। ॥ ३ ॥
In plain words
I am not Deha, this insentient body, no more conscious than a wall or any inert thing. I am not Prāṇamaya, the sheath of vital breath, only air held in a leather bag. I am not Manomaya, the mind-sheath, restless as a monkey and corrupted by pettiness. I am not Buddhi, the intellect, deceptive as a clever woman of corrupt conduct. I am not Ajñāna, ignorance, the blindness of utter darkness.
Close to the Sanskrit
The Deha—the body—is not I: this insentient thing is always ascertained to be like a wall and the like. Nor am I Prāṇamaya, the sheath of vital breath; it is certainly like air held in a leather bag. Nor am I Manomaya, the mind-sheath, fickle as a monkey and tainted by wretchedness. Nor am I Buddhi, the intellect, deceptive like a clever woman of corrupt conduct. Nor am I Ajñāna, ignorance—blind darkness.