As the day unfolded, the sky seemed to come alive with celestial music. The air was filled with the enchanting songs of kinnaras, gandharvas, vidyadharas, and heavenly maidens, all beautifully adorned in celebration of the arrival of their revered father. Witnessing this, a gentle hope arose: surely, the presence of these divine goddesses would bring comfort and relief from sorrow, for the sight of the great is never without its blessings. With these words, the mother lovingly spoke to her son, her hand coming to rest on his head with the tenderness of a lotus leaf touching its own root. By her gentle touch, the son’s distress and misfortune melted away, just as a mountain is relieved of summer’s oppressive heat when the monsoon clouds gather. The entire household, upon seeing these two radiant goddesses, felt their prosperity and joy return, as if they had tasted the nectar of immortality. Yet, in her playful manner, the mother withheld even a mention of her son, Jyeṣṭhaśarma, and did not grant them a meeting. Why was this so? It is said that when one awakens to the knowledge of earth and the other elements, perceiving the aggregate as individuality, it is much like space appearing to take on another form. The unreal is seen as real because of awareness—just as a child, unaware, sees no ghost. So too, the states of earth and the other elements arise and vanish in an instant, as in a dream, where dream-knowledge makes things seem real, much as it happens even while awake. When awareness is attuned to space, only space is experienced; when the elements are disturbed, even a solid wall can seem to pulse with the activity of space. In dreams, cities and lands may appear empty or hollow, and even a dream-woman, though unreal, can perform meaningful actions. Space, when perceived as earth and the rest, appears as such for a moment, and through delusion, even other worlds seem directly experienced. A child may see the sky as a goblin; a dying man as a forest; one sees hair as a ball, another sees the sky as something else, and yet another perceives a pearl in the sky. Those who are frightened, half-asleep, or adrift on a boat often see trees and other things in the sky, like goblins, shaped by the force of their imagination. These forms are shaped by habit; what the mind repeatedly impresses upon itself seems to appear, yet in reality, not a single thing truly exists. For one who knows the truth, earth and the rest do not exist as they seem; only space, which arises from consciousness, is spoken of as real. For the sage who knows the one expanse of consciousness as Brahman and the Self, where is there room for sons, friends, or wives? What, when, or where could any of these arise? The playful act of Jyeṣṭhaśarman placing his hand on his head is but the result of the mind’s awareness of the beginning and flow of experience. Awareness appears exactly as it conceives—subtler than space and pure. Everywhere, O Rāghava, this web of objects is experienced, just as imagined cities arise in dreams. On the slope of that mountain, in a quiet village, within a pavilion, the two women remained together and, in time, disappeared from sight. It was as if the goddesses of the forest had bestowed their blessings, for the household, once troubled, now stood in peace and supreme merit. Sarasvati, merging into the open pavilion, spoke playfully to her companion of sky-like form, who smiled in silence, her form as subtle as the sky. Their conversation turned to the futility of actions performed in imagination and dreams, pondering how, just as in this world actions are performed for real purposes, so too do they arise in dreams and thoughts. Even without earth, channels, or the vital airs, their mutual discourse continued; this awareness of conversation is just like that found in dreams and imagination. All that is to be known has been fully known; the seer’s awareness has seen all that is to be seen. Such is the reality of Brahman—what more is there to ask? Yet a question lingered: "The life-force of my deceased husband, who now rules a kingdom—why am I not seen there by them, and why am I seen here by my son?" The answer came gently: without practice, your conviction in duality did not subside, just as a season does not end abruptly at its junction. One who has not attained nonduality cannot act from nonduality; for one established in asceticism, how could there be experience of shadow or limbs? Without practice, O Lila, there was no dissolution there; when that state arose, the power of true resolve was not yours. Yet now, through the experience of truth, your intentions have reached me. Your wish, "let there be direct perception," O beautiful one, has come to fruition. Now, if you go near your husband, your relationship will continue as before. Here itself, in the space of the palace, my husband became a brahmin; here itself, after death, he became a lord of the earth. Here itself, in the world of men, in another region of the earth, in the city of the capital, I am established as queen. Here itself, in the inner chambers, my lord the king died; here itself, in the same space, he again became a king. He attained the throne of the earth, became lord of many lands; all this, in an instant, is established here itself. In this very house-space, all the worlds of the cosmos are contained, just as many mustard seeds are held within a small box. I think that place is not far; it is my husband’s domain. Sometimes it appears beside me here, just as I see it—so do the same. O daughter of Arundhati of the earth, your husbands at present are three by name, or perhaps many, even hundreds. Of the three who are nearer, one, a twice-born, has gone to ashes; the king, adorned with garlands and garments, lies as a corpse in the inner chambers. In this theater of worldly existence, the third, a lord of the earth, has fallen into the great ocean of transmigration and wanders lost.