ভৰ্তৃহৰেঃ শতক ত্ৰিশতি - ৱৈৰাগ্য শতকম্

Victorious is Hara, the lamp of wisdom, who wears the moon as a beautiful crest jewel, whose flickering flames shine bright, who sportively reduced the fickle god of desire to ashes like a moth, who shines at the zenith of auspiciousness, and who dispels the heavy darkness of limitless delusion surging within, prevailing in the hearts of yogis.

I have wandered through many lands, difficult and treacherous, yet attained no fruit. I have abandoned pride of caste and lineage, yet my service has remained fruitless. Like a crow, I have eaten food in the homes of others with suspicion, devoid of self-respect. O Desire, you who are an omen of sinful deeds, you grow ever more; are you not yet satisfied?

I have dug up the earth in search of treasure, smelted ores from mountains, crossed the ocean, and laboured to please kings. With a mind intent on propitiating mantras, I have spent nights in cremation grounds. I have not gained even a broken cowrie; O Desire, be fulfilled now.

How I have endured the talk of the wicked while restraining my internal tears, and how I have laughed with an empty mind! I have even bowed with folded hands before those whose intellects are blinded by the intoxication of wealth. O Hope, giver of vain hopes, what more will you make me dance to?

For the sake of these lives, which are as transient as water droplets on a lotus leaf, what have we not attempted, having lost our discrimination? We have even committed the sin of self-praise before the wealthy, whose minds are rendered unconscious by the vanity of riches, having cast away all sense of shame.

We have endured, but not out of forgiveness; we have abandoned household comforts, but not out of contentment. We have suffered the unbearable afflictions of cold, heat, and wind, but have not practiced austerities. We have meditated day and night on wealth, but not on the feet of Shambhu. We have performed all those actions which the sages performed, yet we are cheated of their fruits.

The objects of enjoyment have not been enjoyed; rather, we have been consumed by them. Austerities have not been practiced; rather, we have been scorched. Time has not passed; rather, we have passed away. Desire has not aged; rather, we have grown old.

The face is invaded by wrinkles, the head is marked by grey hair, and the limbs become frail; yet desire alone remains forever young.

When the intellect blossoms and thirst subsides, desire spreads even more intensely. In the grip of old age, one becomes a vessel of desire, so deep is the wretchedness of losing one's powers, such that even the king of the gods becomes a subject of thirst. The desire for enjoyment has ceased, respect for men has vanished, and friends equal to life itself have departed to heaven. There is the slow rising with a staff and eyes blocked by dense darkness; alas, this body is foolish, yet it still trembles in fear of the approach of death.

Hope is a river: its water is desire, its waves are longings, it is infested with the crocodiles of attachment, and its birds are doubt; it destroys the tree of patience. It is a whirlpool of delusion, extremely difficult to cross, profound and dangerous, with high banks of anxiety. Only the great yogis, whose minds are purified, reach the other shore and rejoice.

I do not see any genuine good in the ways of this world, and when I reflect upon it, even the fruits of past meritorious deeds fill me with fear. For even those worldly objects that are acquired through a vast accumulation of merits eventually become great sources of suffering for those who are attached to them.

Since worldly objects must inevitably leave us sooner or later, why should we wait for the pain of their forced departure? If we abandon them voluntarily, we escape the immense agony that their natural departure inflicts upon the mind; by renouncing them of our own accord, we attain infinite peace and happiness.

How amazing is the difficult feat performed by those whose intellects have been purified by the knowledge of the Supreme! They are able to completely renounce wealth and enjoyments, possessing no desires whatsoever. In contrast, we are so weak that we cannot even renounce the mere imagination of wealth—wealth that we have never possessed in the past, do not possess now, and have no certainty of possessing in the future.

Blessed are those who dwell in mountain caves, meditating upon the Supreme Light, whose tears of ecstatic joy are fearlessly drunk by birds resting upon their bodies. As for us, our lives are simply wasting away, exhausted by the fanciful desire for palaces, pleasure ponds, and the various diversions of worldly gardens.

My food is mere tasteless alms eaten but once a day; my bed is the bare earth; my only company is my own body; and my clothing is but a tattered rag made of a hundred patches—yet, alas, even in this state, worldly desires do not leave me.

Poets, through their excessive praise, have exalted this wretched body: they compare breasts, which are but lumps of flesh, to golden pitchers; a mouth, which is a reservoir of phlegm, to the moon; and hips, which are covered in foul excretions and are compared to the foreheads of noble elephants, to beautiful forms. It is truly a form that should be constantly despised.

Among those who are attached to the world, only Lord Shiva shines, for He holds half of His beloved’s body within His own. Among those who are dispassionate, he alone is supreme who has cast off the company of women. Everyone else, deluded and struck by the venomous arrows of the invincible god of love, is neither able to enjoy worldly objects nor able to renounce them, remaining forever mocked by desire.

The moth, ignorant of the nature of fire, falls into the intense flame; the fish, through ignorance, eats the bait on the hook. We, however, even while knowing that these worldly desires are tangled in a web of calamities, still refuse to let them go. Alas, the power of delusion is indeed profound.

When the mouth is dry with thirst, one drinks cool, sweet water; when afflicted by hunger, one eats rice and meat; when the fire of lust burns, one clings tightly to a woman. People mistake the mere alleviation of these bodily afflictions for true happiness, thus remaining in a state of deep delusion.

Deluded by ignorance, a person thinks their towering mansion, devoted children, boundless wealth, virtuous wife, and youthful age will last forever, and thus they remain entrapped in the prison of worldly existence. Only the blessed one, seeing that all these things are momentary and fleeting, chooses to renounce them entirely.

If one were not to behold one's wife, distressed by the lack of food, with a mournful face, and surrounded by hungry, crying children pulling at her tattered clothes, what man of self-respect would ever go about begging, his voice choked and trembling with the fear of being refused, merely to satisfy the fire of his own belly?

This stomach, which is like an insatiable cauldron, mocks us; it is a force that breaks the ties of our cherished pride, it acts like the bright moonlight that causes the lotus of our profound virtues to bloom, and it serves as an axe that cuts down the expansive vine of our modesty.

It is better to wander from door to door in a holy village or a great forest, carrying a skull-bowl and seeking alms near places where the smoke of sacred fires rises, even if one is hungry, than to live a life sustained by breath while acting as a wretched beggar among one's own equals.

Have the cool mountain slopes of the Himalayas, refreshed by the spray of the Ganges' waves and adorned with rocky plateaus inhabited by celestial beings, truly perished? Why else do men still endure the humiliation of depending on the crumbs of others?

Have the roots and tubers disappeared from the caves, or the springs from the mountains? Have the trees that provide delicious fruits and bark for clothing been destroyed? Why then do we see the faces of arrogant, foolish men, whose brows twitch under the influence of the wind of pride born from their meager, hard-earned wealth?

Come, let us go to the forest, living on holy roots and fruits, sleeping on a bed of fresh, ungrudging leaves. There, we shall never have to hear even the names of those petty, mindless, and wealthy people whose words are always distorted by the disease of avarice.

The fruits of the forest trees are easily obtained without toil, the cool and sweet water of holy rivers is available everywhere, and the soft bed of tender leaves is ready at hand—yet, despite all this, wretched men still suffer the humiliations of waiting at the doors of the wealthy.

While resting on a rocky bed in a mountain cave, I shall meditate upon the faces of those who suffer the misery of begging before the wealthy, and I shall smile at the pettiness of their minds, which are obsessed with worldly gains.

Those who are constantly joyful through contentment have their happiness undisturbed, while those whose minds are crowded with greed are never free from the torment of thirst. Thus, I have no desire for wealth—not even for Mount Meru itself, which is celebrated for its gold—as I find my satisfaction within my own self.

The great yogis praise the vow of mendicancy (begging for food) as the inexhaustible treasury of Lord Shiva; it is a life free from lowliness, offering supreme happiness, removing all fears, crushing jealousy, pride, and arrogance, destroying all sorrows, and being easily attained everywhere without effort, as it is beloved by the virtuous and purifying to the soul.

In the enjoyment of sensual pleasures, there is the fear of disease; in high lineage, the fear of decline; in wealth, the fear of kings; in status, the fear of humiliation; in strength, the fear of enemies; in beauty, the fear of old age; in scriptural knowledge, the fear of opponents; in virtue, the fear of the wicked; and in the body, the fear of death. Everything in this world is fraught with fear; only renunciation is truly fearless.

Birth is beset by death; youthful vigor is destined to be consumed by old age; contentment is hindered by the desire for wealth; the peace of the mind is disturbed by the allurements of women; virtues are attacked by jealous people; forest retreats are haunted by wild beasts; kings are troubled by wicked men; and prosperity is undermined by instability. What is there in this world that is not overcome by something else?

Health is uprooted by hundreds of physical and mental afflictions. Wherever wealth resides, calamities enter as if through an open door. Death inevitably and swiftly claims everything that is born, rendering it helpless. Therefore, what has the unrestrained Creator ever fashioned in this world that remains permanent?

Enjoyments are as unstable as the crests of towering waves; life vanishes in an instant; the joys of youth last but for a few days, and beauty in beloveds is merely a fleeting shimmer. Realizing that the entire world is essence-less, O wise ones, turn your minds toward liberation and strive with compassion to uplift the world.

Sensual enjoyments are as fleeting as lightning flashing amidst a mass of clouds; life is as fragile as a drop of water resting on a lotus leaf, shaken by the wind. Realizing that the cravings of youth are merely playful illusions, O wise ones, quickly direct your intellect toward Yoga, which is easily attained through steadfast meditation.

Life is as unstable as a surging wave; the glory of youth lasts for only a few days; wealth is merely a product of imagination; and collections of enjoyments are as transient as lightning in the rainy season. Even the embraces of loved ones do not last long. Therefore, fix your minds on the Supreme Brahman to cross the ocean of worldly existence.

With bodies cramped and constrained, one dwells in the filth of the womb; in youth, one is tormented by the pangs of separation from the beloved; and even old age is miserable, becoming a target for the ridicule and disdain of young women. O humans, tell me, is there even the slightest bit of happiness in this worldly existence?

Old age stands like a tigress, terrifyingly threatening us, while diseases strike the body like enemies. Life leaks away like water from a broken pot. It is truly astonishing that, despite seeing this, people continue to act in ways that are detrimental to their own welfare.

Sensual pleasures are fragile and manifold, and it is through them alone that this worldly cycle persists. For whom, then, do you wander about, O people? What is the use of these frantic efforts? If you have faith in my words, then calm your mind, which has been cleared by the cessation of the hundreds of ties of desire, and establish it in your own true Self.

O friend, blessed are those who have severed the ties of worldly existence, and who, dwelling in the depths of the forest, have expelled the poisonous snakes of worldly cravings from their hearts. They spend their nights absorbed in the contemplation of their past virtuous deeds, under the vast, beautiful sky as bright as the light of the autumn moon.

Salutations to Time, by whose power everything—that beautiful city, that great king, that circle of subordinate rulers, that assembly of witty courtiers, those moon-faced beauties, that group of proud princes, and those panegyrists—has now merely become a path of memory.

Time, the expert player, moves the sun and moon like two dice, shifting them across the board of the universe. Where there were once many in a home, only one remains; where there was one, many follow; and in the end, not even one remains.

Day by day, life is consumed by the rising and setting of the sun, and time passes unnoticed due to the heavy burden of worldly affairs. Even after witnessing birth, old age, calamity, and death, no fear arises in people, for they are intoxicated by the potent wine of delusion.

The night returns, and the same day repeats; yet, thinking it purposeful, creatures run about busily engaged in the same repetitive actions. Oh, how shameful it is that we are not embarrassed by this delusion, being tormented by a world that endlessly repeats the same futile matters.

We have not meditated on the Lord’s feet to break the cycle of worldly existence, nor have we performed the dharma that is capable of opening the gates of heaven. We have not even embraced the firm breasts and thighs of a woman in our dreams; we have served only as axes to fell the forest of our mother's youth.

We have not mastered knowledge that defeats adversaries, nor have we attained fame in battle by piercing the foreheads of enemy elephants. We have not tasted the nectar of a beloved's lips under the moonlight. Alas, our youth has passed in vain, like a lamp burning in an empty house.

Flawless knowledge has not been acquired, wealth has not been earned, and the devoted service of parents has not been performed with a focused mind. We have not even held our beloveds in our dreams. This life is being squandered like crows fighting over scraps of food provided by others.

Those from whom we were born have long since passed away, and those with whom we grew up have also become mere objects of memory. Now, we ourselves are on the verge of falling each day, having reached a state identical to that of trees standing on a sandy riverbank.

The lifespan of humans is limited to a hundred years; half is spent in sleep, and of the remaining half, a portion is lost to childhood and old age. The rest is consumed by disease, separation, grief, and servitude. How, then, can there be happiness for beings whose life is more unsteady than the ripples of water?

Man becomes a child for a moment, then a youth obsessed with love; a moment he is penniless, and the next he is wealthy. Finally, with limbs worn out by old age and a body covered in wrinkles, he enters the curtain of Yama's abode like an actor finishing his performance.

You are a king, and I am elevated by the pride of the wisdom learned from my preceptors. You are famous for your wealth, and poets spread my fame in all directions. Thus, there is a vast gulf between us, both of whom value our self-respect; therefore, if you turn your face away from me, I, too, am utterly indifferent to you.

You are the lord of material wealth, and I am the master of words as far as they are needed. You are a hero in subduing the pride of debaters, while I possess inexhaustible skill in the same. The wealthy serve you to cleanse their minds, while those who wish to listen seek me out. If you have no regard for me, then O King, I have even less regard for you.

I am content here with bark garments, and you with fine silk; the contentment is equal, and the difference is merely nominal. Truly, he is the poor man whose desires are vast. When the mind is satisfied, who is rich and who is poor?

Fruits are enough for hunger, water is sufficient for thirst, the earth is enough for a bed, and bark is sufficient for clothing. I have no desire to tolerate the insolence of the wicked whose senses are all bewildered by the intoxication of new wealth.

We shall eat alms, we shall wear the directions as our clothing, and we shall sleep upon the surface of the earth. What need have we of kings?

We are neither actors, nor paramours, nor singers, nor experts in flattering talk within an assembly. We are not women weighed down by the burden of their breasts; what need have we to go here to see a king?

In times past, this world was created by great-hearted lords, sustained by others, and conquered and discarded like a blade of grass by yet others. Even now, brave men enjoy the fourteen worlds. What then is this fever of pride in men who are masters of only a few cities?

What great pride can kings have in gaining the earth, which has not remained for even a moment unpossessed by hundreds of previous kings? Yet, these foolish men, being lords of only a tiny fraction of a fraction of a part of it, feel joy instead of sorrow where they should be mourning.

This entire world is but a lump of clay surrounded by a line of water, and it is insignificant; yet, after hundreds of wars, groups of kings divide it up and enjoy it. Shame, shame on those lowly men who, while begging from such kings, still desire crumbs of wealth from them—what else could they be but utterly wretched?

He surely must have been someone great, whose bleached skull was placed high upon the head of the Foe of Cupid (Lord Shiva) as an ornament. In contrast, look at the men of today, whose minds are obsessed solely with preserving their lives—what is this intolerable fever of pride that grips them as they bow down to one another?

O my heart, why do you trouble yourself daily by trying to please the minds of others in so many ways? When you are pleased within yourself, your own pure intentions become a wish-fulfilling gem; what is there that such a state cannot grant you?

When the river of the three worlds flows from the locks of Lord Shiva’s hair, providing bark for clothing and sacred fruits for sustenance, what learned person—unless they are driven by the pity they feel for their own suffering family—would look at the faces of those who are miserably afflicted by the fever of misfortune? Why do you wander in vain, O mind? Find rest, for everything happens as it is destined to happen, and not otherwise. Without dwelling on the past or imagining the future, I shall enjoy the experiences that come to me unexpectedly.

Desist from this difficult entanglement in worldly objects and seek the noble path that is capable of destroying all sorrows in an instant. Attain the state of the Self, abandon your restless, wave-like nature, and do not again seek pleasure in this transient world. O mind, be at peace now.

Cleanse yourself of delusion and cultivate devotion to the Lord who wears the crescent moon as a crest-jewel. Dwell in the serene regions along the banks of the Ganges. Who can place any trust in waves, bubbles, flashes of lightning, worldly riches, flickering flames, serpents, or the rapid currents of rivers?

O mind, do not seek with longing this fickle wealth, which is like a prostitute dancing on the arched brows of kings. Instead, let us don our patched robes, go from door to door in the streets of Varanasi, and be content with the alms that fall into our cupped hands.

If you have music played by skilled poets before you, charming companions by your sides, and the rhythmic sound of the bangles of attendants fanning you with chamaras behind you, then indulge in the pleasures of the world. But if you do not have these, O mind, enter immediately into the state of undisturbed meditation.

What if one attains wealth that grants all desires? What if one places their feet upon the heads of enemies? What if one gains many friends through riches? And what if one’s body were to endure for a whole aeon? What is the ultimate point of it all?

Devotion to the Lord, the constant awareness of the fear of birth and death in one’s heart, absence of attachment to relatives, freedom from the urges of passion, dwelling in secluded forests away from the company of worldly people, and the presence of dispassion—what more is there to be desired than this?

Therefore, meditate on that Brahman, which is infinite, ageless, supreme, and ever-effulgent. Why dwell on these unreal concepts? Even the sovereignty of the worlds and other such enjoyments are merely trivial pursuits in the eyes of the worldly-minded when compared to that Truth.

Driven by the restlessness of your own nature, you enter the netherworld, cross the skies, and wander through all the directions. O mind, why is it that even by mistake you do not remember the pure, inherent Brahman, through which you could attain eternal bliss?

What is the use of the Vedas, scriptures, Puranas, or expansive treatises, or the distractions of rituals that merely promise small huts in heaven? Abandon all these mercantile activities and seek refuge in the fire that destroys the burden of worldly suffering—the realization of the bliss of the true Self.

Abandon those masters at whose doors you must fearfully wait, listening to the words of guards saying, "This is not the time, the master is sleeping; if he sees you now, he will be angry." Instead, go to the abode of the Lord of the universe, where there are no guards, no harsh words, and where one is granted infinite peace. Since the majestic Mount Meru falls when scorched by the fires of the end-time, the oceans holding vast sea creatures dry up, and the earth—even though supported by the great mountains—reaches its end, what can be said of the body, which is as fickle as the tip of a young elephant's ear?

The body shrivels, gait falters, teeth fall out, eyesight fails, deafness increases, and saliva flows from the mouth. Relatives no longer heed one’s words, the wife ceases to care, and alas, even one's own son becomes an enemy to the man aged by time.

Seeing the hair on his head turned white—the very seat of old age's defeat—young women turn away from such a man, who is but a frame of bones, avoiding him from a distance as if he were an outcaste’s well.

As long as this body is healthy and free from disease, as long as old age is far away, as long as the senses are unobstructed, and as long as life has not yet waned, a wise person should exert great effort for their ultimate spiritual welfare. What use is digging a well when the house is already on fire?

Shall we reside by the celestial river (Ganges) practicing penance, or shall we serve our virtuous wives with humility? Shall we drink deep from the ocean of scriptures or taste the nectar of various poems? We do not know what we should do, given that human life lasts only for a few fleeting moments.

These kings, whose minds are as fickle as horses, are difficult to please, and we, with our grand desires, are fixed on achieving great results. Old age consumes the body and death steals our beloved life; therefore, friend, there is no other good for a wise person in this world except for penance.

When honor fades, wealth is squandered, petitioners return empty-handed, relatives dwindle, servants depart, and youth slowly vanishes, the only wise course for the intelligent is to live in the mountain caves where the stones are purified by the waters of the Ganges.

The moonbeams are lovely, the grassy forest floor is lovely, the joy of meeting with the wise is lovely, the stories in poems are lovely, and the face of a beloved, trembling with tears caused by anger, is lovely; yet, once the mind realizes the transience of all things, nothing remains lovely anymore.

Are beautiful palaces not meant for living? Is music not worth listening to? Does the joy of being with one’s beloved not bring great happiness? Indeed, they do. But realizing that all these are as flickering as the flame of a lamp agitated by the breeze of a moth's wings, the wise have departed for the solitude of the forest.

O father, though I have searched throughout the three worlds, I have neither seen nor heard of any person who possesses the ability to control the wild elephant of the internal senses, which is intoxicated by the deep-seated pride of worldly attachments, by binding it to the tether of self-restraint.

When will I attain that state where I can wander freely, consume food without begging, live in the company of the noble, and possess knowledge that yields the singular fruit of inner peace? Even after deep reflection, I do not know which great penance of the past will lead to this state where the mind, for the first time in an age, remains calm even amidst external objects.

My desires have withered in my heart, my youth has departed, and alas, my virtues have become fruitless for lack of those who could appreciate them. The powerful and impatient Lord of Death approaches rapidly; ah, I have realized that there is no other refuge except the lotus feet of the Destroyer of Madana (Shiva).

I do not perceive any difference between Maheshwara, the Lord of the worlds, and Janardana (Vishnu), the indwelling Soul of the universe; nevertheless, my devotion is fixed upon Him who wears the crescent moon upon His brow.

When shall I dwell in happiness on the banks of the celestial river, with the ground whitened by the shimmering moonlight and the nights silent, where, distressed by the cycle of worldly existence, I will cry out "Shiva, Shiva, Shiva" with tears of devotion overflowing my eyes?

Mahadeva is the only God, the Ganges is the only river, the mountain cave is the only home, the directions are my only garment, time itself is my only friend, and this vow of non-begging is my only sustenance; what more can I say? Let the banyan tree be my only companion. Having renounced everything with hearts full of deep compassion, remembering the sorrowful outcome of worldly life, we shall spend our nights in the holy forest, under the rays of the autumn moon, taking refuge solely in the contemplation of Hara's feet.

When, living on the banks of the Ganges in Varanasi, wearing only a loincloth and holding my palms together in prayer, will I spend my days as if they were mere moments, crying out, "O Lord of Gauri, O Destroyer of Tripura, O Shambhu, O Three-eyed One, be gracious to me!"?

Why do the wise, alas, live anywhere else but in Kashi, where the forest is a garden, severe penance is the way of life, a loincloth is considered fine clothing, begging for alms is an ornament, and the approach of death is considered auspicious? After bathing in the waters of the Ganges and worshipping You, O Lord, with pure flowers and fruits, and after fixing my mind on the object of meditation while resting on a rocky bed in a mountain cave, when, by Your grace, O enemy of Smara, shall I, absorbed in the Self and satisfied with mere fruits, be freed from the sorrow arising from service to mortal men?

When, O Shambhu, will I become one who lives alone, free from desire, peaceful, using only my hands as a vessel for food, and dressed in the directions themselves, capable of uprooting the fruits of my past karma?

Who will be that yogi who, accepting food naturally pure as a mendicant, sitting wherever he happens to be, and seeing the entire world as mere straw, attains that supreme, unbroken bliss of self-realization even while still embodied, all through the grace of Shiva?

If one possesses a loincloth made of a hundred tattered rags, a simple mantle of similar make, a mind free from anxiety, food obtained through non-demanding alms, sleep in the forest or at the cremation ground, independence to wander without restraint, a mind that is perpetually tranquil, and steadfastness even in the midst of spiritual ecstasy—then of what use is the sovereignty of the three worlds?

Is the entire universe, which is merely a bubble, enough to satisfy a noble soul? Does the ocean ever become agitated by the flickering movement of a tiny fish?

O Mother Lakshmi, go and serve someone else; do not seek me. I have no desire for the objects of enjoyment that you bestow, for what can you offer to one who is devoid of all cravings? At present, I seek my livelihood only through alms, gathered in bowls made of freshly stitched leaf-cups, which are pure and simple.

With the earth as his vast bed, his own folded arms as a pillow, the expanse of the sky as a canopy, the cool breeze as a fan, the autumn moon as his lamp, and delighting in the company of the lady of Renunciation—the sage, devoid of worldly wealth, sleeps as happily and peacefully as a king.

A certain ascetic remains detached, eating only what is obtained through alms, remaining free from the company of worldly people, always master of his own actions, and engaged in a path that transcends attachment and aversion. Dressed in discarded, tattered rags found on the road, with a simple rag for a seat, devoid of pride and ego, he is absorbed solely in the enjoyment of the bliss of tranquility.

"Is this a Chandala, a Brahmin, a Shudra, or an ascetic? Or is he a great Yogi whose intellect is refined by the realization of Truth?" Thus, the Yogis move along the path, neither angered nor pleased by the chatter of people who are loud with their varied speculations.

The Creator has provided food for the snakes that is non-violent and easily obtained (the wind), while animals are content grazing on grass and sleeping on the ground. This, too, is the livelihood ordained for humans capable of crossing the ocean of worldly existence; however, those who pursue worldly objects instead of this find that all their virtues eventually reach an end.

When will those blessed days arrive for me, when I shall sit in the lotus posture upon a rock in the Himalayas, on the banks of the Ganges, immersed in the practice of meditating on Brahman and deep meditative sleep? When will old deer, fearless and trusting, come and scratch their bodies against my own?

What does it matter if one has a tattered rag or a clean silken garment? What does it matter if one has one wife or is surrounded by horses, elephants, and retinues? What does it matter if one eats a simple meal or poor-quality food at the end of the day? What does it matter if one has worldly grandeur or the inner light that has shattered the fear of existence?

For those whose hands are their bowls, whose wandering provides inexhaustible food, whose clothing is the ten directions, and whose bed is the vast earth—those who are satisfied in their hearts through the acceptance of detachment—they are blessed, for they have cast off all misery and uprooted the cycle of karma. [[V99.1]] Do not take delight in the enjoyment of worldly status, clothing, or honors, for even the sovereignty of the three worlds is insipid under the rule of the Supreme. There is one supreme, eternally manifest joy, the taste of which makes the kingdoms of the three worlds and all other objects seem tasteless.

Those who have a mountain rock for a bed, a mountain cave for a home, the bark of trees for clothing, deer for friends, and soft fruits for their sustenance; those for whom the cool water of a spring is the appropriate drink, and the knowledge of the Divine is their only consort—I consider them the true masters of the world, for they have never folded their hands in supplication to any mortal man.

For the Yogi whose father is fortitude, whose mother is forgiveness, whose lifelong wife is inner peace, whose friend is truth, whose sister is compassion, and whose brother is self-control—with the surface of the earth for his bed, the directions for his clothing, and the nectar of wisdom for his food—tell me, my friend, what fear can there possibly be for such a person who is surrounded by this divine family?

Whether it is a snake or a garland, a powerful enemy or a dear friend, a precious gem or a clod of earth, a bed of flowers or a slab of stone, a blade of grass or a woman—my days are spent in total equanimity, wandering in some holy forest, constantly chanting, "Shiva, Shiva, Shiva."