Listen, O Rama, as the sage unfolds the vision of the knower of truth and the nature of the world. He describes how, like innocent young deer led about in the forest, women—mere dolls of skin—exist for the amusement of childish minds. But a mind that is vast and noble, even slightly so, remains unmoved amid floods of pleasures, just as a mountain does not tremble before the weak wind exhaled from a mouth. In such a lofty state, O Rama, the knower stands firm; for him, even the realms of the moon and sun appear as low and insignificant as the netherworld does to us. Those who are well-versed in both the seen and unseen worlds perceive beings tossed about in the ocean of existence as easily as we see reptiles writhing on the ground. None of the states of this world delight the knower of truth, just as the filth of a foul village does not please a city-dweller or his beloved. Even when these worldly states are near, they do not stir the knower, just as clouds do not disturb the vast heart of the sky. None of these phenomena bring him joy, just as dancing female monkeys would not please Shiva, who delights only in the dance of Gauri. Worldly things reflected in the mind do not please him, just as a jewel’s reflection in a pot cannot satisfy one who has seen the true jewel itself. Having realized the world is insubstantial, like a reflection formed by a wave on water, the knower of reality finds no pleasure in worldly enjoyments, just as a royal swan takes no 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 the power of his practice, found rest in the Self. His mind, filled with the nectar of true knowledge, no longer took pleasure in the frail body made of the five elements, nor in the fading world perceived through it. Disinterested in all but the essence of the Self, he saw nothing else, and in a faltering voice spoke: “What shall I do? Where shall I go? What shall I take up or abandon? The 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 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 a golden mountain cave, he uttered the syllable Om, slowly and deeply, like the ringing of a bell. He knew 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 of all subtlety, and his breath merged continuously in the heart—clear as the autumn sky free from clouds—Kaca remained, steadfast and unmoving, like a mountain of stone. Reflect, O Rama: apart from food, drink, and the contact of women, what else is truly 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 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, following the contact of the senses, are unstable in the realm of discernment; they are grasped only for delusion. At the end of everything, even of auspicious existence, there remains impurity and suffering, just as soot remains from a flame. The actions of mind and the six senses are impermanent, arising and passing away; like a creeper that cannot support a great serpent, they do not uphold the path of truth. With affection, one calls a mass of blood and flesh “my beloved daughter”; but what is the logic in clinging to a pile of bones named “my own body”? O Rama, all this is real and stable only for the satisfaction of the ignorant; for the wise, the world is unstable and unreal, and does not bring satisfaction. Even without being consumed, this world gives the stupor of poison; abandoning attachment to it, attain the knowledge of the oneness of the Self. When the mind, taking the non-self as the self, comes to rest in that state, then this web of the world, made of unreality, arises. By the force of latent impressions, the mind of Brahman imagines a body; just as a wall coated with gold appears golden, so does the Self seem thus. O wise Brahman, having attained the state of the Creator, how does the mind gradually bring about the apparent solidity of this world? Rising from the womb-bed, the first child, born from the lotus, uttered the word “Brahma”; thus, he is called Brahmā. He established, for the mind—whose form is a web of imagination and whose shape is conceived—an abode for the fortune of imagination, in another realm. Thus, O Rama, the sage reveals the nature of the world, the Self, and the mind’s play, guiding the seeker beyond illusion to the heart of truth.