The brāhmaṇa’s body, its face and limbs grown pale, began to tremble. In an instant, as if a creeper whose root had been severed, it collapsed to the earth. At this moment, the great sage, with profound intent, entered into the body of his own son. There, he performed a rite of restoration, invoking sacred mantras and sprinkling the purifying water from his water-pot. As the rite unfolded, all the subtle channels of the slender one’s body filled and surged with life, shining forth like riverbeds brimming with water at the height of the rainy season. She blossomed like a lotus refreshed by rain, or a young vine bursting forth in spring; her vital energies, once depleted, now flourished anew. In this renewed body, the seed of life stirred, carried upward by the breath, just as a cloud, filled by the mingling of sap and wind, swells with impending rain. Restored and pure, the son respectfully greeted his father, like a newborn cloud offering its first thunder to the steadfast mountain. The father, his heart softened with affection, embraced the body that had once belonged to his daughter, holding it close as a rain-cloud lingers lovingly upon a mountain slope. Bhrigu gazed upon the former body of his child with tender regard, for even the wise are seized by the thought, “This one is born from me.” At that moment, the deep affection of “This is my son” arose powerfully in Bhrigu’s heart; for as long as form endures, the sense of “mine” clings to all. Thus, father and son stood together, each enhancing the other’s radiance, like the sun and a lotus pond rejoicing at the end of night, or like a pair of wheels rejoined after long separation—like the peacock and the monsoon cloud, united by the deep bond of the rains. After dwelling there for a time, savoring the story that had arisen from steadfast yearning, the wise one rose up. Together, they performed the final rites for the twice-born body, reducing it to ashes in accordance with proper conduct, as is the way of the world. In that pure forest, Bhrigu and Bhargava stood radiant in their austerity, like the moon and sun shining in the sky. Having realized all that is to be known and liberated while still living, they became teachers to the world, moving about with ease and steadiness amid the shifting waves of place, time, and circumstance. In due course, Śukra attained the status of preceptor to the asuras, while Bhrigu abided in his own flawless state. Śukra was first born in this way from the supreme state, but, through a lapse of memory, he was later cast into various other conditions. In the beginning, the pure mind of Bhārgava arose from the state of Brahman, untouched by the stain of any other birth. When all desires are stilled and the mind is pure, the state that arises is called sattva—spotless consciousness itself. Whatever this pure mind contemplates swiftly comes to be, just as a whirlpool forms spontaneously in the ocean’s waters. So it was that this confusion arose in the son of Bhrigu, and in the same way, for every individual, the illustration holds true. Just as a seed gives rise to its own sprout, leaves, and so forth, so too does a cluster of delusions arise for all beings. Whatever is seen as this universe is but a manifestation—each appearance arises falsely and passes away in the same manner. The world neither truly sets nor arises for anyone; it is a mere delusion, an idle play of māyā, expanding in vain. Just as the world-egg appears in our own perception, so too, countless unseen worlds exist for others. The activities of dream-cities and imagined cities are not seen by each other; in the same way, these cycles of worldly delusion are separate and distinct. There are, indeed, cities in the sky, formed by imagination; they exist, yet are visible only to the eye of knowledge. Similarly, spirits, yakṣas, and demons possess bodies made only of thought, composed of pleasure and pain. In the same manner, O delight of the Raghu lineage, we and all these beings are formed by our own imagination, having the nature of both falsehood and reality. Thus, the cycle of creation exists, not as true reality, but as something abiding within the unreal. For each individual, the world arises merely as an illusion, just as the sap of spring appears in the form of new shoots. This first imagination of self becomes firmly established, just as, through intense conviction, something is conceived as supremely real. The mind, arising individually, remains within its own nature; seeing the world as this or that, it ultimately perishes. By the force of appearance, things seem to exist or not, according to perception; the web of the world is a long dream, tethered to the elephant of the mind. Truly, consciousness is the very existence of the world, and the world’s existence is shaped by consciousness; if either is absent, both cease to be—this is the finding of true inquiry. The reflection that appears in pure consciousness is real, just as saffron dye colors only an unstained cloth. When something is not brought by another, a different quality will surely arise; when consciousness is not seized by thoughts, its own awareness shines forth. Just as gold does not settle on a soiled garment, so too, a single-pointed vision does not remain in a tainted mind. As a gem is polished or copper is refined by proper means, so too does the mind become purified by long and steady practice. In this world of mere appearance, sequences of time and action arise and subside with their own rising and setting—how could they truly exist in the pure mind?