themselves gathering together, bereft of friends and weighed down by sorrow. Their faces were cast down, their minds oppressed by grief. Unable to remain in the empty city that had once been their home, they departed, their features twisted with pain, moving away like Mercury, Venus, and Saturn conjoined in the heavens—each carrying his own sadness. Their limbs, delicate as silk tree branches, were scorched from behind by the relentless sun. Weary from their journey, they became as tender leaves suffering under the summer’s heat. The burning sand seared their lotus-like feet, and in their distress they cried out, “Alas, father! Alas, mother!”—like young deer lost from their herd. The path wounded their feet with sharp blades of grass, sweat slicked their joints, and dust covered their bodies as they pressed on, undaunted by the distance they had traveled. Along the way, they came upon a cluster of three trees, lush with blossoms, adorned with fruit and fresh leaves, a haven for flocks of deer and birds. Yet of these three trees, two had not grown at all, and the third, though they climbed it, bore no seeds. Exhausted, the princes rested in the shade of one tree, as if they had found themselves in Indra’s own celestial abode beneath a heavenly tree. There, they ate fruits as sweet as nectar, drank the juice, wove garlands from the blossoms, and, after a long rest, continued their journey. As midday arrived, they reached three rivers, whose lively waves resounded with noise. But one river was completely dried up, and the other two showed not even a trace of water—just as the blind cannot see. Yet, in the bed of the dried river, they bathed eagerly, as those tormented by heat would in the heavenly Ganges, like Vishnu, Brahma, and Shiva playing in the sacred waters. After a long time spent playing and drinking water as sweet as nectar, the princes departed, refreshed and joyful. As the day drew to a close and the sun hung low in the sky, they arrived before a city about to be built, grand and imposing as a mountain. The city was adorned with banners and lotus ponds, its blue waters shining, its fame resounding far and wide, surrounded by circles of singing and celebration. There, they saw three splendid mansions, beautiful and prosperous, with walls of jewels and gold, rising like the peaks of a great mountain. Of these, two houses were unfinished, and one stood without walls. The three princes entered the charming house without walls. Inside, they quickly sat down and delighted in their surroundings, discovering three golden bowls, heated and gleaming. In time, two of the bowls broke into fragments and one turned to powder, so the wise princes gathered the powdered vessel. They found ninety-nine measures, and one more of food, yet a hundred measures were still lacking, consumed by many eaters. Nevertheless, hundreds of people ate, as did hundreds of Brahmins, and the three princes themselves, each attaining supreme satisfaction. In that future city, these three princes remain happily to this day, my son, engaged in hunting and their own affairs. This delightful story has been told to you, O sinless one; keep it in your heart, wise one, and you will become discerning. Thus, O Rama, the nurse narrated this auspicious children’s tale, and the child was pleased by this charming story. This, O lotus-eyed Rama, is the children’s story I have recounted to you, connected to the tale of the mind. Just as in the story, the creation of the world has come to its present state through intense and fruitless imaginations. O sinless one, all this is but a web of imagination, made of appearances, which unfolds itself in the forms of bondage, liberation, and so forth. Here, apart from mere thought-constructs, nothing else exists; by the power of thought, something appears, or nothing at all, or only a particular thing. Heaven, earth, wind, space, mountains, rivers, and directions—all these are shaped by thought, like a dream within oneself. Just as the three princes, the rivers, and the city-to-be were creations of imagination, so too is the existence of the three worlds. Only thought, ever restless, shines forth all around; just as the ocean is nothing but water, so too is everything, in essence, the Self within the Self. Thought alone first arises in the Supreme Self; this then expands into activity, just as the day unfolds. The entire world is but a web of thought-constructs; know indeed that all is only thought, O playful one. Abandon mere thought, take refuge in the thought-free state, and, with certainty, attain peace, O Rama. The deluded one, under the sway of his own thoughts, falls into confusion, not the wise; just as a non-spirit is bewildered by the thoughts of a spirit, like a child. Who is this imagined being, this yakṣa, considered foremost among knowers of Brahman? By whom is this great delusion, which is truly unreal, always taken up? Through association with the elements, the yakṣa, taking the form of ego, is falsely conceived here, like a goblin imagined by a child. When the supreme reality alone abides in all, how, from where, and in what manner does this so-called “I” arise? In truth, there is no ego, for there is no difference in the supreme Self; just as a traveler, due to imperfect vision, sees water in the intense heat. The jewel of the mind, with its great activity, is called saṃsāra; relying on the Self, the Self shines forth, just as water glistens through water. Therefore, O Rama, abandon unsupported false perception; take refuge in true perception, which is grounded and blissful.