Liberation and creation, in their highest sense, are one and the same. The glory of liberation is the glory of creation itself; there is no distinction between these two, just as there is no real difference between synonyms. In the ultimate reality, what we call the “world” is simply the form through which consciousness perceives itself—much like how a person with an eye ailment sees a hair or a speck that is not truly there. There is, in truth, no actual ball of hair; only the perception persists. This is not an object that is seen, nor is it anything at all. Thus, what remains is the pure, open space of consciousness. Everywhere and in everything, only what is experienced exists—there is nothing here that is not experienced. This state is peaceful, ever-present, and all-pervading. It remains, free from doubt and division. Therefore, abide in this awareness. The great form of consciousness is dense and stable, like a mountain cave—yet tranquil and clear as the sky. Nowhere in perception is there true existence or non-existence; whatever is, shines forth as goodness. Now, O descendant of Raghu, listen to the story of the rope, the snake, and the pot. When Yama’s attendants inquired about them, Yama himself spoke these words. When these beings experience separation and hear the story of their own lives, then, without doubt, the bonds that hold them—the ropes and such—will be released. “But where, when, and how will they hear this account of their own story? By whom will the sequence of this tale be heard?” was asked. On the marshy banks of the great lotus lake in Kashmir, after passing through many births as fish, restless with unfulfilled desires, they will eventually reach dissolution. There, in that lotus lake, they will be reborn as swans. Amidst garlands of water-lilies, clusters of lotuses, and the creeping śevāla grass, where the waves curl and play, on swinging beds of white water-lilies, among the vines of blue lotuses, under lines of clouds formed by masses of dewdrops, and in the cool swirling eddies, these beings—ornaments of the world—will enjoy the delights of those waters. After sporting there for a long time, they will finally attain purity. Having attained union, they will once more become separated for the sake of liberation, just as the qualities of rajas, sattva, and tamas become distinct by chance. Within the region of Kashmir, there will be a splendid city adorned with mountains, known as Adhiṣṭhāna. In its midst will rise a peak called Pradyumnaśikhara—a radiant summit like the very wheel at the heart of a lotus. Atop that mountain, a king will build his palace—a great mansion, cloud-capped, rising like a peak upon a peak. In the northeastern corner of that house, at the base of the mountain wall, in a hollow where the wind stirs the marked blades of grass, the demon Vyāla will be reborn as a sparrow. Like a student with little learning, he will utter meaningless cries. At that very time and place, there will be a king named Śrī Yaśaskaradeva, radiant as another Indra in heaven. The demon Dāma will become a mosquito in his house, making a soft sound in the crevice of a large pillar. In that same formidable city of Adhiṣṭhāna, there will be a monastery named Ratnāvalīvihāra. There, the king’s minister, Narasiṃha, will have a vision of bondage and liberation as clear as an amalaki fruit resting on his palm. In Narasiṃha’s house, there will be a bird named Kaṭa—a magical demon, kept in a cage of tamarind twigs as a plaything. This minister Narasiṃha will narrate this very story, composed in verses, about Dāma, Vyāla, Kaṭa, and others. Hearing that story, Kaṭa the bird will recollect his own true nature and attain supreme liberation, his false sense of self pacified. Likewise, the kalaviṅka bird dwelling near the summit of Mount Pradyumna, upon hearing its own story, will also attain supreme liberation. Even the mosquito residing in a wound within the firewood of the royal palace, by chance hearing this tale, will find peace. Thus, O Raghava, the sparrow from Pradyumna’s peak, the mosquito from the palace, and the cricket from the garden—all will attain liberation. This entire sequence concerning the rope, the serpent, and the stick has now been explained to you. This world is but an illusion—utterly void, yet exceedingly radiant. When not understood, it whirls beings about like the waves of a mirage-ocean; but when understood, it comes to rest, just as the mirage-ocean itself is still. Thus, O Rama, even those who have risen high, if deluded and bewildered, fall under the sway of ignorance—just like the rope, the serpent, and the stick. Where is the crushing of mighty mountains like Meru, Mandara, and Sahya by a mere frown, and where is the state of being a mosquito in a wound within palace firewood? Where is the moon’s disk, felled by a mere slap, and where is the state of being a bird in a wound on the wall of a house atop Mount Pradyumna? Where is the playful lifting of Mount Meru with a hand as if it were a flower, and where is the state of being like a trembling pigeon in the house of a lion atop a barren mountain’s peak? The space of consciousness, colored by passion, is truly an illusion. Without ever abandoning its own nature, it appears as if it were something else. By the delusion of latent impressions, even what is unreal seems real—just as, mistaking a mirage for water, a creature turns inward. Those who, through the teaching, remain free of impressions and know this visible world to be unreal, cross the ocean of existence by the current of their own insight. But those whose minds are disturbed by the tumult of arguments and dry reasoning quickly fall into confusion; they do not destroy what is inauspicious. Without the path that proceeds through direct personal experience—not merely through scripture—there is no liberation for those who are coming or going, just as there is none for those who perish.