Listen, dear one, to the wondrous play of the radiant self. With three subtle bodies, he dwells among others, accompanied by yakshas, delighting in their company, engaging in sport, and then, just as swiftly, departing once more on his own mysterious way. Sometimes, when his mind is unsettled, a desire arises within him: “Let me go to some city yet to be created.” This wish takes hold of him firmly, unwavering in its intent. Driven as if by some spirit or unseen force, he leaps up and rushes forth, and soon he finds himself in that very city—one as if conjured by the magical hands of gandharvas. At other times, when his mind is dull and clouded, another desire surfaces: “Let me go to destruction.” Yielding to this, he perishes at once, lost in dissolution. Yet, like a mighty wave rising from the waters, he emerges again with vigor, acting energetically, only to lapse once more into sluggishness. Through his own actions, he sometimes becomes distressed, lamenting his ignorance and sorrow, crying out, “What shall I do? I am ignorant, I am unhappy,” and thus he grieves. Yet, joy too arises within him, swelling and growing abundant, just as a river overflows with the arrival of the monsoon rains. He drinks, he frolics, he moves, stretches, quivers, and shines—sometimes radiant, sometimes not. This glorious being, O son, is like a king, lord of the earth, stirred by the winds as the lord of waters. His play is ceaseless and ever-changing. One night in Jambudvīpa, the son approached his father, who sat serenely at the tip of a kadamba branch, his heart pure. The son asked, “Father, who is this one, renowned as self-arisen, of excellent form among kings? And what is the meaning of all that you have spoken to me? Please, tell me truthfully. Where will creation occur? Where is its destination now? Your words seem contradictory, and I am confused.” The father replied gently, “Listen, my son, and I will tell you as it truly is, so you may grasp the essence of the cycle of worldly existence. This structure of worldly existence, which arises from the unreal and is spread out as a thing lacking true substance, has thus been described by me. The supreme arises from space; intention itself is called self-arisen. It is born by itself and dissolves by itself. All this world appears as its very own form; it is born when that intention is born, and when it ceases, the world perishes. Brahma, Vishnu, Indra, Rudra, and the others are known as its limbs, just as branches are to a tree or peaks to a mountain. In the empty sky, this threefold world-city is fashioned by that intention, attaining the state of the Creator merely through the sequence of appearances. Here, within this creation, are spread out the worlds and the fourteen cosmic spheres. Here are forests, groves, and a succession of gardens. Here, the playful peaks—Sahya, Mandara, Meru—are found; here are the cool and hot radiances of the moon and sun, and the two lamps, wind and fire. Here, rivers carry pearls that rise high like the crests of waves stirred by the sun’s rays, and garlands of genuine pearls shift and shimmer. Here are pools filled with the waters of sugarcane juice, milk, and more; here are gems, jewels, lotus sprouts, submarine fires, lotuses, and the seven great oceans. Below on earth and above in the sky are virtue, vice, wealth, and splendor. Here, too, are the buying and selling among humans, gods, and yakshas. Within this very world, in this city, the sovereign of imagination has created wondrous bodily coverings for his own play. Some, bearing the names of celestials, are stationed above; others, such as humans and serpents, are placed below. Moved by the mechanism of wind, these bodies of flesh and clay move about; some are adorned with white bones and wood, variously smeared with skin, smooth or unclean. Some endure for a long time before perishing; some are destroyed quickly. Their coverings are fashioned with shining, dark, or pale hues. They are endowed with nine doors—ears, eyes, nose, and so on—and are made hot or cold by the constant movement of the vital wind. Fitted with groups of air-windows—ears, nose, mouth, palate—with limbs like arms and other passageways, and with the five lamps of the senses, these bodies are wondrously constructed. Within these, by the power of illusion and imagination, O wise one, the great goblins of ego are fashioned—so fearsome that even the supreme light is daunted. Inside these bodily coverings, with those great goblins of ego, the self plays excessively with what is unreal, all arising from the unreal. Just as a cat in a granary, a snake in a bellows, or a pearl in a bamboo, so is the sense of ‘I’ in the body—hidden, elusive, and subtle. Like a lamp that flares up for a moment and then subsides, so do thoughts arise and fade within the house of the body, like waves in the ocean. Even the city that is yet to be built appears at that time, when one perceives the imagined object as if it were already present. But by merely ceasing to imagine, it quickly disappears by itself. For one’s highest good, its destruction is proper, not its continuation. It arises solely from one’s own imagination, like a child’s demon—a phantom that brings endless suffering, never happiness. This vast world of sorrow is projected by the reality of the self; by unreality, it is destroyed in an instant, like darkness by blindness. By its own painful activity, it laments, like a monkey whose testicles are caught on a peg, struggling to break free. And yet, a drop of imagined happiness remains, its neck held high, like an elephant savoring a sudden drop of honey fallen from the sky. The mind itself turns to dispassion for a moment, then to attachment for a moment; for a moment it changes—like a foolish child, imagination arises and subsides. Wise ones, having made this mind pure and free from all objects with care, have attained the supreme state. My son, do likewise.