Dashak 20 · Samāsa 10

The final samāsa opens with a paradox: try to grasp para-brahma (the Supreme Reality) and it cannot be held; try to discard it and it cannot be thrown away. Wherever one looks, it simply already is. This sets the tone for the entire samāsa's meditation on the ungraspable, ever-present nature of ultimate reality, picking up directly from 20.9.030's closing instruction to hold onto the eternal.

Stop trying to either possess or reject the deepest truths in your life — notice instead that they are simply, quietly already there, whether you grasp at them or not.

Wherever, whenever — even turning away from it, one ends up facing it again. This 'facing-ness' cannot be escaped by any effort; there is no direction in which the Supreme is not present.

When you try to avoid a difficult truth about yourself, notice how it keeps turning up anyway — save the energy you'd spend evading it and face it directly instead.

A concrete image: a person sits somewhere, then rises and leaves — but the ākāśa (space) they occupied remains exactly where it was. Looked at from any direction, that space is still 'facing' you. Ākāśa becomes Rāmdās's working analogy for the omnipresence of Brahman, developed through 20.10.009.

When someone or something leaves a space in your life, notice what quietly remains behind — presence doesn't only mean an occupied form.

Continuing the ākāśa analogy: wherever a creature flees, space surrounds it on every side. There is no forcing one's way 'outside' space — it is inescapable by definition, just as Brahman is inescapable.

Stop treating some situations as escapable and others as inescapable in an absolute sense — recognize what you truly cannot get outside of, and stop wasting effort trying.

Wherever a creature looks, that direction is 'facing' — Brahman remains over every head, like the noonday sun directly overhead no matter where one stands. This develops the sun-analogy that the next verse will immediately qualify.

Notice how a guiding truth or value can feel like it's 'directly above you' no matter where you stand in life — orient by it rather than by shifting circumstances.

Rāmdās immediately qualifies his own sun-analogy from 20.10.005: the sun is still localized in the sky, so the comparison doesn't perfectly fit Vastu (the ultimate Reality). He's showing his method — analogies illustrate but never fully capture the Absolute, and he flags the limit honestly.

When you use an analogy or model to explain something important, be upfront about where the comparison breaks down, rather than letting people mistake the illustration for the whole truth.

Unlike pilgrimage — where one must travel with hardship to various sacred sites in various lands — para-brahma requires no such journey. It is present exactly where one is already sitting.

Before undertaking an elaborate search for meaning or peace somewhere else, check whether what you're seeking is actually already available right where you are.

Whether a creature stays sitting still or runs far and wide, para-brahma truly remains its constant companion — presence is not contingent on stillness or movement.

Don't tie your sense of grounded presence to whether your life is calm or chaotic right now — carry your center with you through both.

A bird flies up into the open sky, and all around it is nothing but ākāśa; likewise Brahman pervades the creature completely. The ākāśa analogy begun at 20.10.003 here reaches its clearest statement of Brahman's all-encompassing pervasion.

The more freely you move or grow, the more you're still held within something larger — let that steady you rather than making you feel untethered.

Para-brahma is described paradoxically as hollow yet dense — Brahma is the 'end of ends,' and to every single being, Brahma is directly present at all times, without exception.

Hold contradictory-seeming truths about your own deepest nature — both empty of fixed content and utterly full — without needing to resolve the paradox intellectually.

Brahman fills the visible world both inside and outside, packed densely within the very womb of the cosmos. Rāmdās asks, almost tenderly, to what could this 'stainless one's' comparison possibly be given? — nothing else measures up.

Stop searching for a perfect comparison or metaphor to fully capture what matters most to you — accept that some things are beyond adequate comparison, and let that be enough.

Rāmdās runs through the mythic cosmology — Vaikuṇṭha, Kailāsa, the heavenly worlds, Indra's realm, all fourteen lokas (worlds), down to the serpent-inhabited netherworlds — Brahman is present in every one of them, without exception.

Whether you're in a high moment or a low one, recognize the same underlying reality present in both — don't treat elevated states as more real or sacred than difficult ones.

From Kāśī to Rāmeśvara — the traditional north-to-south span of sacred India — everything is packed full without limit; there is no 'far shore' beyond which Brahman does not reach.

Extend the same regard you give sacred or special places to the whole of your ordinary geography — nothing you inhabit is genuinely outside what matters.

Para-brahma is singular and alone, yet at a single stroke pervaded everything — touching all things, it remains present in every single place simultaneously. The one and the many are not in tension here; oneness itself is what fills the many.

See the connections between seemingly separate people or situations in your life as expressions of one underlying reality, rather than isolated coincidences.

Para-brahma is not wetted by rain nor filled up with mud; even present within a flood, it does not itself flow along with the flood. It remains unaffected while fully present within changing conditions.

Practice staying inwardly unaffected even while fully engaged in a turbulent situation — being present in the flood doesn't mean being swept away by it.

At once facing and averse, on the left and the right equally, above and below — Brahman pervades all creatures at once, transcending every directional or oppositional category humans use to locate things.

When you're torn between opposing views or feelings, remember that the deepest ground you're standing on doesn't actually take sides — let that reduce the anxiety of choosing.

A 'lake' of ākāśa is described as perpetually full yet never overflowing — inconceivably spread in every direction. Fullness here doesn't behave like ordinary fullness; it needs no boundary to contain it.

Notice that some kinds of abundance — attention, patience, love — don't run out the way material resources do; draw on them without fearing depletion.

The sky is described as uniform and detached, where no appearance of the visible world occurs at all. Without appearance, formless — this, Rāmdās says, is how para-brahma should be understood.

Practice noticing the difference between what appears to your senses and the underlying awareness in which appearances simply arise — don't mistake the display for the screen behind it.

To saints, sādhus, and great souls, as well as to devas, dānavas (demons), and ordinary humans alike, Brahman is the ultimate rest — the place of repose for absolutely everyone, without distinction of spiritual rank.

Extend the same basic dignity and welcome to everyone you meet, high or low in your estimation — remember that the deepest rest is available equally to all.

Rāmdās voices the natural bewilderment such teaching provokes: where does one go to reach the 'end'? Which direction should one even look? The inconceivable cannot be pinned down or fixed by ordinary description.

When you hit the limits of your ability to define or locate something important, let that confusion stand honestly rather than forcing a false, tidy answer.

Para-brahma is neither gross nor subtle — not comparable to anything at all. Without the vision born of true knowledge, Rāmdās says, there is no samādhāna (settled peace) to be found.

Recognize that genuine peace of mind depends on real insight, not on acquiring more things or having more experiences — invest in understanding, not accumulation.

Through the negation of both the individual body and the cosmos, Brahman is revealed as formless — the space from 'here to there' becomes pure, vacuous form, empty of all content yet somehow whole.

Practice setting aside, even briefly, your sense of both your individual self and the wider world around you — notice what awareness remains when both are set down.

Rāmdās acknowledges a subtlety: to say 'Brahma is pervading' is true, but such statements only make sense while the visible world exists to be pervaded. Without something to spread across, in what sense can 'pervading' even be spoken of? He is pointing past language itself, toward what description cannot ultimately reach, developed further at 20.10.024.

Notice when even your best descriptions of something profound are really just useful for ordinary purposes, not literal final truths — hold your concepts loosely.

Words simply do not attach to Brahman; even imagination cannot conceive it. Beyond all imagining, the stainless, unconditioned reality should be recognized through viveka (discernment) rather than through concepts.

When facing what genuinely exceeds your ability to describe or picture, stop reaching for the perfect words and instead cultivate the quiet discernment that recognizes it directly.

The pure essence is śravaṇa (hearing/study), and pure is the reflection that follows from direct pratyaya (verified experience). When the truly wise attain a mind-transcending stillness beyond ordinary mental activity, it happens naturally, without forcing.

Trust the sequence — honest listening, then real reflection on your own verified experience — and let deeper realization arrive in its own time rather than trying to force it.

The fruit of sādhana (spiritual practice) has ripened; saṃsāra (worldly life) itself has become fruitful, not something to be merely escaped. Nirguṇa Brahma (the quality-less Absolute), steady and unmoving, is now reflected within — practice bears fruit not by leaving the world but by realization dawning within it.

Don't wait to withdraw from your ordinary responsibilities to feel spiritually fulfilled — let sustained practice bear fruit right in the midst of your actual life.

The 'accounting' of māyā is complete, the decision about the fundamental principles has been made — and once the goal is truly attained, the means itself no longer has a place. The ladder is discarded once the destination is reached.

Recognize when a method or practice has done its job and can be set down — don't cling to techniques past the point where they've served their purpose.

Whatever was seen in a dream vanishes on waking — it simply flies off. In the same natural way, the realized state becomes inexpressible — it cannot actually be spoken, only pointed toward, as this whole samāsa has been trying to do.

Accept that your deepest realizations may resist being fully put into words for others — don't force articulate certainty where genuine experience naturally exceeds language.

Rāmdās sums up: this should be known through viveka (discernment), and impressed firmly through pratyaya (direct experience) upon the inner mark. What we call birth and death, in this light, is really void-form, without independent, separate reality.

Meet your own recurring fears about beginnings and endings with steady discernment rather than raw anxiety — see change as movement within one continuous whole, not a series of separate losses.

This is the colophon verse: by the loving devotion of bhaktas, grace was granted by Dāśarathī (Rāma, son of Daśaratha); the words spoken by the grace of the Samartha (Rāmdās's own honorific, 'the capable one') are what constitute this — the Dāsbodh itself. Rāmdās names his own work directly, attributing it entirely to grace rather than personal authorship.

When you complete meaningful work, acknowledge honestly everything and everyone that made it possible rather than taking sole credit for what you produced.

Rāmdās describes the whole text: twenty dashaks (sections) of Dāsbodh, meant to be searched through the 'door' of śravaṇa (listening/study). For the one who applies the mind, it becomes clear — paramārtha (the highest spiritual goal) results from this sustained engagement.

Treat any substantial body of teaching you're working through as something to be searched actively with your mind, not skimmed passively — clarity comes from applied attention.

He states the full scope precisely: twenty dashaks, two hundred samāsas — the sādhaka (practitioner) should study it at leisure. Through careful examination, what is special and what is ordinary gradually becomes distinguishable.

Give yourself permission to work through a large body of teaching or knowledge slowly, over time, rather than rushing — genuine discernment between what matters most and what doesn't needs unhurried attention.

Rāmdās questions the very convention of praising one's own text: should the book be praised? And what is the purpose of such praise anyway? He redirects: the real cause here is pratyaya (direct verification) — that is what should actually be examined, not flattering words about the work.

Judge any teaching or claim by whether it holds up in your own tested experience, not by how eloquently or persuasively it praises itself.

A final philosophical turn: the body is made of the five elements, and the doer within it is the Ātmā. Rāmdās then poses a pointed question — where, then, does the human capacity for poetry actually come from?

When you create something — writing, art, any expression — ask honestly where that creative capacity actually originates, rather than assuming it's purely your own private possession.

Rāmdās answers his own question from 20.10.034: all doing belongs to Jagadīśa (Lord of the world) — so how could poetry alone belong purely to the human being? He dismisses as unfounded any claim that a person is the sole, independent author of their own creative work.

Hold your own achievements — including creative or intellectual work — with humility, recognizing the countless conditions and influences beyond yourself that made them possible.

A final inventory: when the whole body is accounted for, the entire community of constituent elements simply disperses. Given that, Rāmdās asks, what object is actually left to call 'mine'?

Periodically take honest stock of what you're calling 'yours' — possessions, achievements, even your body — and notice how little of it survives close examination as truly, permanently your own.

The Dāsbodh's final verse: such are the proper tasks of vicāra (careful consideration) — one should not wander needlessly lost in delusion. Everything, in due sequence, was accomplished by Jagadeśvara (the Lord of the world) — the entire text closes by tracing all doing, and all credit, back to that single source.

End your own significant undertakings the way this text ends — with a clear-eyed accounting of what confusion to avoid going forward, and genuine gratitude for everything beyond your own effort that made the work possible.