As long as a person has not awakened, sleep continues to hold sway over them. In that slumber, dreams are filled with confusion and bewildering images, but when one truly awakens, such confusion disappears. In the same way, as long as the living being remains under the spell of ignorance—unawakened to the truth—he experiences the tumult and incomprehensible turmoil of worldly existence, just as one is lost in the disarray of dreams. But when the mind becomes fully awakened, all darkness is dispelled, just as the lotus, closed and blind in the night, opens and sees clearly in the light of day. Those who identify themselves with the mind, with ignorance, with their mental being, their place of residence, their actions, and even with the sense of self—these are the embodied beings who come to know suffering. The inert body itself does not suffer; it is the living being, lacking discernment, who experiences pain. This lack of discernment arises from deep ignorance, and it is this ignorance that is the root cause of all suffering. Drawn to both virtuous and unvirtuous actions, the living being, through the single fault of indiscrimination, fails to reach the highest state. The mind, afflicted by the disease of indiscrimination and filled with countless tendencies, wanders restlessly, playing in diverse forms, turning like a wheel. It is the mind that arises, that cries, that kills, that eats, that moves, that leaps, and that rejoices—it is always the mind acting within the body, never the body itself. Just as a householder dwells in his house, a charioteer in his chariot, or a serpent in its hole, so too does the mind reside within the body. Like the wind moving restlessly among unmoving trees, the mind stirs within the body, but the body does not enter into the mind. In every experience of pleasure and pain, in every thought, it is the mind that acts and enjoys. Thus, know the mind to be the true person. Now, listen to this marvelous tale of how, through the workings of the mind, Lavaṇa became a chandāla. The mind, indeed, experiences the fruits of actions, whether good or bad. Hear this story, O Rāghava, and understand. Once, Lavaṇa, a sinless king of the Harishchandra lineage, sat alone and pondered deeply for a long time. He thought, "My grandfather was great, the priest of the rājasūya sacrifice. I am born in his line, and I, too, shall perform that sacrifice in my mind." With this thought, gathering all the necessary materials in his imagination, the king entered into the initiation for the rājasūya sacrifice. He worshipped the priests, honored noble sages, saluted the deities, and kindled the sacred fire—all within his mind. As the sacrificer's mind dwelled in the sacred grove, a year passed, filled with the worship of gods, sages, and the twice-born. Having given away all his wealth as gifts to beings and ancestors, the king awoke at the end of the day, still in his own grove. In this way, King Lavaṇa attained the rājasūya sacrifice, for his mind, being strong and focused, was united with its result. Therefore, know that it is the mind which experiences pleasure and pain; and in that beginningless, effortless reality, establish yourself, O Rāghava. When the mind is fulfilled, the person is fulfilled; when the mind is lost, he perishes. But those who firmly believe "I am the body"—the wise have no use for them. When discernment fills the mind and it is truly awakened, all sorrows vanish for one whose understanding is clear—just as the sun's rays shining in a lotus pond dispel the long-standing darkness and dullness. Lavaṇa, indeed, attained the fruit of the rājasūya sacrifice, O lord of the field; but what proof is there in this web of imagination? When Shambarika arrived at Lavaṇa’s assembly at the appointed time, I was present and witnessed it directly. After Shambarika entered, I, along with the others, earnestly questioned Lavaṇa about these events. Having reflected and observed all that was said, listen, O Rāma, to what happened concerning Shambarika. Those who perform the rājasūya sacrifice must endure twelve years of adversity and suffering, afflicted by many misfortunes. Therefore, O Rāma, Indra sent a divine messenger in the form of Shambarika from the heavens to bring distress upon Lavaṇa. Having inflicted great calamity upon the performer of the rājasūya rite, Shambarika departed along his celestial path, attended by gods and siddhas. In the same way, when the multitude of mental states is awakened, they become unified, just as many clay pots dissolve when placed in water and become one. O revered one, what are the seven stages of yoga that grant perfection? Please tell me briefly, you who know all truths. The field of ignorance is sevenfold, and so too is the field of knowledge; between these, countless other stages arise. These two—self-effort and delight in supreme existence—are like two great trees, each bearing its own fruit at every stage, rooted firmly in their base. Now, listen as I explain the sevenfold nature of ignorance; afterwards, you shall hear of the sevenfold field of knowledge. Abiding in one’s own true nature is liberation; falling from that is the sense of ‘I’ and ‘not-I.’ This is the mark distinguishing knowledge from ignorance. Those who do not stray from their own nature, which is pure consciousness alone, and in whom attraction and aversion do not arise—ignorance cannot arise in them. The loss of one’s own nature and immersion in the objectified—apart from this, there is no other delusion, nor will there ever be. When, as one thought passes to another in the mind, the state that remains in between—free from the marks of thought—that is called abiding in one’s own nature. That state in which all intentions have become quiet, like the space within a rock, and which is free from dullness and sleep—this is remembered as abiding in one’s own nature.