Even the tiniest portion of the Self is unsurpassed by anything in existence—not even by a blade of grass. When the vastness of the three worlds is contained within that Self, what could possibly remain to be gained by one who truly knows it? Consider this earth, filled here with countless mountains and there with mighty oceans—how immense must its body be to fill the unbounded expanse of reality? In truth, nothing in this world, with all its mountains and nether realms, serves any purpose for the knower of the Self. Such a one has become one with all, expanded and subtle like space itself, abiding firmly established in pure consciousness. To this liberated being, the three worlds, which seem so vast and dense, are but hollow spaces—like a great forest, dusted with the mist of bodily illusion, delightful only in their tranquil movement. All the towering mountains are but foam on the pure, infinite ocean of Brahman; the world’s many splendors are no more than mirages flickering in the blazing sun of consciousness. The waves of this vast ocean of Self are the very kings of creation, and the showers from the cloud of the supreme state are the visions revealed in scripture. The lights of the moon, sun, and fire, like mere pots and sticks, and even the radiances of the lamp of consciousness, along with all the elements, are illuminated and contained within that one Self. Long have countless beings wandered, hidden in the forest of worldly existence—humans, gods, and demons alike, like deer caught and devoured by the pleasures of desire. The bodies of the world are barred in by bones, their heads covered, bound by sinews; the true jewels of living beings are encased in flesh, hidden within these forms. Like innocent young deer led about by others in the forest, women—dolls of skin—exist for the amusement of childish minds. But a mind so vast and noble as this does not waver, not even slightly, amidst floods of pleasures, just as a mountain does not move in the wind from a human mouth. In that lofty state, O Rama, the knower of the Self stands firm and unmoved; for such a one, even the realms of the moon and sun seem as low and insignificant as the netherworld appears to us. Those who are well-versed in the worlds, both seen and unseen, perceive the multitude of beings tossed about in the ocean of existence as we might see reptiles in a pit. None of these worldly states delight the knower of truth, just as the filth of a wretched village does not please a city-dweller or his beloved. Even when these worldly states are nearby, they do not stir the knower, just as passing clouds do not move the vast heart of the sky. None of these phenomena delight the knower, just as dancing female monkeys do not please Shiva, who yearns only for the dance of Gauri. In the same way, a jewel reflected in a pot does not please one who has seen the original jewel. Having seen the world as insubstantial—as a fleeting reflection formed by a wave on the surface of water—the knower of that reality takes no pleasure in worldly enjoyments, just as a royal swan does not delight in blades of grass. On this very subject, O Raghava, listen to the purifying verses once sung by Kaca, the son of Brihaspati, in ancient times. Once, while dwelling in a cave on Mount Meru, the son of the preceptor of the gods, through deep spiritual practice, attained perfect rest in the Self. His mind, filled with the nectar of true knowledge, no longer took pleasure in the frail body composed of the five elements, nor in the fading world perceived through it. Disinterested in everything except the essence of the Self, he saw nothing else and spoke these words alone, his voice faltering in realization: “What shall I do? Where shall I go? What shall I take up or abandon? For the entire universe is filled with the Self, just as the world is filled with the waters of the great deluge. Suffering is the Self, and happiness as well; space is the Self, and so am I; all has arisen as the Self—by the Self I am lost, and hardship is gone. Within and without, in bodies, below, above, and in all directions—the Self is here, the Self is there; nowhere is there anything not of the Self. Truly, the Self is present everywhere, and all abides in the Self; all this, indeed, is only the Self—thus, I bow to the Self within myself. There is nothing where I am not; there is nothing not in me; what else do I desire? I simply become still. By the Self, in the Self, with a Self that is filled, I bow; by that, I become peaceful within—where else would I go? I am fire, I am wind, I am earth, I am space; whatever I am not, that does not exist—indeed, I am all, pervading everywhere. Endowed with the form of the vast, fearsome fullness of water, earth, space, and sky, I stand complete, made of all consciousness, like a single ocean.” Thus contemplating this state in his golden mountain cave, he then uttered the syllable Om, gradually, like the ringing of a bell. He resolved that one should not contemplate the subtle, tender western half of the syllable Om, either internally or externally, in the supreme heart. With his mind purified from all taint of subtlety, and his breath merged continuously in the heart—like the clear autumn sky, free from clouds—Kaca remained, possessing the form of a mountain of stone. Apart from food, drink, and contact with women, there is nothing else here; what great, auspicious, unfailing thing should one desire? How can the virtuous find delight in pleasures that satisfy only beasts, the ignorant, and the wicked? Those who place their trust in such pleasures—miserable, fleeting, and perishable in beginning, middle, and end—are fit only for the company of donkeys in hell. Here is hair, here is blood—this is the body of a woman; dogs find satisfaction in this, not humans. Clay is earth, wood is trees, the body is flesh, stone is mountain; below is ground, above is sky—what is truly novel here that brings happiness? All worldly experiences, arising from the contact of the senses, are unstable in the realm of discernment; they are grasped only for delusion. Thus, for the knower of the Self, the world and its fleeting pleasures lose all their power, and the true, boundless joy of the Self alone remains.