After a thousand years of devoted companionship, the noble queen contemplated a future in which her beloved husband might pass away before her. She resolved that, should such a fate befall her, she would act so that his soul would not depart from their home. When the time came and her husband’s soul left his body, she determined that, as long as his spirit lingered within her own pure inner chamber, she would remain, always visible to him, dwelling there as she wished. With this intention firmly in her heart, she began her undertaking that very day. She devoted herself to the worship of Sarasvati, the goddess of knowledge, practicing recitation, fasting, and strict discipline in hopes of winning the goddess’s favor. Without telling her husband, she committed herself to severe austerity, following the guidance of sacred texts. Every three nights, after completing her fast, she would worship the gods, honor brahmins, teachers, wise men, and scholars. She maintained constant self-discipline, bathing, giving in charity, performing austerities, and studying the scriptures. Her body was ever diligent, enduring great hardship, as she fulfilled all the duties of faith and good conduct. She pleased her husband according to the proper time, effort, and scriptural order, though he remained unaware of her true spiritual resolve. For a hundred cycles of three nights each, the young woman persisted, unwavering in her discipline and severe in her austerity. At the end of these hundred cycles, having worshipped the image of the goddess, the blessed Gauri—mistress of speech—was pleased and spoke to her: “Through your uninterrupted austerity and surpassing devotion to your husband, I am fully satisfied with you, child. Ask for the boon you desire.” The queen, radiant as the moon and dispelling the burning afflictions of birth, old age, and death, bowed and prayed, “Mother of the three worlds, protect me in my sorrow. Grant me these two boons I now request: First, let the soul of my departed husband remain within his own inner palace and not leave this place. Second, O great goddess, whenever I wish to see you for the sake of a boon, grant me your vision at that time.” The Mother of the world replied, “So be it,” and, like a wave rising in the ocean, vanished from sight. The queen’s heart overflowed with joy, her cherished deity now satisfied, and she felt as delighted as a gentle doe enchanted by a sweet melody. Yet, the relentless wheel of time continued to turn, carrying all within its ceaseless motion—days, years, moments passing away. Then, the consciousness of her husband entered her, becoming visible as if sap had returned to a withered leaf. But when his body, shattered in battle, lay lifeless in the inner chamber, the one who had dwelled there—like a waterless lotus—withered utterly. Her lips, once soft as petals, grew stiff from the heat and poison of her breath. She entered the state of death herself, like the slopes of Malaya scorched dry by the sun. With death’s arrival, she was seized by darkness and blindness, her radiance fading like a house left in darkness when the lamp’s flame goes out. In a moment, she grew thin and lost her youthful luster, like a river running dry and left pale and dusty as its stream disappeared. She cried out in her grief, then fell into silent withdrawal, separated and proud, like a female chakravaka bird facing her own death. Overwhelmed with anguish, she drew the compassion of Sarasvati, born of the sky, who pitied her as the first rain pities a fish in a drying lake. The goddess spoke: “O child, cover your husband, now a corpse, with flowered blankets and lay him here; you will have him again. The flowers will wither, but he will not perish; soon, your husband will be yours once more. His soul, clear as space, will not quickly depart from the inner hall.” Her relatives, hearing the gentle sound of her footsteps like a line of bees, comforted her as a lotus revived by water. Leaving her husband covered in flowers, she stood for a moment, somewhat consoled, like a poor woman who has laid down her only treasure. That very night, in the pure inner hall, when all the attendants had fallen asleep at midnight, she called upon the goddess Jñapti, the divine power of pure knowledge, out of her sorrow. When the goddess appeared, she spoke: “Have you remembered me, child? Why do you grieve? In this world, delusions appear like a mirage of water, in vain.” The queen replied, “Mother, where is my husband? What is he doing, and what is he like? Take me to him; I cannot live alone.” The goddess answered, “Know that there are three spaces: the space of the mind, the space of consciousness, and physical space. Of these, the space of consciousness is the most subtle, O beautiful one. This entire world is truly empty, and within it arise the distinctions of ‘I’ and ‘you’—mere appearances of the perceiving self, forms of diversity without real substance. The world is imagined, made only of appearances, a manifestation of awareness alone, without spatial measure or actual content. That which is the essence of the space of consciousness is swiftly perceived and experienced, even though it does not truly exist, due to contemplation of the oneness of the space of consciousness. When, in the instant it takes to move from one place to another, awareness remains in the middle, know that this is the space of consciousness. If you attain that state where all notions and intentions are dissolved, you will certainly realize that supreme state which is the essence of all. This is attained only through the awareness of absolute non-existence; there is no other way. Through my grace, you will quickly reach it, O beautiful one.” Thus, the goddess instructed her, bestowing both consolation and the highest wisdom.