Beyond all that is known, there exists a realm ten times greater in essence, enveloped by a mass of blazing flames so intense they could melt even the mighty Meru and other mountains. This realm, surpassing all, possesses such power that it can move the immovable Meru and other peaks as easily as blades of grass or dust. Surrounding it on all sides is the wind—capable of splitting mountains and carrying fire—yet silent, owing to its emptiness. Beyond even this, and again tenfold greater, the realm is encircled by the sky, empty and singular in nature. Further still lies a dense and solid expanse, a hundred yojanas in extent, covered by a fragment of the cosmic egg and adorned with a golden solar crest. Observing the world from this vantage—the world shaped by the ocean, great mountains, guardians of the quarters, cities of the gods, sky, and earth—she saw the chamber of her own home upon the earth. Then, the two siddha women beheld their own house, a pavilion invisible to the world, a seat of Brahman. Within it, anxious servants moved about, and the faces of women were wet with tears. The structure was mostly ruined, resembling a lotus whose petals had withered. It was like a city whose festivals had vanished, like the ocean at the end of Agastya’s influence, like a garden scorched by summer, or a tree struck by lightning. The house appeared as a cloud torn by wind, a lotus burned by frost, a lamp with little oil—causing distress to those who looked upon it. Struck by the loss of its lord, the house had become like a forest of ancient trees, their leaves withered by the fading radiance of faces near death, like a region made harsh by the retreat of rain, covered in dust. Then, through long practice of pure knowledge, the beautiful woman became endowed with true resolve and true desire, like a goddess. She thought, “Let these relatives of mine see me now, appearing as an ordinary woman.” At that moment, the household members saw the pair of women shining together, like Lakshmi and Gauri in a radiant abode. From head to toe, they were adorned with various garlands, beautiful and fresh, resembling the joyful woodland of springtime goddesses. Their presence filled the entire village of medicinal plants with elixirs, giving coolness, delight, and comfort, like the rising of two moons. With glances from their long, waving, vine-like hair and restless eyes, they scattered clusters of jasmine flowers mixed with blue lotuses. The radiance of their bodies flowed like rivers filled with molten gold, making the forest shine as if it were turned to gold. With natural grace and playful beauty, Lakshmi’s form seemed to cross the waves of her own ocean of loveliness. Her arms moved like vines, her hands glowing red, as if scattering a new golden forest of wish-fulfilling trees. Her feet, soft as tender flower buds and fresh leaves, untouched by the ground and resembling garlands of blooming lotus petals, again walked. By the nectar of her gaze, she brought forth young shoots among the groves of dried palm and tamala trees, whose moonlike radiance had faded. Having spoken, “Salutations to the forest goddesses,” and offering a handful of flowers, Jyeshtha Sharma departed together with his household. He placed the flower offering at the feet of those goddesses, like a shower of icy dew upon the lotuses of a lotus pond. “May the forest goddesses be victorious, who have come to remove our suffering; for the noble, their own action is mostly for the protection of others.” The goddesses became affectionate toward the Brahmin couple, pillars of their lineage, hosts to all guests, and the foundation of the twice-born community. “Today, our parents have left the house, along with sons, cattle, and kin, and gone to heaven; thus, the three worlds are empty for us.” Birds, perched upon the tree, scatter every moment; in the empty house, grieving for the dead, they lament with sweet voices. The mountain wails, overwhelmed by confused, rumbling echoes from its caves, and by thick streams of tears flowing down like rivers. The waterfalls, their garments loosened and breasts exposed, cry out as they collapse, their hot sighs scattering them, and they wander in utter emaciation in all directions. The village, battered and wounded in every limb, harsh with pitiful cries, devoted to fasting, stands miserable, intent on death. Every day, drops of dew-like tears fall downward, hot from the heat, from the clustered eyes of the trees. The streets, deserted by peaceful people, are whitened with salt; widowed, joyless, and emptied of heart, they have become desolate. The vines, their bodies struck by the hot, burning wind, battered by rain and tears, chatter with the cries of cuckoos and bees, striking themselves with leafy hands. These waterfalls, their bodies scorched by heat, fall from the great crevices onto the rocky ground, as if to shatter themselves into a hundred pieces. The houses, deprived of conversation and fortune, mute, with scattered intentions, filled with blind darkness, have become dense and impenetrable. From the flower clusters in the garden, as the bees cry out in lament, a foul odor arises, called by another name their former sweet fragrance. The mango trees’ companions, the vines, have lost their savor day by day; the slender creepers with shrinking bud-like eyes are fading away. The streams, eager to cast their bodies into the ocean and longing to depart, move restlessly on the earth, their waters murmuring as they flow. The ponds, unmoved, remain, counting even the slightest tremor from a falling gnat as excessive restlessness, delighting in the stillness within themselves.