Listen, dear one, to the wisdom imparted in this sacred dialogue. The effort to destroy imagination—those restless movements of the mind—does not reach far, for imagination dissolves naturally in the heart when mental constructions simply cease. Even in something as gentle as crushing a flower, there is some disturbance; yet, by mere absence, the act is done easily. But with imagination, its destruction does not come so simply. The act of plucking a flower is suitable for a child, and even such gentle effort is helpful in small matters, but not in eradicating imagination itself. Yet, this imagination, which you seek to be rid of, can be effortlessly annihilated in but half a moment by adopting a contrary mode of thought. When, through the cessation of thought, one abides firmly established in the Self, what could possibly remain unattainable? Who, in such a state, would find anything impossible? O sage, use imagination itself to pierce through imagination with your own mind, and abide in your true Self—there is nothing difficult in this. When imagination is pacified, all else is pacified; the incomparable suffering of worldly existence is then calmed at its very root. Imagination, mind, the sense of individuality, thought, intellect, and latent tendencies—these are only different names for the same essence, O best among those who know reality. Apart from these mental constructs, nothing at all truly exists anywhere. Cut off that root from your heart—why grieve over anything else? Just as the sky is empty, so too is the world empty; both arise from unreal imagination and are, therefore, the same in nature. All of this is unaccomplished, for it is founded upon that which is itself unaccomplished—the world exists only by imagination, so let imagination rest wherever it may. When there is no reality, what foundation can tendencies have? When these tendencies are exhausted, perfection is attained and nothing more remains to be gained. Therefore, all of this should be regarded as unreal, with indifference—not with further imagination—so that one is not touched by pleasure or pain. Once it is determined that this is unreal, attachment does not arise; and when attachment ceases, joy and anger, coming and going, no longer appear. The mind falsely creates this confusion of pleasure and pain; the living being, as mind, shines forth, and the world appears as a city constructed by the mind. Under the influence of tendencies, the mind’s manifesting power causes the future, present, and past to revolve in the world. The restless soul, impure by its own inclinations, establishes this state—like a fickle monkey in the forest of the heart, it creates a condition that resembles itself. Thoughts, assuming a long form, become small in an instant; these waves of thought, dull and inert, cannot grasp anything. When even slightly noticed, they grow and burn everything around, like fire flaring up from a single blade of grass. These thoughts, which manifest the world, blaze forth but last only a moment; unstable and inert by nature, they are like flashes of lightning-fire. O son, when this is near, it can be swiftly remedied—there is no doubt. The unreal never becomes real anywhere. If a thought remains established as real, it becomes difficult to cure; but if it is truly unreal, it is easily remedied. If the impurity of worldly existence were natural, like the blackness of charcoal, then who would attempt to remove it? But this impurity exists like the husk, straw, and chaff in rice; therefore, with effort and human endeavor, it can be destroyed. Even what is naturally attained becomes artificial for the wise, because the capacity for happiness is interrupted by impurity. Just as the husk of rice or tarnish on copper is removed by action, so too can the impurity of a person be dispelled. The impurity of the living being, like that of rice, is innate but can certainly be removed—there is no doubt. Therefore, be diligent. This world is produced in vain by false imaginations and notions; gradually, it dissolves—where is any lasting substance in what is unreal? Worldly existence loses its reality for one who examines its own nature, just as darkness disappears in the presence of a lamp, or duality vanishes when unity is perceived. This is not yours, nor are you its owner; abandon this delusion, my son. Do not let your mind dwell on what is unreal, even if it appears real. Let there be no vain confusion within you, thinking, “These glories shine because of my teacher’s greatness.” When you exist, your glories are spread out; all this shines as the essence of your own Self. Thus, after hearing this profound conversation that night, I, the moon of the Raghu lineage, O descendant of Raghu, found myself as if fallen into a pit at the tip of a kadamba tree, surrounded by a mass of leaves, flowers, and creepers—silent and rainless, like a cloud resting atop a mountain peak. There, I beheld Dashura, a hero of self-restraint, endowed with supreme austerity, blazing like fire. Rays emanated from his body, turning the young shoots golden, heating that region as the sun warms the world. Upon seeing me arrive, Dashura honored me with the offering of water, spreading a seat of leaves and worshipping me with utmost reverence. Afterwards, I conversed with him—Dashura, radiant as the sun—and we spoke of stories connected to his lineage, stories capable of leading one across the ocean of worldly existence. I saw that tree, its buds densely clustered in the hollows, its branches trembling in the wind, its splits revealing a smile. By Dashura’s wish, all the animals and birds that had fallen there attended upon the tree, making it like a forest adorned with a pavilion of creepers. Surrounded by chowries of moon-like beauty, wandering at the edges of the creepers, the tree was covered with clusters of shining white clouds, like the autumn sky itself. Thus, in this sacred place, amidst such purity and wisdom, I absorbed the teachings and the company of the wise, ever drawn toward the realization of the Self.