O Rama, consider this: when the Self, by its very nature, bears within itself the entire web of actions—those that bring pleasure and those that bring pain—it becomes capable of supporting all things, everywhere. Within the city of the body, the wise one, free from all delusion, rules his inner kingdom with calm and composure, just as Indra presides over his own celestial city. Such a wise person does not allow the wild, intoxicated horse of the mind to plunge into the pit of darkness, nor does he give his precious daughter, discernment, into the greedy hands of desire or the confusion of duality. He finds no weakness within the realm of ignorance; rather, he cuts away, from within, the very roots of that fearsome enemy—worldly bondage. He does not sink into the swirling whirlpool of craving, nor is he trapped in the fortress of agitation born from desire, nor does he lose himself in the tangled forest of alternating pleasure and pain. Instead, he bathes constantly, both outwardly and inwardly, in an instant, at the sacred meeting points of rivers—these being the steps of his mind’s intentions, which he follows carefully and attentively. Unseen by all the senses, turning away from the distractions of the city of the body, he dwells contentedly in the innermost chamber, a sanctuary called meditation. For one whose heart is ever joyful, this city of the body itself becomes a source of happiness—a divine city, bestowing both enjoyment and liberation, like Indra’s own Amaravati. In this city, everything that is established remains so, and nothing perishes unless it is unsteady; how could such a city not bring happiness to its wise king? And when the city of the body is destroyed for the wise, nothing at all is truly lost—just as, when a pot breaks, the space within it is not diminished. Just as the wind touches a pot while it exists but not when it is gone, so too does the embodied Self relate to the body while it lasts. This blessed Self, though all-pervading, remains unattached; having experienced individuality through its own imagination, it ultimately attains the vision of its own true nature. Though it appears to act, it is truly not acting; always inclined toward actions, it sometimes upholds all natural activities for the sake of their results. At times, playfully, it ascends the restless, delightful aerial chariot of its pure mind, whose movement is spontaneous and unforced, and roams about freely. There, established in this state, the wise one delights constantly with the beautiful Lady of the World, whose presence is ever cool and comforting, with Rama, with unwavering friendship abiding in the heart. For him, two beloved companions stand at his sides in unity of truth, like the twin Viśākhā stars flanking the moon, both bringing joy to his mind. Seated in this wisdom, he beholds all these worlds—torn by the saw of suffering—like a person observing anthills from above, or like the sun looking down from the sky. Long fulfilled in every desire, adorned with all prosperity, he shines like the full moon, whose orb is never again diminished. Even when he indulges in the multitude of pleasures, he does not become fatigued; rather, these pleasures shine upon him like the deadly Kālakūṭa poison worn as an ornament on the neck. For him, pleasure, when experienced with understanding, brings satisfaction—just as a thief, when recognized and reassured, becomes friendly and ceases to be an enemy. Amidst the quarrels and commotion of crowds of men and women, the wise one, journeying far from conflict, observes the prosperity of enjoyment as if on a fortunate and happy journey. Just as travelers watch a village procession that arrives without suspicion, so too does the wise one observe actions filled with worldly dealings. Just as the eye naturally falls upon objects in all directions without effort, so does the mind of the wise one engage in tasks without attachment. The senses never cling to the objects attained, nor does the wise one give them away; being complete within himself, he remains steadfast. Restless thoughts about what is not attained, and indifference toward what is attained, do not disturb the wise mind—just as fluttering feathers cannot shake a mountain. With all doubts calmed, all curiosity vanished, and the web of desires diminished, the wise one shines like a sovereign. The Self does not die within itself; it expands from its own essence, complete and boundless on every side—like the ocean of milk is the one established in the Self. The peaceful one laughs at those pitiable creatures who, craving enjoyment, are weakened and dejected by their senses—just as a sane man laughs at those who are mad. Just as one laughs when another desires his own wife, so too does the wise one laugh when the senses crave enjoyment. When the mind, fleeing toward sense objects, abandons the ease of equanimity, it should be brought to tranquility by discrimination—just as an elephant is restrained by a goad. If the tendency of the mind is allowed to indulge in pleasures, it must be destroyed at the very beginning—just as the sprouting of poison is cut off at its first growth. Honor given to one who has already been hurt brings endless suffering; for rice scorched by summer heat, even a little water seems like nectar. For one who is not afflicted, honor or high regard is barely noticed—just as, when rivers are already full, a small flood in the rainy season does not stand out. Yet, one who is full, even when benefited, desires something else again—just as the vast ocean, though filled by all the world’s waters, continues to take in more. When the mind has been restrained, even a small pleasure or adornment that comes afterward is regarded as much, simply because it had not been experienced before. A king who has been bound and then freed is satisfied even with a mere village; but another, who has never been bound or conquered, does not value even a kingdom highly. Just as you might crush your hand with your own hand, grind your teeth with your teeth, or subdue your limbs with your limbs, so too must you conquer the enemies that are your own senses. For those who are eager to conquer others, striving with effort, the senses—because they are the first enemies in the heart—must certainly be conquered first. On this earth, men of noble mind who have not conquered their own mind are not counted among the truly fortunate, nor are they celebrated in the stories of men. I bow to that subduer of enemies in whose heart the serpent of the mind—whose poison is fierce imagination and who has made a coil in the cave of the heart—has become tranquil at last.