Inside Yoga Vasishta

Vasishta told Rama - 

He whose heart shines with inner clarity —
O Raghava, he alone is fit to drink the nectar of wisdom,
just as a wise king listens to the Queen of Law.

Who is eligible?
One whose mind is stainless, open, and vast —
freed from dull company, like the clear autumn sky cleansed of clouds.

Rama, you are bathed in such noble light.
So listen now —
I speak words that burn away the spell of worldly charm.

That soul whose roots have gripped the tree of merit,
who stands humbled under the weight of its fruit —
his very urge to listen is the gateway to liberation.

Such pure and noble speech —
which bestows supreme awakening —
only the fortunate ones, not the petty-minded, can hold it like a sacred vessel.

This scripture — O Rama — is not mere words.
It’s the condensed elixir of liberation, sixty-two thousand verses strong.
If truly understood, it delivers nirvana like a mother feeding her child.

Just as a flame lights up even for the one half-asleep —
this text brings liberation, even if you don’t ask.
Its light reaches where willpower cannot.

Whether read, heard, or realized,
it soothes confusion and brings joy — like a sacred river from the heavens.
Its flow is instant. Its gift is peace.

Just as the illusion of a snake vanishes when the rope is seen,
so too, the moment this truth is seen,
the tired soul drops all suffering — effortlessly.

This scripture is woven with reasoned truths,
imagined dialogues, vivid examples, and deep maxims.
It’s not random — it flows in six powerful currents (prakaranas).

The first section is called Vairagya Prakarana.
It waters the dry desert of craving — like a miracle tree growing in sand.
Dispassion blooms where once there was thirst.

This section has 1500 verses.
When studied deeply, it purifies the heart like a gem polished with care.
Truth begins to shine — clean, sharp, and luminous.

The second is Mumukshu Vyavahara Prakarana —
a thousand verses filled with reasoning.
Here, the nature of true seekers is laid bare — their mindset, their attitude, their path.

Next comes the third — Utpatti Prakarana —
a treasure chest of stories, examples, and insights.
Seven thousand verses that show how the world, the self, and perception arise.
It opens the curtain on I and this.

This world — not truly born, yet appearing as if it is —
gets revealed the moment this truth is heard.
Once this wisdom enters the ear, the illusion cracks within.

This ‘I’ and ‘you’, these worlds, skies, mountains —
they seem massive, yet they rest on nothing.
No atoms, no planets — a grand projection without structure.

Like a city in imagination, this world is built of mere thought.
It feels real, but it’s like a dream —
painted by the mind, ruled by fantasy.

Like a castle seen in clouds — beautiful, but hollow.
Like seeing two moons — real to the confused eye,
or chasing water in a mirage — always just out of reach.

It looks like a mountain shaking from a boat — unstable and shifting.
It glows, yet gives no truth.
A phantom born of mental confusion — seedless, baseless, and still dazzling.

This world is like a chain of pearls floating in the sky —
just a shimmer, just a suggestion.
Gold seems like an ornament, water seems like a wave —
but the form is nothing without the formless behind it.

The blueness of the sky is an illusion — it’s never really there.
Likewise, this world is colour without canvas —
no wall, no paint, yet a captivating display.

Just like a bright painting hanging in empty air —
beautiful, but without a painter.
Or like fire drawn on paper — it burns nothing,
yet appears as if blazing.

This world carries sound, form, and meaning —
but its essence is unreal.
It’s like a garland of lotus waves,
or a dance — vivid when seen, but vanishing when sought.

It rises like a sea stirred by roaring whirlwinds — intense but unstable.
And then — like dry leaves scattered by heat,
the world withers, loses taste, and collapses into silence.

This world is like a madman dancing alone in a cave —
dark, echoing, lost in delusion.
Like a mind obsessed with death,
it builds its palace in shadows, mistaking stone for truth.

When the mist of ignorance clears,
wisdom shines like an autumn sky.
The world seems carved on a pillar or painted on a wall —
visible, yes, but never real.

Like idols sculpted from mud — alive in appearance,
but lifeless in essence.
Thus comes the fourth section: Sthiti Prakarana —
on how this illusion is sustained.

This section spans three thousand verses —
rich in stories and sharp in logic.
It explains how the sense of 'I' supports this false structure called the world.

It teaches how subject and object — seer and seen —
bind the mind in illusion.
The ten directions glitter with activity,
but it's all just a dazzling dream.

After tracing the rise of the illusion,
comes the chapter of Upashanti —
five thousand verses of silencing the storm,
of teaching the soul to sit still.

This fifth section is a purifier —
woven with reason, sharp as lightning.
It pierces the falsehood:
'I am this', 'You are that', 'He is that' —
all born from delusion.

When these verses are heard deeply,
the fever of worldly becoming subsides.
The ocean of birth and death
is calmed like a pond touched by moonlight.

What remains of the world is barely a glimmer —
like the echo of a fallen city,
a few fragments floating in mind,
no longer feared, no longer followed.

It lives on only in imagined thoughts —
like a queen in a ghost-town.
Near the dream of an unreachable treasure,
a war long over, but whose drums still echo.

The mind, once stormy with desires,
now thunders with silence —
like a raincloud with no rain.
This world? Just a fading city
built in a forgotten dream.

Like a royal maiden in a city unborn,
she speaks stories of things
never lived, never touched —
only heard on the tongue of illusion.

Like a wall that reflects paintings never drawn,
this world seems full — yet it’s empty.
It’s the outline of a memory

It’s like a spring that never came —
a garden that never bloomed.
The shape is there,
but the fragrance? Still unborn.

And now, from this flow of stilled waves
emerges the final stream — Nirvana Prakarana.
Gentle, silent, inward —
like a river made of light, flowing nowhere.

The final teachings are few — but deep as the ocean.
To the awakened buddhi, they gift not just words,
but shreyas — the bliss of nirvana, where even thought rests.

This Self? Beyond thought yet full of light.
It shines like clear sky, untainted, whole —

The world’s motion — extinguished.
All duties — done and dropped.
He now stands firm, like a sky-pillar,
unshaken by the chaos of mankind.

He has swallowed all worlds of illusion — countless like stars —
and sits fulfilled,
his mind a window to the formless radiance
that is the space beyond space.

He lives — as if with body, yet bodiless.
He acts — as if in samsara, yet untouched.
No cause, no effect.
No gain, no loss.
Just pure presence, standing still.

He is pure chit — yet heavy like a stone mountain's belly.
A blazing sun of awareness,
burning away the darkness of all the worlds.

Though he shines with divine light,
he appears veiled in cosmic shadow.
No more dramas of samsara.
No more fevers of hope.

His ego — dead like a ghost.
His body — present, yet not his.
The entire glory of the universe
rests on him as lightly as dew on a single petal atop Meru.

Within every atom of his awareness-space,
countless universes bloom and fade.
He bears them lightly — then simply watches.

O wise one, the expanse of the liberated heart —
even the combined glories of Vishnu, Shiva, and all Devas
cannot match it.
For it stretches across the vastness
of the unspeakable, ungraspable Reality.

This chapter is a grand introduction to the Yoga Vasishta itself. Sage Vasishta outlines the purpose, structure, and transformative power of the scripture. He describes its six sections, declares its 32,000 verses as liberating, and compares its impact to light dispelling darkness — guiding seekers from bondage to moksha.

Ramaswamy Sastry and Vighnesh Ghanapaathi