O Rama, consider this vast and wondrous display before us—a grand spectacle woven by the great illusion. When one truly examines it, what in this world can be called real or unreal? The distinction itself dissolves. This cycle of worldly existence is much like a tale told about a servant: its forms are shaped by imagination, but in truth, it lacks any enduring substance. What stretches out before us, seemingly without end, is but the play of imaginations—forms conjured from unreality, like the illusion of seeing two moons in the sky. That which is born of unreality cannot be real, so why should there be any confusion about the true nature of this world? When people become absorbed in all manner of activities, their minds clouded by the pursuit of pleasure and power, they fail to perceive the truth. At such times, those who are caught in deception remain blind to reality. But those rare ones who have gone beyond the intellect, who are no longer ruled by the senses, see through this worldly illusion as clearly as one sees a fruit held in the palm. When the embodied soul, endowed with discernment, perceives this illusion for what it is, he sheds identification with the ego, just as a serpent casts off its old skin. Having thus attained detachment, he is freed from the cycle of rebirth; even if he remains long in the body, he is like a seed scorched by fire, incapable of sprouting again. The ignorant, afflicted by ailments and the certainty of decay, strive only for the welfare of the body, not for the Self within. Therefore, Rama, do not, like the ignorant, labor for the fleeting aims of the body—which bring only suffering. Devote yourself solely to the realization of the Self. This cycle of existence is truly like the tale of Dashura—born of imagination and empty of substance. What more need be said, O Lord? Now, Rama, listen as I recount to you the story of Dashura, which serves as an illustration of the illusory nature of this world. Upon this earth, there is a great and renowned land called Magadha, adorned with wondrous trees and flowers. Its landscape is vast, filled with groves of kadamba trees and wild stretches dotted with palms, and everywhere the air is alive with the calls of marvelous birds—a place of delight and wonder. Fields thick with crops bordered the land, and city gardens flourished. Along every riverbank, lotuses, blue lilies, and water-lilies bloomed in abundance. The air rang with the jingling of women’s ornaments as they played on garden swings, and the fragrance of night-blooming flowers drifted through moonlit groves. On the slope of a certain mountain thick with karṇikāra trees, beneath the shade of banana clusters and the bright blossoms of nīpa shrubs, where partridges cooed in the thickets, waterfalls roared, mango creepers bloomed, and cuckoos sang their melodious songs, there was a sacred place. Wild tribal women played there, the sky was veiled by palm leaves, and ponds filled with blooming lotuses teemed with life. The gentle wind, tinged with saffron dust from masses of flowers, carried clouds of pollen, and the cries of waterfowl echoed over the autumnal lakes. In this noble and sacred mountain, amidst trees filled with wondrous birds, dwelled a certain sage of supreme righteousness and great austerity. His name was Dashura, a sage of immense discipline, who lived atop the branch of a kadamba tree, free from passion and endowed with great intellect. You may wonder, O venerable one, why this ascetic sage dwelled in the forest and how he came to reside upon the branch of the great kadamba tree. His father was known as Sharaloma, famed for his virtue and wisdom, like another Brahma, who also lived on that very mountain. Sharaloma had only one son, just as Kacha was the sole son of the preceptor of the gods, and together they spent their lives in the forest. After many ages had passed, Sharaloma departed from this world, leaving his body behind and ascending to the abode of the gods, like a bird leaving its nest. In the silence of the forest, Dashura wept alone, bereft of his father, lamenting pitifully like a kurara bird deprived of its parent. Consumed by the sorrow of his loss, the boy withered away, just as a lotus fades in the chill of winter. Then, as he sat dejected in the forest, a compassionate forest deity—unseen in form—spoke to comfort him: “O son of a sage, wise and noble, why do you weep like one ignorant? Do you not know the restless and ever-changing nature of worldly existence? Always is the worldly person thus; the cycle of existence is unstable: one is born, lives, and must inevitably perish. Whatever is seen by the eyes—be it Brahma or anything else, O sage—all of it is destined to pass away; of this, there is no doubt. Therefore, do not indulge in useless sorrow at your father’s death. What is born must surely set, just as the sun must set.” Hearing these words, “He is bodiless,” and his eyes still reddened by grief, Dashura regained his composure, like one calmed by the sound of thunder. Rising up, he performed the necessary rites for his father with reverence and resolved firmly to undertake austerity for the highest attainment. Through his Brahmanical actions and rigorous austerity in the forest, Dashura attained the state of a learned sage, unwavering in his resolve. Yet, despite his noble learning and knowledge of the seen and unseen, his mind found no rest, even on this pure and sacred earth. Indeed, all this earth is pure, but seeing it as impure, he found no delight anywhere. Then, by his own determination, he resolved, “Let my dwelling be only upon the purified treetop. Now I shall undertake austerity, by which, through penance, I may attain the state of a bird, abiding on branches and leaves.” With this thought, he kindled a blazing sacrificial fire, and, in an act of supreme devotion, cut flesh from his own shoulder and offered it into the flames.