Lila gazed around her and beheld the same children as before, their faces, manners, and play unchanged; the same young women graced the palace, the same loyal ministers attended their duties. Everywhere she looked, she saw familiar kings ruling the earth, learned scholars in debate, close companions, and devoted servants—each one just as she had always known them. Yet as her eyes wandered further, she noticed new faces among the scholars, new friends mingling in the halls, and fresh officials and citizens bustling about the city. The world outside was alive with the midday sun blazing in the sky, the directions shimmering with heat. She saw the heavens adorned with both the sun and the moon, heard the distant rumble of clouds, the murmuring of water, and the sighing of the wind. The earth itself appeared vibrant before her: lakes and rivers glistened, mountains rose majestically, and cities and towns thrived, their streets crowded with people. Forests and villages spread out in all directions, teeming with life and activity. Among them, she saw the king—now youthful once more, as if he were sixteen, freed from the marks of old age—surrounded by the same people and village folk as before. As Lila took in these sights, a wave of anxiety swept over her. She thought, “All the residents of this city have suffered and died. How can I be seeing them again?” Overcome by this distress, she withdrew into her private chambers. There, in the deep stillness of midnight, she found everything as it had been: her husband’s lifeless body lay covered in a mound of flowers, and the attendants around him were lost in deep sleep. Distressed, Lila began waking her companions, shaking them from their slumber. “I am greatly troubled,” she said. “Take me to the royal court at once. If I can stand beside my husband’s throne and see the assembly of courtiers, I will survive this ordeal; otherwise, I cannot bear it.” Her words roused the palace. The royal attendants, alert and diligent, hurried to their tasks. Gatekeepers went forth, summoning the citizens and courtiers, arranging everything as if rays of the sun were spreading across the land. Faithful servants swept and cleaned the audience hall, clearing away the gloom like autumn winds dispelling the clouds of the rainy season. Rows of shining lamps illuminated the hall, their light as brilliant as if the stars themselves had descended for a wondrous display. Crowds of people streamed into the courtyards, filling them to overflowing, just as the ocean beds fill with water at the dawn of creation. Ministers and nobles returned to their proper places, like the guardians of the worlds resuming their posts when the three worlds are restored. Fragrant breezes from Malaya, heavy with the scent of camphor and blossoming flowers, drifted through the air. At the entrances, doorkeepers in spotless white garments stood in rows, resembling clouds resting atop mountains, bringing relief after the sun’s heat and the roar of the rain. Clusters of flowers, their darkness dispelled by the lamps’ radiance, fell to the ground like stars scattered by wind and cloud. The king’s followers filled the audience hall, as swans fill a lotus-covered lake. Lila herself sat near the splendid golden staff by the throne, embodying playfulness seated in the mind of love. She saw all the kings and attendants as they had always been—elders, nobles, friends, servants, well-wishers, relatives, and kin—each in their familiar place. 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 like the moon. With this thought—“Let me comfort my sorrowful heart”—Lila signaled to the kings with graceful gestures and then rose from the assembly. She entered the inner palace and went to her husband’s side in the private pavilion. There, in the chamber of Puṣpagupta, she pondered deeply. “How wondrous is this illusion!” she thought. “The people of our city appear both outside and within the mirror of consciousness; they exist both here and there. The same palmyra, tamāla, and hintāla mountains are adorned here just as there. Truly, this illusion is spread out in both places. Just as a mountain is seen both outside and within a mirror, so too is creation experienced both outside and within the mirror of consciousness.” She wondered, “Here, which creation is illusory and which is real? I must ask the goddess of speech about this supreme doubt, after worshipping her.” Resolving thus, Lila worshipped the goddess at that very moment. The goddess appeared before her in the form of a maiden. Seated reverently before the goddess, Lila, firmly established on earth, began to question the supreme power of ultimate reality. “O goddess,” she said, “the noble do not become agitated for the sake of one who is to be shown compassion. It is said that at the beginning of creation, you alone established this ancient order. Therefore, O supreme goddess, I humbly ask you about this matter from before. Please tell me—surely, by your grace, my request will bear fruit. “There exists a mirror of the world’s name, even purer than the sky, whose parts are countless crores of yojanas in extent. It is seamless, solid, soft, smooth, and cool; known as ‘insentient-conscious,’ it is unbroken and without grasping. In it are reflected all those who have transcended the limits of direction, time, calculation, space, illumination, and destiny. “O mother, the glory of the reflection of the three worlds exists both outside and within. What could be artificial in that, and what could be natural? O beautiful one, tell me truly: what is the nature of the uncontrived creation, and what is the nature of the contrived? Explain this to me as it truly is. Just as I stand here, and you, O goddess Ambika, are present, so too is that uncontrived creation, O queen of the gods—this I know.