When death approached, she was overtaken by darkness and blindness, her radiance fading like a once-brilliant house left dull when its lamp has burned out. In that single moment, the young girl grew thin and lost her luster, resembling a river whose waters have dried up, leaving its bed pale and dust-laden. She became one who cried out in sorrow, but soon withdrew into silent isolation, feeling herself separated and proud, much like a female chakravaka bird facing the end of her days. As her distress deepened, Sarasvati, the goddess born of the sky, was moved to compassion, just as the first rain pities a fish suffering in a lake that is drying up. Sarasvati spoke gently to her: “O child, cover this husband, now merely 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 this inner hall.” Hearing the sound of her footsteps, which echoed like a line of bees, her relatives gathered and comforted her, reviving her spirit as water revives a wilted lotus. Leaving her husband there, covered with a heap of flowers, she stood for a moment, somewhat consoled, like a poor woman who has entrusted her last treasure to safekeeping. That very day, in the pure inner hall, while all the attendants had fallen into deep sleep at midnight, she called out to the goddess Jñapti, the divine power of pure knowledge, her heart full of sorrow. When Jñapti appeared before her, she spoke: “Have you remembered me, child? Why do you grieve? In this world, delusions appear like the mirage of water—empty and in vain.” The girl replied, “Mother, where is my husband? What is he doing, and what is he like? Take me to him; I cannot live alone.” Jñapti answered, “Know that there are three kinds of space: 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. The distinctions of ‘I’ and ‘you’ are mere appearances of the self, forms of diversity without real substance. This world is imagined, composed only of appearances, a manifestation of awareness, devoid of any real measure or content. That which has the essence of the space of consciousness is swiftly perceived and experienced, even though it does not truly exist, when one contemplates the oneness of consciousness. “When, in the brief instant it takes to move from one place to another, awareness remains poised in the middle, know, O beautiful one, that this is the space of consciousness. If you reach that state where all notions and intentions are completely dissolved, you will surely realize the supreme state, 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.” Having spoken thus, the goddess departed to her own divine abode. Lila, left behind, became absorbed in effortless, thought-free samadhi. In an instant, she abandoned her body and the cage of her inner faculties, soaring like a bird into the sky, leaving its nest behind. There, she saw her own lord, the protector of the earth, standing in the very royal hall, surrounded by many kings. He was seated upon the throne, greeted with shouts of “Victory! Long live!” and was deeply engaged in the affairs of many assemblies. The royal palace was adorned with clusters of banners, and at the eastern gate stood countless groups of sages, brahmins, and seers. At the southern gate gathered an innumerable assembly of women, while at the western gate assembled a multitude of kings and great rulers. The northern gate was crowded with chariots, elephants, and horses, and the southern route was managed by a single, trusted minister. The lord of Karnata oversaw the affairs of the eastern region, while the ruler of Saurashtra administered the entire northern frontier of the foreigners. The western provinces were governed by the lord of Malava, and the southern seacoast was enlivened by envoys from Lanka. The sage Mahendra described the eastern seacoast as reaching the sky, while messengers recounted the mysterious northern seacoast in detail. On the western shore, in a city known as the place where the sun sets, stood an ancient palace crowded with countless kings and their retinues. The avenues leading to the sacrificial grounds resounded with the victorious tones of musical instruments, and the caves echoed with the jubilant clamor of bards and singers. The sky was filled with the rising sounds of singing and instrumental music, while clouds of dust, stirred by horses, elephants, and chariots, hung thick like heavy monsoon clouds. The mountains were perfumed with the fragrance of flowers, camphor, and incense smoke. Throughout the realm, various edicts and decrees were established for order. The assembly shone with attendants dressed in garments as white as camphor and ocean foam, its radiance towering like a pillar between earth and sky, surpassing even the brilliance of the sun. The king was wholly absorbed in grand undertakings, surrounded by master architects planning the construction of many cities. Then, that great and wondrous assembly, celestial and fashioned of pure sky, descended like a misty forest in the heavens. As it moved, none of the people saw it, for it was created by another’s imagination, like a woman seen only in dreams. In the same way, they did not see her moving ahead, as she too was fashioned by another’s imagination, just as one does not see one’s own city while living within it. She saw all those who had gone before her, just as a king, upon arriving at a new city, sees those who have arrived together with him.