On the western shore, in a city famed as the place where the sun sets, there stood an ancient palace, alive with the presence of countless kings and their grand retinues. The avenues leading toward the sacrificial grounds rang with the deep and triumphant sounds of musical instruments, while the caves echoed with the jubilant songs and shouts of bards and singers. The sky itself seemed to vibrate with rising melodies and the clamor of instruments, while thick clouds of dust, kicked up by the hooves of horses, the feet of elephants, and the wheels of chariots, drifted above like heavy monsoon clouds. The nearby mountains were scented with the fragrance of fresh flowers, camphor, and the curling smoke of incense. Throughout the land, various edicts and decrees had been established to maintain order across the entire realm. The assembly within the palace was resplendent, attended by servants dressed in garments white as camphor and sea foam. Its brilliance seemed to form a radiant pillar between earth and sky, outshining even the sun itself. At the center of it all, the king was tirelessly engaged in magnificent endeavors, surrounded by architects devoted to constructing many new cities. Then, in the midst of this splendor, a great and wondrous assembly—celestial in nature and fashioned from the sky itself—descended like a misty forest from the heavens. Yet, as it moved, none of the people saw it before them; it was the creation of another’s imagination, elusive as a woman glimpsed only in dreams. In the same way, none could see her moving ahead, for she too was a product of another’s imagination, just as one does not see one’s own city while living within it. She, however, could see all those who had gone ahead, just as a king, upon arriving in a new city, observes his companions who have journeyed with him. She saw the same children, with the same features and behavior, the same young women, and the same ministers as before. She beheld the same kings upon the earth, the same scholars, close friends, servants, and others of their kind. Then, she noticed new scholars, friends, various officials, and other citizens as well. She saw the hour of midday, the day itself, the directions overwhelmed by the sun’s intense heat, the sky adorned with the moon and sun, and filled with the sounds of clouds, water, and wind. The earth appeared before her, adorned with lakes, rivers, mountains, cities, and towns, all crowded with forests and villages. She saw the king, now twice eight years old, freed from the marks of previous old age, along with the same people and villagers as before. Upon seeing all this, the lady—Lila—was overcome with anxiety, thinking, “All the residents of this city have suffered greatly and died.” Then, regaining her awareness, she returned to her former inner chambers, and there, in the middle of the night, she saw everything just as it had been. She saw her husband lying there in the form of a corpse, covered with a heap of flowers, while the attendants nearby were all overcome by deep sleep. Distressed, she began waking her companions from their slumber and said, “I am greatly troubled; take me to the royal court.” She declared, “If I may stand beside my husband’s throne and see the assembly of courtiers, then I will survive; otherwise, I shall not.” At her words, the royal attendants, each according to their duty, became sleepless, highly alert, and busied themselves with their tasks. The lines of gatekeepers went out to summon the citizens and courtiers, arranging the proceedings just as rays of the sun spread over the earth. The devoted servants began to clean the audience hall, clearing it as autumn days cleanse the sky stained by the clouds of the rainy season. Rows of lamps, shining with clear water, stood all around, as if lines of stars had descended for a wondrous display. Crowds of people filled the courtyards, swelling like water filling the ocean beds at the dawn of creation after a cosmic dissolution. The ministers and nobles, without fault, returned to their places, just as the guardians of the worlds resume their stations when the three worlds are restored. Cool breezes from the Malaya mountains, thick with the scent of scattered camphor, blew through the air, mingled with the fragrance of blooming flowers. At the entrances stood the doorkeepers, clad in white, like rows of clouds resting on mountain peaks, ending the sun’s heat and the roar of rain. Clusters of flowers, their darkness dispelled by the radiance, fell to the ground like stars scattered by wind and clouds. The followers of the kings filled the audience hall, like swans filling a lotus-covered lake. Lila herself sat near the splendid golden staff by the throne, as if playfulness itself had taken a seat in the mind of love. She saw all the kings and attendants just as they were before, as well as elders, nobles, friends, servants, well-wishers, relatives, and kin. Beholding everything exactly as before, Lila was filled with supreme joy. When it was said that the king and the people of the kingdom were indeed alive, she shone with beauty, radiant as the moon. Thus, thinking, “Let me cheer this sorrowful mind,” and having given instructions to the kings with graceful gestures, she rose from the assembly. Entering the inner palace, she went to her husband’s side in the innermost pavilion, and there she entered the chamber of Puṣpagupta and began to reflect. “How wondrous is this illusion!” she thought. “These people of our city appear both outside and within the mirror of consciousness, existing there and here alike. These mountains—palmyra, tamāla, hintāla—are adorned here just as they are there. Truly, this illusion is spread out in both places. Just as a mountain is experienced both outside and within a mirror, so too is creation experienced both outside and within the mirror of consciousness. Here, which creation is illusory and which is real? Thus I ask the goddess of speech, having worshipped her, about this supreme doubt.