In that extraordinary realm, everything whirled with great tumult, and streams of movement flowed swiftly in all directions. The region sparkled, adorned with the clinking of golden and ruby necklaces, armlets, and earrings, creating a spectacle of dazzling beauty. Amidst this splendor, a brahmin beheld a king and was struck with admiration. He thought to himself, “Ah, how delightful is kingship, resplendent with every kind of good fortune!” His mind brimmed with longing: “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 of my inner chambers? When will I make the faces of noble women, their cheeks sprinkled with camphor and renowned throughout the quarters, as radiant as the rising moon?” From that moment, the brahmin became filled with such desires. Yet, he remained ever devoted to his own duty, diligent throughout his life. But, just as frost eagerly hastens to wither a lotus, so too did old age, having entered his heart, swiftly approach the brahmin. As his death drew near, his wife, once radiant, became withered—like a creeper whose flowers fade under the harsh heat of summer. In her sorrow, she worshipped me, O lady, just as you have. Realizing that immortality is exceedingly hard to attain, she requested this boon from me: from her own pavilion, the goddess asked that the soul of her deceased husband should not depart. I granted her that very wish. Then, by the force of time, the brahmin met his end. Yet, in that very house-space, he remained—a presence in the subtle space of the soul. By the power of his many past intentions, the lord of the earth, possessing supreme might, manifested himself in a form of space. Through 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 became 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 was 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, having become a corpse, dwelled as one whose body was made of the space of elements. His wife, the Brahmin lady, was utterly wasted by grief; like a dried-up bean pod, her heart was split 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 him as a river follows its channel, she attained freedom from sorrow, like a cluster of blossoms carried 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, that husband of yours, now endowed with prosperity, has become a king; and you, who were called Arundhati, the Brahmin's wife, are now his queen. Here, you two 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. She spoke, her 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? 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. This is indeed inconceivable, O goddess of all gods; likewise, the earth and mountains within a house are equally inconceivable. O goddess of the gods, please explain this properly with pure understanding; for those who are well established in grace and strength do not become disturbed.” The goddess replied, “I do not speak falsely; listen carefully, O beautiful one. The division of destinies is not performed by me or others like me. When another divides it, I alone establish the boundary. If I break that boundary, who else will uphold it? The twice-born soul, with its household and battlefield, perceives this land and its kingdoms as existing only in the sky, seeing them as sky itself. The former memory is lost, and a new one arises for you both; just as in a dream, the memory of waking is different—so is death, O lady. Just as the three worlds arise in a dream from imagination, just as the three worlds are imagined, just as a story’s battle is, and just as water in a desert. This land, with its mountains, forests, and cities, exists within the house of the brahmin, as if inside the mirror of imagination. This appears unreal, yet seems real due to its dense manifestation; within the hollow of consciousness-space, this unreal appearance arises. Whatever arises from the unreal, even if named by memory, is also unreal; just as a wave in a mirage-stream is not real.” Thus, the goddess revealed the mysterious nature of reality, the play of consciousness, and the insubstantiality of all worlds.