In a remote corner of a mountain village, nestled within a hollow on a stone, there was a small pit—a humble dwelling surrounded by rivers, mountains, and forests. Here lived a Brahmin, always accompanied by his wife and sons. He was healthy, possessed cows and milk, and lived free from the fear of kings. His home was open to all, and he was steadfast in his devotion to righteousness. Though many might equal Vasiṣṭha in wealth, appearance, age, actions, learning, and grandeur, few could match the depth of Vasiṣṭha’s consciousness. This Brahmin was, indeed, called Vasiṣṭha; his wife was named Indusundarī, but both on earth and in the heavens, she was known as Arundhatī. In all outward qualities, she too resembled Arundhatī, yet her inner consciousness was not of the same essence. Arundhatī moved with the graceful playfulness of true love; her beauty shone brightly, and she was the heart of Vasiṣṭha’s world, seated like a lotus in his life. One day, the sage sat on the grassy slope of a mountain near a lake and saw a king below. The king, with his entire retinue, was out hunting, his army making a great clamor as if intending to conquer Mount Meru itself. The king’s procession was magnificent: yak-tail fans waved, moon-bright banners fluttered, and garlands of creepers adorned the sky, making it look as if it were paved with silver and circled by white parasols. The dust raised by horses and countless chariots resembled clouds, while the city was hidden behind tall mansions and gateways, elevated by elephants. The region buzzed with tumult, flowing in all directions, adorned with clinking golden and ruby necklaces, armlets, and earrings. Witnessing this spectacle, Vasiṣṭha thought, “Ah, how delightful is kingship, resplendent with every kind of good fortune!” He wondered, “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 from the amorous play of women in my chambers? When will I make the faces of noble women, sprinkled with camphor and famed throughout the quarters, as radiant as the rising moon?” From that moment, the Brahmin was filled with such desires, though he remained devoted to his own duty and diligent throughout his life. Yet, just as frost hastens to wither a lotus, old age swiftly approached him, entering his heart. As his death drew near, his wife became withered, like a creeper whose flowers fade in the summer heat. She worshipped me then, O lady, just as you have. Realizing that immortality is exceedingly hard to attain, she asked me for a boon: from her own pavilion, the goddess requested that the soul of her deceased husband not depart. I granted her that wish. Then, by the force of time, the Brahmin met his end, but in that very house-space, he remained as a presence in the space of the soul. By the power of his many past intentions, the lord of the earth, possessing supreme might, manifested in a form of space. By his influence, he conquered royal thrones, his might 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 seekers, 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, the Brahmin, now a corpse, dwelled as one whose body was made of the space of elements. His wife, the Brahmin lady, was utterly wasted by grief; her heart was split in two, like a dried-up bean pod. She, too, became lifeless along with her husband. Abandoning her physical body at a distance, she approached her husband with her subtle body. Following him 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 possessed houses, land, and other wealth. Today is the eighth day since her death, and her soul remains in the house in the mountain village. Now, O lady, your husband—endowed with prosperity—has become a king, and you, who were known as Arundhatī, the Brahmin’s wife, are now his queen. Here, you both rule the kingdom as a noble couple, newly born on earth like a pair of chakravaka birds, or like Shiva and his consort. Thus, your entire previous wandering in transmigration has been recounted; it was only a delusion, the sky itself appearing as the form of the soul. From this delusion, in the mirror of consciousness, this illusion is reflected; though unreal, from unreality, it brings about the end of your worldly existence. Therefore, who could be deluded, and who could be free from delusion? Creation is nothing but unimpeded, limited knowledge—nothing else manifests. Hearing this for a long time, Līlā’s eyes widened with charming wonder, and she spoke words adorned with playful syllables: “O goddess, how could your statement turn out to be false in this way? Where is the departed soul in its own home, and where are we, standing here? That world is so different—its earth, its mountains, its ten directions—how can all these exist within the house where my husband resides?” She marveled, “It is as if Airāvata, intoxicated, is bound inside a mustard seed; as if a mosquito wages war with a host of lions in the hollow of an atom. Mount Meru is placed in a lotus eye, swallowed by a honey-drinker; hearing the thunder of dream-clouds, the peacocks dance in wonder.