Ambika listened as the sage spoke, reflecting deeply on the nature of creation where her husband now abided. “That realm,” she mused, “seems contrived, for it lacks space, time, and all the familiar factors of our world. Such a creation cannot arise from what is uncontrived, for effects always emerge from causes that share their nature.” She explained further, “We observe that the effect is always distinct from its cause: water cannot be drawn from clay, yet a pot fashioned from clay serves as its vessel. Every effect comes into being through cooperating causes, and yet, some unique trace of the primary cause is always found within it.” Turning to Ambika, the sage continued, “But in your husband’s creation, O lovely-faced one, there is no cause like earth or the elements; the earth there did not arise from our terrestrial globe. Consciousness has departed from here, soaring away—so how could this earth exist? What cooperating causes, what cause at all, is present in that creation?” He reflected, “Even when causes are absent, what arises from auxiliaries is nothing other than the effect of prior causes, as everyone experiences. That memory, O Devi, belonging to my husband, has become manifest; I know the cause of memory—this creation is its certainty. Memory is of the nature of space; just as it arises, so too for you. The creation of the husband has indeed been experienced, and it is like space in its power.” The sage elaborated, “The creation, made of memory and space, as spoken of by my husband, I consider this creation here as an illustration. Thus, this unreal creation of your husband shines brilliantly; in the same way, this here appears—I see this, O child. Just as from the formless creation of the husband, another creation arises, consisting of delusion, so too does this; tell me, for the removal of the wall of the world. Previously, memory was merely of the nature of delusion, and thus this creation arose; it appears as a dream-delusion, so it is said—listen.” He described, “There is, somewhere in the space of consciousness, a pavilion of worldly existence, having the form of covering and uncovering, like the leaves of the sky-born lotus. He is like a statue supporting Mount Meru, a city-lord, a splendid salabhanjika, one of the fourteen guardians, a king of the Trigarta region, and a lamp illuminating the sun. He is like a mountain stone covered by an anthill at the corner, a dwelling place for many sons, elders, rulers, and brahmins. He is like a treasury filled with constellations, dark at the uppermost sky, a buzzing swarm of perfected beings dwelling in the heavens, and the humming of mosquitoes. He is like a corner enveloped by the dense smoke of cloud-mansions, an aerial insect settled on the great bamboo of the wind’s path. He is filled with the playful chatter of gods, demons, and other children, and crowded with the vessels and implements of cities, towns, and worlds.” The sage continued, “The earth there is washed by the streams of rivers, ocean waves, and lakes, and its cavities shine with the enjoyments of the underworld, earth, and heaven. There, in the hollow of a certain corner, on a mountain stone, there is a small pit belonging to a mountain village. In this place, surrounded by rivers, mountains, and forests, lived a brahmin, always with his wife and sons, healthy, possessing cows and milk, free from fear of kings, hospitable to all, and devoted to righteousness.” He explained, “In wealth, appearance, age, actions, learning, and grandeur, one may resemble Vasiṣṭha, but not possess the consciousness of Vasiṣṭha. He was called Vasiṣṭha by name; his wife was Indusundarī by name, but on earth and in the heavens, she was known as Arundhatī. In wealth, appearance, age, actions, learning, and grandeur, she too was like Arundhatī, but not in the essence of her consciousness. She moved with the playful grace of unfeigned love, her beauty radiant; she was his entire world, seated like a lotus.” The sage recounted, “Once, that sage sat on the grassy slope of a mountain near a lake, and saw a king below. The king was traveling with his entire retinue, seeking the pleasure of the hunt, with a great clamor of his army, as if intending to conquer Mount Meru. With yak-tail fans, moon-bright banners, and garlands of creepers, he made the sky appear as if adorned with a circle of white parasols, like a silver pavement. The dust raised by horses and the multitude of chariots resembled clouds; the city was hidden by tall mansions and gateways, raised by elephants. The region, whirling with great tumult and flowing swiftly in all directions, was adorned with clinking golden and ruby necklaces, armlets, and earrings.” Beholding the king, the brahmin thought to himself, ‘Ah, how delightful is kingship, resplendent with every kind of good fortune! When will I become a king, filling the ten directions with foot soldiers, chariots, elephants, horses, banners, parasols, and fans? When will the winds, fragrant with the pollen of jasmine, carry to me the sweat of exhaustion from the amorous play of the women of my inner chambers? When will I make the faces of noble women, sprinkled with camphor and renowned throughout the quarters, as radiant as the rising moon?’ From that time onward, the brahmin became filled with such desires, ever devoted to his own duty, diligent throughout his life. Yet, just as frost eagerly hastens to wither a lotus, old age swiftly approached the brahmin. As his death drew near, his wife became withered, like a creeper whose flowers fade when struck by the heat of summer. She worshipped the sage then, O lady, just as you have, and, realizing that immortality is exceedingly hard to attain, she requested this boon from him. From her own pavilion, the goddess asked that the soul of her deceased husband should not depart; thus, the sage granted her that very wish.