O Rāghava, know this: it is the mind that experiences pleasure and pain within a person. In the beginningless, effortless reality that underlies all, root yourself firmly. When the mind is full and content, the person is fulfilled; but when the mind is lost, the person perishes. Those who are convinced, “I am the body,” are of no concern to the wise. When the mind is awakened and filled with discernment, all sorrows vanish for one whose understanding is clear. It is like the sun’s rays illuminating a lotus pond, dispelling the long-standing darkness of contraction and dullness. Consider the story of Lavaṇa, who attained the fruits of the Rājasūya sacrifice. Yet, what proof can one find in this intricate web of imagination? When Shambarika arrived at Lavaṇa’s assembly at the appointed time, I was present there and witnessed it directly. After Shambarika entered, I and the other members of the assembly questioned Lavaṇa earnestly about the meaning of these events. Having reflected on and observed what was spoken, listen now, O Rāma, as I recount what happened with Shambarika. Those who perform the Rājasūya sacrifice endure twelve years of adversity and suffering, afflicted by various 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 one who performed the Rājasūya rite, Shambarika departed along his celestial path, attended by gods and siddhas. In the same way, the multitude of mental states, when awakened, becomes unified—just as a collection of diverse clay pots dissolves when placed in water. O revered one, you ask about the seven stages of yoga that grant perfection. Listen briefly, for you are foremost among those who know all truths. The field of ignorance is sevenfold, and the field of knowledge is also sevenfold; between these two, countless other stages arise. These two—self-effort and the delight in supreme existence—are like two great trees, and at every stage, each bears its own fruit from its firmly rooted base. Now, listen as I explain to you the sevenfold nature of the field of ignorance; afterwards, you will hear of the sevenfold nature that arises from the field of knowledge. Abiding in one’s own true nature is liberation; falling from that is the sense of ‘I’ and ‘not-I.’ This, in brief, marks the distinction between knowledge and 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. Delusion is nothing but 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 object 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, sleep, and the like—that is remembered as abiding in one’s own nature. In the peaceful state beyond ego and distinctions, where the mind is unmoving, whatever shines forth without dullness is remembered as one’s true nature. Now, delusion is sevenfold: seed-awakening, ordinary awakening, great awakening, waking dream, ordinary dream, dream-awakening, and deep sleep. These states are intertwined and known by various names; listen to their characteristics. First is consciousness, unnamed and pure awareness; it becomes the basis for future names and meanings such as mind, living being, and so forth. When it remains in the form of a seed, that is called seed-awakening—a new state of cognition. When, having arisen, the conviction “this is the other, I am this, this is mine” appears clearly, that is the prior formation of waking awareness. When the conviction “this is that, I am this, this belongs to me” arises from previous births, that strong conviction is called great awakening. Whether unestablished or established, without sleep and not outwardly directed, the kingdom of the mind during waking is called waking dream. Due to distinctions such as the double moon, the oyster’s silver, or the mirage, when these are repeatedly experienced, wakefulness itself becomes manifold. Even if one thinks, “I saw this only for a short time; it is not real,” the impression that remains at the end of sleep about what was experienced during sleep remains. That is called a dream—when, in the state of great wakefulness, it remains in the heart, not having appeared for a long time and not having manifested its vast form. A dream that has risen to the status of wakefulness attains the state of great wakefulness; whatever is perceived or not perceived in the body is considered both dream and waking. When the six states are abandoned, the condition in which the dull soul remains, filled with awareness of future suffering, is called the state of deep sleep. In that state, all objects such as grass, clods, stones, and so on—old, new, or very recent—are all present. Thus, O Rāghava, I have described seven states of ignorance; each has hundreds of branches and appears in various forms of manifestation. That which is long established as waking or dream eventually becomes wakefulness itself; through the diversity of objects, it unfolds and expands. Within this, too, exist states like deep waking; and within those, yet others—thus, the cycles of existence are dense. Even in the states of deep sleep and dream, and in the intermediate conditions, this entire mass of delusion remains, solid like a rock. From one dream the world enters into another dream, from one delusion into another delusion, just as a whirlpool in a river sinks into another body of water. Some cycles of existence persist as long dreams or waking states; others, again and again, as dreams, or as waking and dreaming, or otherwise. Thus is the intricate play of mind and the stages of ignorance, O Rāma, and so is the nature of this world and liberation.