Once, in a far-off land, there was a river that had dried up so completely that not a single drop of water remained—just as the blind cannot see even a trace of light. Yet, in this parched riverbed, three princes, longing for relief, bathed with great eagerness, as if the dry sand were the cool, sacred waters of the heavenly Ganges. They reveled there as joyfully as Vishnu, Brahma, and Shiva might in their celestial realms. After a long time spent playing in these imagined waters, and after drinking what seemed to them as sweet as nectar, the princes departed, feeling content and joyful. As the sun began to set and the day drew to its close, they came to rest before a city that was just beginning to be built, grand and imposing like a mountain. This city was adorned with fluttering banners and filled with lotus ponds whose blue waters gleamed in the fading light. Its fame resounded far and wide, and circles of people sang and celebrated within its bounds. Within this wondrous city, the princes beheld three splendid mansions, beautiful and prosperous, their walls fashioned from jewels and gold, rising like the peaks of a great mountain. Of these three houses, two were still unfinished, and one stood without any walls at all. The three princes entered the charming, wall-less house, quickly sat down, and made themselves comfortable. There, they discovered three golden bowls, heated and shining with radiance. As time passed, two of the bowls broke into fragments, and the third was reduced to powder. The wise princes gathered the powdered remains and, using ninety-nine measures and one more of food, found that a hundred measures were still lacking—consumed by the many who had come to eat. Hundreds of people, including Brahmins, dined there, as did the three princes themselves, all attaining supreme satisfaction. And so, in that city yet to be completed, those three princes remain to this day, happily engaged in hunting and their own pursuits. My dear child, this delightful tale has been told to you; keep it close to your heart, for in it lies wisdom and discernment. Thus, O Rama, the nurse recounted this auspicious children’s story, and the young listener was pleased by its cheerful and meaningful message. This, O lotus-eyed Rama, is the tale I have narrated to you, woven in the context of the mind’s mysterious ways. Just as in the story, so too has this creation come to its present state—through intense and futile imaginations. Indeed, this world is but a web of appearances spun by the mind, manifesting as bondage, liberation, and all else. Apart from these thought-constructs, nothing truly exists. By the power of thought, things appear, or do not appear, or only certain things seem real. Heaven and earth, wind and space, mountains, rivers, and all directions—these are all shaped by thought, like dreams within one’s own mind. Just as the three princes, the dried-up rivers, and the city-to-be were nothing but creations of imagination, so too is the existence of the three worlds. Only thought, ever restless, shines forth everywhere. 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 and then expands into all activity, just as day unfolds from dawn. The entire world is but a web of thought-constructs; know, O playful one, that all is only thought. Abandon mere thought, take refuge in the thought-free state, and you will surely attain peace, O Rama. The one who is deluded by his own thoughts falls into confusion, but the wise do not—just as a non-spirit is bewildered by the thoughts of a spirit, like a child lost in imagination. Who is this imagined being, this yakṣa, said to be foremost among knowers of Brahman? By whom is this great delusion—so truly unreal—ever taken up? It is by associating with the elements that the yakṣa, taking the form of the ego, is falsely conceived, like a goblin imagined by a child. When only the supreme reality 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 shimmering in the intense heat where there is none. The mind, with its ceaseless activity, is called saṃsāra; yet, relying on the Self, the Self shines forth, just as water glistens through water. Therefore, Rama, abandon unsupported false perception and take refuge in true perception, which is grounded and blissful. With an intellect inclined toward inquiry and free from the agitation of delusion, discern the truth and completely abandon the untrue. Saying ‘bound’ or ‘unbound’ is truly pointless. Why grieve in vain? For the infinite reality of the Self, what, how, and by whom can bondage occur? In the undivided Supreme Self, where the notion of multiplicity arises only through conceptualization, what can be bound and what can be liberated in this all-pervading reality of Brahman? Though you are inherently free from suffering, you feel pain because of its apparent presence. Why grieve over a wounded limb? No affliction of division, unity, or change truly exists in the Self. When the body is destroyed, injured, or diminished, what harm comes to the Self? Just as gold remains unharmed within a crucible even when the crucible is burned, so too does the Self remain untouched. Let the body fall or be destroyed—what loss comes to us? When a flower is crushed, is its fragrance, which abides in space, truly lost? Let the lotus-like body be struck by the frost of pleasure and pain—what harm comes to us, who are established in the expanse of space, like bees that have flown away? Let the body fall, be destroyed, or depart to the farthest sky—what injury can there be to your true nature, which is distinct from it? Just as the connection between cloud and wind, or bee and lotus, so too, O Rāghava, is the relationship between your body and your Self. The mind is called the body of the entire world; its essence is the power of the Self, which is consciousness, and this never perishes at any time.