Thus, the mind, touched by even the faintest trace of impurity, arises and manifests itself in this world. Without the mind, where indeed could the body be seen? There is, in truth, no other cause for the world’s appearance except the sheer impossibility of its arising—should one see this, the restless demon of the mind is pacified, even after hundreds of aeons. In the treatment of mental affliction, the supreme and most effective medicine is the realization that the world’s appearance is utterly impossible. The mind alone assumes delusion, the mind alone is born and dies; by the grace of another, it becomes bound and, again, it is liberated. In this way, the entire world shines forth within the mind, stirred only by thought, just as in the vast emptiness of space, the illusory city of the Gandharvas appears. This whole world exists and radiates within the mind, like fragrance abiding in a cluster of flowers—present, yet not separate. Just as oil resides in the sesame seed, a quality in its possessor, or a property in its substrate, so too is this world established in the mind. Like waves in water, the illusion of two moons in the moon, or a mirage in the heat, so does the world exist in the mind. As rays are in the sun, light in fire, and heat in the shining orb, so too is this world in the mind. As coolness is in the moon, emptiness in space, and restlessness in the wind, so too is this world in the mind. The mind is the world, and the world is the mind; they are always inseparable. When the mind is disturbed, the world appears disturbed; yet when the world is disturbed, the mind is not necessarily so. O sinless one, just as this vast manifestation arises clearly within the mind, explain to me with a fitting analogy how this is so. Just as the realms of the gods, the seers, and even the forms of the departed are firmly established in the mind, so too is this world. Just as the king of salt, bewildered by magical illusion, found himself in the state of an outcaste, so too is this world established in the mind. Just as Bhargava, for a long time, through the desire for heavenly enjoyments, attained lordship over enjoyments, so too is this world established in the mind. But how, O Lord, did the son of Bhrigu, driven by the desire for heavenly pleasures, come to possess lordship over enjoyments and become bound in worldly existence? Listen, O Rama, to the ancient tale of the conversation between Bhrigu and Kālaya, which took place on the slopes of Mount Mandara, thick with tamāla trees. Long ago, on the flower-laden slopes of Mount Mandara, the venerable sage Bhrigu performed severe austerities. His radiant son, the wise and youthful Śukra, whose brilliance rivaled the full moon, attended upon him there, as light attends the sun. Deep in that excellent forest, Bhrigu remained absorbed in samādhi, unmoving at all times, like a stone resting on the forest floor. Śukra, still a boy, played at ease on beds of flowers, on shining white lotuses, and on swings hung from coral trees. Not yet having attained the highest state, Śukra moved between knowledge and ignorance, like Triśaṅku suspended between heaven and earth. Once, while his father was absorbed in nirvikalpa samādhi, Śukra found himself alone and undisturbed, like a king who has conquered all his enemies. At that moment, he saw an apsaras passing by through the sky, as Janārdana might behold Lakṣmī, newly emerged from the churning of the milk ocean. She was adorned with a garland of mandāra flowers, her hair gently stirred by a soft breeze, her anklets tinkling as she moved, and the air around her fragrant. She was like a delicate creeper at the foot of the tree of beauty, her eyes rolling with intoxication, and the place was made nectar-like by the radiance of her moon-like body. Beholding that lovely woman, Śukra’s mind became lively and restless, as when one beholds the clear, full moon reflected in the waters of the ocean. Struck in his heart by a hundred arrows of love, he restrained his mind and thoughts, and with all other activities dissolved, he became as if made entirely of the celestial maiden. He thought: “This woman is in the sky, in the abode of the thousand-eyed one; I have now reached heaven, adorned with delightful celestial maidens. These are your gods, beautiful with soft mandāra flowers in their hair, their bodies shining with the play of molten gold. These are the charming women, whose glances create showers of blue lotuses, innocent and radiant with smiles, lovely, with eyes like those of a deer. These are your winds, shining with the brilliance of the Kaustubha gem, reflecting one another, their forms resembling the cosmic form, dazzling and intoxicated. These songs, which even the bees—indifferent to the fragrance of Airāvata’s trunk—listen to, are the melodies sung by hosts of celestial beings. This is that divine maiden, resting in the gardens along the banks of the Mandākinī, wandering among golden lotuses and the swans of Brahmā. These are the guardians of the worlds—Yama, the moon, Indra, the sun, wind, water, and fire—whose bodies shine with radiant, blazing flames. This is Airāvata, whose face is scratched by the weapons of mighty gods, and whose roaring tusks have pierced the circle of demon kings. These are those who once dwelled on earth, now transformed into stars in the sky—celestial beings adorned with moving, beautiful garlands, fans, and earrings. These are the rows of aerial palaces, adorned with various gardens and jeweled temples, shining with lovely golden canopies. These are the gods scattered by the spray from the slopes of Mount Meru, and those are the waves of the Ganges water filled with mandāra flowers. These are the avenues in Indra’s gardens, swaying with groups of apsaras, colored by clusters of mandāra flower buds.” Thus, all this—gods and heavens, beauties and wonders—arose and shone forth in Śukra’s mind, as the world itself does in the mind of all beings.