My dear son, when the impurity of worldly existence draws near, it can be swiftly remedied—there is no doubt about this. The unreal never becomes real anywhere. If a thought remains firmly established as real, it becomes difficult to cure; but if it is truly unreal, it is easily remedied. If the impurity of worldly life were natural, like the blackness of charcoal, then who, O wise one, would strive to remove it? But this impurity exists like the husk, straw, and chaff in rice; with effort and human endeavor, it can be destroyed. Even what is naturally attained, my son, becomes artificial for the wise, because its capacity for happiness is interrupted by the impurity of worldly existence. Just as the husk of rice or the tarnish on copper is removed by action, so too is the impurity of a person 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 their conversation that night, I, the moon of the Raghu lineage, O descendant of Raghu, found myself fallen into a pit at the tip of a kadamba tree, amidst a mass of leaves, flowers, and creepers. It was silent and rainless, like a cloud resting atop a mountain peak. There, I saw Dashura, a hero in self-restraint, endowed with supreme austerity, blazing like fire with radiance. Rays emanated from his body, turning the shoots golden and heating the region as the sun heats the world. Seeing me arrive, Dashura honored me with the offering of water, spreading a seat of leaves and worshipping me with utmost reverence. After that, we conversed—Dashura, radiant as the sun, and I—speaking stories connected with his lineage, stories capable of leading one across the ocean of worldly existence. I saw that tree, with buds densely clustered in its hollows, its branches trembling in the wind, its smile revealed by its open splits. By Dashura’s wish, all the animals and birds that had fallen there attended the tree, making it seem like a forest adorned with a pavilion of creepers. Surrounded by chowries with moon-like beauty, wandering at the edges of the creepers, it was covered with clusters of shining white clouds, like the autumn sky. Rows of pearls adorned it like lines of snowflakes, every limb filled with pure clusters of flowers. The tree was anointed thoroughly with pollen and sandal paste, unbroken in its beauty, decorated with wide, clear, red garments. It was dressed as if for a wedding, enchanting with the weight of flowers, attended by a vine-maiden, a city-dweller making preparations. Ornamented with well-arranged locks like coils of vines, adorned with clusters and banners of blossoms, it stood like a city in festival. Its dust of flowers was scattered by the scratching of deer, the nearby groves driven away, standing forth like a wrestler among trees. Peacocks scattered lines of pollen-laden flowers, like young sal trees on a mountain, set amidst clouds cast by twilight. With tender red shoots for hands, lying in cool shade, swaying with intoxication, its lustre bristling with icy dew. Dense masses of flowers stirred by the forest breeze, sleepy, half-closed eyes, bearing clusters like breasts. Its garments were reddened by the saffron dust from clusters of flowers, and windows nestled among the leafy bowers of creepers. Reclining lazily in the gentle sway of new-blossomed creepers, the entire abode from head to foot was adorned with vines. Groups of forest goddesses, accompanied by the songs of cuckoos and smiling, bee-like eyes, gazed at the dense clusters of uncertain buds. The weariness of love was soothed by gentle dew, and the air was thick with the dust of flowers, mingling closely together. Within the inner chambers of flowers, some kind of intimate play unfolded, surrounded on all sides by the clear humming of intoxicated pairs of bees. Eager to hear the distant hum of the forest city’s outskirts, for a moment they raised their ears, their chewing of tender shoots momentarily stilled. For a moment, with charming heads resting on the edge of a leaf, they gazed at the waves of moonlight shimmering like a girdle upon the sea. The daughters of the forest glades, standing as if embodying grace, and deer sleeping between the shoots of grass, rested within the folds of leaves. A circle of branches sheltered birds, trusting and at ease, sleeping with their young, while ripe fruit, having fallen, lay nearby. Among the clusters, dumb bees wandered uncertainly, and the edges were darkened by blue clusters of young leaves, strung together like lotus-eyed threads. The entire grove was fragrant, the clouds above turned into masses of blossoms, the ground below speckled with dust, and bent by those seeking fruit. What more need be said? There was not a single leaf on that tree which was not either eaten or enjoyed.