With a calm and resolute voice, the speaker addresses the sage, urging him not to exhaust himself with fierce austerities, for such intense practices are like the great fires that consume the world at the end of an age. "If I have not been burned by those mighty flames," he says, "how could your curse possibly burn me?" He reminds the sage that the coils of worldly existence have consumed countless Rudras and multitudes of Vishnus, yet none have cursed them. "O sage," he asks, "by whom have we been cursed?" He continues, explaining that in truth, they are the enjoyers, and beings like the sage are the food; this is simply the course of destiny, and neither of them is the true agent of action. He illustrates this by pointing out how fire rises upward by its own nature, water flows downward, food goes to the eater, and creation proceeds to its end—all by their inherent qualities. "O sage," he says, "this is the nature of the Supreme Self: the Self manifests itself within itself, by itself." When one perceives with pure vision, there is neither doer nor enjoyer; but with impure vision, many doers seem to appear. The notions of doership and non-doership, he explains, are mere imaginations arising from incorrect perception, not from true understanding. He compares this to flowers appearing on trees and beings coming into existence in the world by themselves; the idea of causation is merely imagined as the work of fate. Just as the movement of the reflected moon involves doership and non-doership—neither truly real nor false—so it is with the creations of time. The mind, through delusion, constructs in the world the notion of doership and non-doership, much like the mistaken perception of a rope as a snake. Therefore, he urges the sage not to be angry, for such is the order of events in adversity. "Let things be as they are," he says, "for truth is seen even in the midst of confusion." He clarifies that they are not governed by authority or pride, but remain only in the domain of necessity, subject to its inherent power. One should pursue natural duties according to the force of necessity; the wise follow this path, not those dominated by pride. Actions are performed only by those skilled in work, relying on the state of deep sleep, and not by any cause leading to destruction. He questions the sage: "Where is your vision made of knowledge, your greatness, your steadfastness? Why do you wander confused like a blind man on a path well known to all?" Even while holding in his mind the pure perception of past, present, and future, the sage, without considering the course of the world, becomes bewildered like a fool. He asks why the sage, without reflecting on the condition of his son—which arises from the ripening of his own actions' fruits—foolishly seeks to curse him in vain, despite his all-knowing nature. He reminds the sage that for all embodied beings, the body is of two kinds: one is the physical body, the other is the mental body. Of these, the physical body is inert and devoted to destruction, but the mind, being restless, is not necessarily worn away by affliction. Just as a chariot is moved by its charioteer using four horses, so too is the body driven by the mind, performing its own actions. The unreal is imagined and made real, while the true body perishes. In a moment, the mind can create a man of clay, just as a child does. Here, the mind alone is the person; what is done by it is said to be done. It is bound by imagination, and by the cessation of imagination, it is freed. He describes the mind's transformation: "This is the body, this is the eye, this is the limb, this is the head; this swelling transformation is what is called the mind." The mind is the living being, the jīva; discernment is intellect, and ego arises from self-identification, thus leading to diversity. With inclination toward the body, the mind perceives other bodies and its own as if they are physical forms. If the mind truly observes, then, abandoning the false notion of the body, it attains supreme peace. He reveals to the sage that the mind of his son, established in samadhi within himself, has traveled far—following its own path of desire. Having left the body of Ushanas in the cave of Mandara, it soared to the celestial abode, like a bird leaving its nest. There, in the groves of mandara trees, the houses of parijata, the clusters of Nandana gardens, and the cities of the guardians of the worlds, the mighty one served Vishvachi, the divine beauty, for eight cycles of four ages, like a bee attending a lotus. Driven by intense urgency, in a world fashioned by his resolve, when his merit was exhausted, he vanished like mist in the night. With wilted flowers adorning his head, his limbs weary and adorned with sweat, he fell together with her, like a fruit ripened by time. Abandoning that celestial form, he entered the sky as a subtle body, then reached the elemental space, and was born upon the earth. He became a twice-born in Dasharna, a king in Kosala, a fisherman in the great Anga forest, and a swan on the banks of the three rivers. He was a king of the solar dynasty in Paundra, a devotee in Salva, a learned Vidyadhara for an age, and a wise and prosperous son of a sage. He became a ruler in Madra, then a young ascetic known as Vasudeva, dwelling on the bank of the Samaṅgā river. In other strange places as well, driven by the force of his own impressions, this son of yours wandered through countless diverse births. He was a cowherd in the Vindhya forest, a hunter in Kekaya, a vassal in Sauvira, and a regional chief in Trigarta. Among the Kirātas he was the bamboo thicket, in the wilderness the deer, beneath the palm the creeping reptile, and in the tamāla tree the wild fowl. This son of yours, having become foremost among those skilled in mantras, once recited the knowledge that grants the status of a Vidyādhara. Thus, his journey through countless forms and lives unfolds, all propelled by the force of his own mind and impressions, revealing the profound truth of existence and the nature of the Self.