Listen, dear one, to the wondrous vision of creation, subtle and profound. Just as the illusory world created by your husband shines with a brilliance of its own, so too does this world appear before us—this I perceive, my child. From the formless vision of the husband, another creation emerges, woven from the threads of delusion; in the same manner, this world arises. Speak to me, then, so that the veil of worldly existence may be lifted. In the beginning, memory itself was but a form of delusion, and from this, creation unfolded. It manifests like a dream—an illusion within an illusion—so it is taught. Somewhere, in the vast expanse of consciousness, there exists a pavilion of worldly existence. It alternates between concealment and revelation, much like the sky-born lotus that opens and closes its petals. Within this expanse, there is a presence—like a statue upholding mighty Mount Meru, a city-lord, a radiant salabhanjika, one of the fourteen world-guardians, a king of the Trigarta region, and a lamp that even illuminates the sun. He is like a mountain stone, half-buried at the edge of an anthill, a dwelling for sons, elders, rulers, and brahmins. He is as a treasury filled with constellations, dark at the very summit of the sky, a swarm of perfected beings buzzing in the heavens, and the humming of mosquitoes in the night. He is as a corner veiled by the thick smoke of cloud-mansions, or an aerial insect perched upon the great bamboo along the wind’s path. The air is filled with the playful chatter of gods, demons, and other beings, crowded with the vessels and implements of cities, towns, and worlds. The earth there is washed by the streams of rivers, the waves of oceans, and the waters of lakes; its caverns glow with the pleasures of the underworld, earth, and heaven. In the hollow of a certain corner, on a mountain stone, there is a small pit belonging to a mountain village. Surrounded by rivers, mountains, and forests, there lived a brahmin. He dwelled always with his wife and sons, healthy and prosperous, possessing cows and milk, free from fear of kings, hospitable to all, and devoted to righteousness. In wealth, appearance, age, actions, learning, and grandeur, he resembled the sage Vasiṣṭha, yet he did not possess the consciousness of Vasiṣṭha. He was known as Vasiṣṭha by name, and his wife was called Indusundarī, though on earth and in the heavens she was famed as Arundhatī. In all outward qualities, she too was like Arundhatī, but not in the essence of consciousness. She moved with the playful grace of genuine love, her beauty radiant, and she was his entire world, seated like a lotus at his side. One day, that sage sat upon the grassy slope of a mountain near a lake and saw a king passing below. The king traveled with his entire retinue, seeking the thrill of the hunt, his army resounding with great clamor, as if intent on conquering Mount Meru itself. With yak-tail fans, moon-bright banners, and garlands of creepers, the king made the sky appear as if adorned with a circle of shining white parasols, like a pavement of silver. The dust raised by galloping horses and the multitude of chariots resembled clouds, and the city was hidden by tall mansions and gateways, elevated by elephants. The region swirled with great commotion, adorned with clinking golden and ruby necklaces, armlets, and earrings. Beholding that 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 jasmine pollen, carry to me the sweat of exhaustion from the amorous play of the women in my inner chambers? When will I make the faces of noble women, sprinkled with camphor and renowned throughout the land, as radiant as the rising moon?” From that time onward, the brahmin became filled with such desires, yet remained devoted to his own duty, diligent throughout his life. But just as frost eagerly hastens to wither a lotus, so old age crept into his heart and swiftly overtook him. As his death approached, his wife too became withered, like a creeper whose flowers fade beneath the summer’s heat. In those days, she worshipped me, O lady, just as you have, and, realizing that immortality is exceedingly hard to attain, she requested this boon from me. From her own pavilion, the devoted wife prayed that the soul of her deceased husband should not depart; thus, I granted her wish. Then, by the inexorable force of time, the brahmin met his end, yet in that very house, he remained as a presence in the space of the soul. By the power of his many past intentions, the lord of the earth, endowed with supreme might, himself became manifest in a subtle form. Through his influence, he conquered royal thrones; his power pervaded the worlds; he protected the underworlds with compassion, and as a king, he triumphed over the three worlds. He was the fire of time to his enemies, the god of love to women, Mount Meru to the winds of sense-objects, and the sun to the lotuses of virtuous women. He became a mirror for all the scriptures, a wish-fulfilling tree for those who sought, a footstool for the foremost twice-born, and the full moon to the radiance of the nectar of righteousness. Within the inner space of his own house, in the self made of the space of mind, that brahmin, though his body had perished, dwelled as one whose form was composed of the subtle elements. His wife, the Brahmin lady, was utterly wasted by grief; like a dried-up bean pod, her heart was broken in two. Having become lifeless along with her husband, she abandoned her body at a distance and, with her subtle body, approached her husband. Following her husband, as a river follows its channel, she attained freedom from sorrow, like a cluster of blossoms carried away by the wind. There, the Brahmin’s daughter possesses houses, land, and other wealth. Today is the eighth day since her death, and her soul remains in the house in the mountain village.