O Rama, descendant of Raghu, you are indeed the agent of action, yet by the power of non-attachment, you are not truly the doer. Even as you remain inwardly detached, outwardly you may act as if you are the doer. When something is true, it should be accepted; when it is false, it should be discarded. True attachment is only fitting in the realm of action, and only towards what is to be accepted. But, Rama, in a world where all is illusion—a magical display, entirely unreal—what meaning can acceptance and rejection have? How do such notions even arise in a place devoid of reality? The root of worldly existence is ignorance, a tiny seed that, though truly non-existent, appears as if real and manifests itself. This wheel of worldly activity, spinning from the pursuit of enjoyment, is nothing but a latent tendency of the mind. It gives rise to delusion, like a beautiful vine whose inner hollows are empty and fruitless, or a river’s wave that is never severed yet perishes. Even when seized, it cannot truly be grasped; though soft, its tip is exceedingly sharp, like a wave rising from a waterfall. It appears clearly visible, yet offers no real benefit, established only in the form of a wave upon a river. Sometimes it is crooked, sometimes straight; long or short, steady or unsteady, it arises from its own nature and becomes distinct in that manner. Though empty within, it is seen everywhere as a beauty without substance; it settles nowhere, yet is observed everywhere. Though inert, it seems conscious, animated by the movement of another; even though it does not last a moment, it gives the impression of stability. Like a flame, pure in color yet dark at its core with soot, it flickers by another’s favor and fades away when not regarded. Pale in pure light, yet shining brightly in darkness, it resembles a mirage—full and splendid, displaying many colors. Crooked, perilous, slender, soft yet prickly and rough, it is restless and hungry, craving like the tongue of a serpent. Just as a lamp quickly fades when its oil is exhausted, or as a streak of vermilion dust loses its shine without color, so too does this lose its luster without attachment. Ephemeral and flickering, established in inertness, it appears suddenly and frightens the innocent, like a crooked lightning flash. Though seized with effort, it burns and repeatedly dissolves; even when found, it is not sought after, as fragile as lightning. Unasked, it arrives; though delightful, it brings misfortune, like an untimely blossom, unwelcome for one’s welfare. Forgotten entirely, it brings wandering joy, yet like the creation of a bad dream, it arises only for harm. By the power of its appearance alone, it creates and sustains the three vast worlds for a moment, then devours them. Through it, a moment becomes a series of years; it was by its agency that Harishchandra endured a night lasting twelve years. For those separated from their beloved, suffering the pain of separation, a single night becomes as long as a year under its influence. For the happy, time seems short; for the unhappy, it stretches long. By its influence alone, time reveals itself by reversal—what is brief may seem long, and what is long may seem brief. By its mere existence, it appears to be the agent in all activities, just as a lamp seems to perform the act of illumination, though in truth it does not. Just as a painted figure with hips and breasts is not truly a woman, nor possesses the nature of womanhood, so too this form, though it appears, is not truly fit to act as anything. Like a kingdom imagined in the mind, shining with forms but devoid of reality—even if it has hundreds or thousands of branches—in truth, it is nothing at all. Like a mirage in the forest, adorned with false display, it deceives only bewildered deer, not human beings. Like foam that arises and is destroyed without true separation, it is inert, though appearing restless in form, and when grasped, is found to be nothing. Though not different from consciousness, it appears as something else; like a short thread of a worm, it is inert, yet dependent on the non-inert. Turbid, with an arrogant appearance, dusted by the spread of passion, it is unsteady like a hurricane at the end of an age, encompassing its own world. Like a trail of smoke clinging to the limbs, giving rise to burning and sweat, she moves through the worlds, having absorbed their essence within herself. Her stream is long, fashioned by inertia, like the flow of a raincloud; her cord is firm, made of insubstantial clusters, like a rope woven from blades of grass. She is described only by imagination, like a wave or a lotus; full of many holes like a lotus stem, thick with mud, and composed of inertia. She appears like a flame, intent on growth yet never increasing; sweet at first like the taste of poison, but ultimately exceedingly harsh. She vanishes like a lamp’s flame—I do not know where she goes; like mist seen from afar, when grasped, she is nothing at all. Spread out like a handful of dust, she is observed as atomic; like a haze in the sky, she is seen without any cause. She arises like the confusion of seeing two moons, or the delusion of a dream; just as the motion of a stationary object is perceived by those on a moving ship, so she appears here. When the mind is afflicted by her, people perceive for a long time the bewildering dream of worldly existence, as if troubled and restless. Even what is pleasing and true is sometimes perceived as real, sometimes as unreal; and what is displeasing and untrue is sometimes perceived as unreal, sometimes as real. When the mind is disturbed by such confusion, various delusions arise and vanish within it, like waves on the surface of the ocean. Thus, O Rama, the world and its workings are nothing but a play of illusion, a dance of ignorance and delusion, arising and dissolving in the mind, as fleeting and insubstantial as a wave or a dream.