In the course of time, a certain brahmin met his end, yet even after death, his presence lingered within the very space of his home, abiding in the subtle realm of the soul. By the power of his accumulated intentions from past lives, the lord of the earth, endowed with supreme strength, manifested himself anew in a form woven of space. Through his influence, he conquered royal thrones, his might spreading across the worlds. He protected the underworlds with compassion, and as a king, he triumphed over the three worlds. To his foes, he was the fire of time; to women, the god of love. He stood firm like Mount Meru against the winds of sense-objects and shone like the sun to the lotuses of virtuous women. He became a mirror reflecting all scriptures, a wish-fulfilling tree for seekers, a footstool for the foremost twice-born, and the full moon to the radiance of righteousness. Within his own house, in the inner space of mind, the brahmin, now a corpse, dwelled as one whose body was composed of the space of elements. His wife, the Brahmin lady, was utterly wasted by grief; her heart split in two, like a dried-up bean pod. Having become lifeless along with her husband, she abandoned her body at a distance and, with her subtle form, approached him. Following her husband 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. It was the eighth day since her death, and her soul still lingered in the house in the mountain village. Now, the husband—endowed with prosperity—had become a king, and the Brahmin’s wife, Arundhati, was now his queen. Together, they ruled the kingdom, a noble couple newly born on earth, like a pair of chakravaka birds or like Shiva and his consort. Thus, their entire previous wandering in transmigration was recounted; it was only a delusion, the sky itself appearing as the form of the soul. From this delusion, reflected in the mirror of consciousness, this illusion—though unreal—brought about the end of their worldly existence. Therefore, who could be deluded, and who could be free from delusion? Creation is nothing but unimpeded, limited knowledge—nothing else truly manifests. Having listened 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? Where is the departed soul in its own home, and where are we, standing here? That world is so different—its earth, mountains, 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 placed in a lotus eye, swallowed by a honey-drinker; hearing the thunder of dream-clouds, the peacocks dance in wonder. This is inconceivable, O goddess of all gods; likewise, the earth and mountains within a house are equally inconceivable. Please explain this properly, with pure understanding, for those 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 by 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. It appears unreal, yet seems real due to its dense manifestation, within the hollow of consciousness-space. Whatever arises from the unreal, even if named by memory, is also unreal—just as a wave in a mirage-stream is not real. This house of yours, and that space within it—know that I, you, and all this, indeed all of it, is nothing but space alone. Dreams, associations, intentions, and direct experiences—these are the chief means here, like lamps, for illumination and understanding. Within the house of the Brahmin, inside dwells the twice-born soul; within that, the earth with its oceans and forests exists, just as a bee resides within a lotus. Within some tiny cavity, in a minute recess of that earth, this city appears, like a hair-tip floating in the sky. In this city, O slender one, your house stands; so how can such a multitude, like a herd of elephants, exist within something so minute? In each and every atom, O dear one, consciousness abides; within each, worlds exist—so by whom can this truly be counted? On the eighth day, O Supreme Lady, that Brahmin died; for us, many years have passed—so how can this be? Just as there is no real extension of space, so too there is no real extension of time. Listen as I explain this properly, as it truly is. Just as this creation of the world appears only as a projection of consciousness, so too the appearance of moments and cycles of time is merely a projection of consciousness. Because the creation of the world, moments, cycles of time, and the birth of beings all arise from consciousness, listen, dear one, to the sequence of this appearance as it truly is.