In the heart of the forest, where the woodland goddesses gather, their eyes bright and playful as bees, the air is alive with the songs of cuckoos. These graceful beings, with smiles as fresh as new buds, gaze upon dense clusters of flowers whose blossoms are still uncertain, not yet fully open. Here, the gentle dew soothes the weariness that comes from love’s longing, and the air is thick with the mingled dust of countless flowers, swirling together in sweet profusion. Within the secret chambers of these blossoms, an intimate play unfolds, surrounded on all sides by the clear, continuous humming of bees, intoxicated and moving in pairs. Sometimes, eager to catch the distant hum from the outskirts of the forest city, the goddesses pause their gentle chewing of tender shoots, ears raised in attentive delight. For a moment, with their charming heads resting on the edges of leaves, they gaze at the waves of moonlight shimmering across the sea, the light curling around them like a jeweled girdle. The daughters of the forest glades stand as if they themselves are grace incarnate, while deer lie sleeping between shoots of grass, all nestled within the folds of leafy shelter. In circles of interwoven branches, birds sleep peacefully with their young, trusting and at ease, as ripe fruits, having fallen, rest nearby. Amidst these clusters, dumb bees wander uncertainly, and the edges of the grove are darkened by blue clusters of young leaves, strung together like threads, their tips reminiscent of lotus eyes. The entire grove is fragrant, the clouds above appearing as masses of blossoms, while the earth below is speckled with flower dust and gently bent by those who seek its fruit. What more need be said? There is not a single leaf on that great tree that is not either eaten or enjoyed. On every leaf, deer lie sleeping in the thick shade; in every hollow, birds are nestled, making their home in that lordly tree. As I gazed upon this wondrous tree, endowed with such qualities, my heart overflowed with joy, as if a great festival had descended upon me. Then, through other stories, radiant with the light of knowledge, I once again led his son to the highest awakening. There, as we exchanged these wondrous tales, the night passed by in an instant, as it does for those who are deeply in love. As dawn approached, and the dew of night began to thin, the stars slowly faded, and the birds in the sky stirred to life. At that moment, I departed from the city of Dashura with my children, following the path through the sky, and arrived at the river by Mount Hara. There, after performing the desired ablutions, I entered the sky once more and, joining the assembly of sages, remained at ease. O delight of the Raghu lineage, this tale called ‘Dashura’ has now been told to you. Though it appears as the reflection of the world, it is ultimately unreal, despite its seeming reality. This very story, Raghava, has been narrated to you to illustrate the terrifying and illusory nature of the world. Therefore, abandon both the unreal and even the attractive aspects of the real; always remain broad-minded and self-possessed, rooted in the understanding of the Dashura doctrine. By means of this chariot of the story of Kadamba and Dashura, you will soon reach that city by which you will become lord of the worlds to come. Having discerned that ‘this does not exist,’ abandon all attachment everywhere, for what does not exist holds no place for those who truly inquire. If what is seen truly exists, what has departed from you? Let it remain in the self; why bind yourself here, as if this world were your own self? But even if you are certain that this does not exist, how can attachment to contemplation persist in what is stable or unstable? This world, O Rama, neither truly exists nor does it not exist; it is but an appearance arising from oneself, manifesting in this way. Nothing here is made by a doer, nor does it follow the sequence of actions by a non-doer; it shines forth by itself, transcending notions of doer and deed. Whether the web of the world is without a doer or with a doer, do not associate your pure mind with it in any way. The self, devoid of all senses, is like an inert thing in action here; I consider it a non-doer, and the world as arising by mere coincidence. Whatever arises through the coincidence of circumstances, in any way whatsoever, only a child binds himself to it through contemplation—not the wise. This world is never peaceful, O Rama, nor does it ever perish; it is endlessly perceived and imagined again and again. O Rama, this world never truly exists, nor is it imperishable; since it is always diminishing and subject to destruction, it cannot be eternal. When the doer is free from fever, having transcended the senses and their domains, he never experiences fatigue, even while acting. Therefore, this established order is mature, governed by the states of being and non-being; such a condition, arising from the mind, is stable and enduring, and does not perish. A century of autumns is but a fragment of endless time; whoever pursues reliance on such a long lifespan—what does he truly gain? If the states of the world are stable, then attachment to them is not fitting; how can there truly be union between the inert and the conscious? If the states of the world are unstable, then attachment to them is also not fitting; in the end, unstable things like foam bring only sorrow. O mighty-armed one, the bond of attachment between the self and the states of the world is not found among the stable or unstable, just as there is no union between foam and mountain. Though the self is the doer of all, it acts as if it does nothing, remaining perfectly indifferent, like a lamp shining upon its surroundings. Acting, he does nothing, just as the sun carries out the work of the day; moving, he does not move, remaining established in his own place, like the sun itself. All this appears to have arisen from somewhere or other, like a whirlwind or a water-eddy, or like the wind in a dust-storm, spread out in every direction.