Within the stillness of his contemplation, King Janaka reflected deeply on the nature of his own mind and the world. He saw that the sprout of bondage was nothing but thought itself. “If I bring an end to this thought-formation,” he resolved, “I will cause the tree of worldly existence to wither away.” He recognized the restless, monkey-like movements of his mind—so alluring in appearance, yet devoid of true taste or delight. Having seen through their charm, he no longer found pleasure in such fleeting distractions. He remembered the endless cycles of worldly existence, bound by countless cords of desire and filled with repeated falls and misfortunes. Having experienced all this, he decided he would turn away from it. Again and again, he had lamented, “Alas, I am ruined, I am lost, I am dead.” But now, having grieved enough, he was finished with mourning. Instead, he felt awakened and filled with joy, for he had seen the true thief—his own self, the mind. “I will slay this mind,” he declared, “for long has it slain me.” He realized that, for so long, the fruit of freedom from the mind had remained untouched. Now, having pierced it, he knew it was worthy of enjoyment. His mind, he thought, was like a particle of frost that would soon dissolve in the sunlight of discernment, bringing him lasting peace. Janaka acknowledged that he had been well awakened by the wise, the virtuous, and the accomplished. Now, he resolved to follow his own self, the path to supreme bliss. Having found and beheld his own self—the inner jewel—in solitude, he dwelled in happiness, like a spotless autumn cloud with its lightning spent. With determined effort, he cast aside false notions such as “I am this” and “this is mine,” and slew the exceedingly impure enemy, the mind, thus attaining peace. “Salutations to you, O discernment,” he offered. As Janaka reflected in this way, the royal doorkeeper appeared before him at dawn, radiant like Aruṇa at the front of the Sun’s chariot. “O lord, pillar of the gods, bearer of the earth’s weight at rest,” the doorkeeper announced, “rise and fulfill the royal duties of the day.” He described how women awaited at the bathing place, holding pitchers of water scented with flowers, camphor, and saffron—like rivers endowed with form. A pavilion of cloth had been prepared for the queen, adorned with bees wandering among lotuses and blue water-lilies, as if it were a grove of lotuses. The banks of the lotus-pond were filled with parasols, chariots, horses, and elephants bearing fans, all ready for the bathing occasion. The doorkeeper continued, “Your places of worship, O lord, are adorned with canopies of fresh flowers, sprinkled with jewels and medicinal herbs. The twice-born, purified by bathing and reciting the Aghamarṣaṇa hymn, look to you alone as the one worthy of their southern offerings. You are attended by women waving fans, and the dining halls, cooled and prepared by your beloveds, await you. Rise quickly, blessings to you; perform your duty with discipline. The great do not delay in their actions.” Hearing this, Janaka’s mind turned again to the strangeness of worldly existence. He thought, “This so-called kingdom and its happiness are insubstantial. I have no purpose with these fleeting things.” He resolved to abandon all false pomp and commotion, choosing instead to remain alone, calm as a peaceful ocean. He considered, “Enough of these unreal enjoyments that have come to me. Having renounced all actions, I shall remain in pure happiness. O mind, give up the cleverness born of agitation for repeated pleasures, so that the mass of delusion caused by birth, old age, and dullness may be quelled. Wherever you see agitation, O mind, withdraw from it completely, and you will attain supreme happiness.” He reminded himself, “Though you have engaged and withdrawn again and again in all fields of enjoyment, O mind, you find no satisfaction. Enough of this trivial preoccupation with pleasures; true contentment arises naturally—pursue that which is all-pervading.” With these thoughts, Janaka grew silent, his mind calmed of restlessness, like a scribe absorbed in his work. The doorkeeper, too, remained silent out of respect and fear, for it was not customary to speak further when the king’s mind was unsettled. After standing in silence for a moment, Janaka again reflected inwardly on the life of people, his mind inclined toward peace. “What is there here worth acquiring, that I should strive to obtain it? To what object should I attach my resolve, when nothing is free from destruction? What is gained by being active or inactive? There is nothing here that is free from decay.” He realized, “Whether active or inactive, this body has arisen from the unreal. For me, established in the real, the stable, the pure consciousness—what loss can there be? I do not desire what I have not obtained, nor do I abandon what has come to me. I remain at ease in my own self—let whatever is mine, be mine.” He recognized, “For me, there is no gain from action done or not done here. Whatever is to be attained, whether real or unreal, by the existent, comes through action or inaction. Whether I act or do not act, whether actions are proper or improper, there is nothing here that, once attained, is truly desirable to me.” Therefore, Janaka concluded, “Let this body perform the natural actions that arise in due course; but if its limbs are motionless, what will it accomplish? When the mind is steady, free from desire, equal, and without attraction, then the activity or inactivity of the body and its parts are equal in their result. When the mind ceases to be the agent and enjoyer in the fruits of actions, whether splendid or not, then, for people, even what is done is as if not done.” Finally, he reflected, “That firm conviction which arises within a person regarding actions—he becomes identified with that. I have reached the state free from affliction, and I wholly abandon both firmness and lack of firmness within.” Thus, Janaka’s mind rested in peace, established in the clarity of discernment and the joy of the self.