If you approach your husband now, your life with him will continue just as it always has. Here, within the very space of this palace, my own husband once became a brahmin; and here, after his death, he was reborn as a lord of the earth. In this same place, through the course of worldly existence and in another region of the earth—at the capital city—I have been established as the queen. Within these inner chambers, my lord, the king, died; yet, in the very same space, he was once more reborn as king. He attained the throne of the earth and became lord over many lands—all of this transpired in but an instant, right here. Truly, within this very house, all the worlds of the cosmos are contained, just as countless mustard seeds can fit inside a tiny box. I believe that this place is not far at all; it is my husband’s own domain. Sometimes, it appears right beside me, just as I see it. You should see it in the same way. O daughter of Arundhati, child of the earth, at this very moment you have three husbands by name—or perhaps even many, hundreds. Of the three who are closest, one, a twice-born, has been reduced to ashes; the king, adorned with garlands and fine garments, lies as a corpse in the inner chambers. And in this theater of worldly existence, the third—another lord of the earth—has fallen into the vast ocean of transmigration and now wanders, lost. His mind is tossed about by the waves and whirlpools of enjoyment; his conduct dulled and worn by inertia, he is like a tortoise drifting in the ocean of worldly existence. Despite performing all the demanding duties of a king, he sleeps, absorbed in his own radiance, never awakening from the delusion of worldly life. Thinking, “I am the lord, I am the enjoyer, I am accomplished, strong, and happy,” he is bound by the endless, great rope of attachment and has come under its sway. So tell me, O beautiful one, which husband draws you near, as the wind carries a streak of fragrance from the forest into the woods? This world, my child, is truly something altogether different—the hall of the cosmic egg. All these chains of worldly dealings are of another order entirely. These circles of worldly existence, though they appear close at hand, are in fact separated by countless millions of leagues. Look before you: their forms are nothing but pure space, yet within them stand countless millions of Meru and Mandara mountains. Within each atom, entire groups of creations arise unhindered; at the very edge of great consciousness, they shimmer like motes of light. Yet, even these mighty cosmic eggs, vast at their beginnings, do not amount to even the weight of a sesame seed on a scale. Just as the sky shines with the radiance of many jeweled mountains and forests, so too does consciousness shine, appearing as the world, though it is devoid of earth and other elements. It is only cognition that shines forth here, under names such as “world” and so on; at the dawn of creation, nothing composed of earth or the like truly exists. Just as a wave, forming and reforming, arises in a river, so too do the various forms and arrangements of this world come into being. Thus, O mother of the world, I have died here in this very place; my birth was of the passionate type, neither of darkness nor of purity. Since the descent of Brahman, I have passed through eight hundred births; now, I can see before me all the various wombs I have traversed. Within the cycle of worldly existence, O goddess, I was once a bee in the lotus of another world, and a foremost maiden among the Vidyādharas. Later, tainted by evil tendencies, I became a human woman; and in another realm, I was the beloved of the lord of Tāṅgaṇa. I dwelt in groves of karañja, kuñja, jambīra, and kadamba trees, wearing garments of leaves, dark-complexioned—I became Śabarī. Living in the forest, made simple by forest life, I became a creeper; with eyes like guluccha fruits, holding leaves in my hands, I lived in the woods. I was that very creeper of the holy hermitage, purified by the company of sages; when burned by a forest fire, I became the daughter of that great sage. As a result of actions that bring the fruits of womanhood, I became a glorious king in Suraṣṭra for a hundred years. Yet, because of the fault of royal misdeeds committed in the hollows at the base of palm trees, I became a mongoose afflicted with leprosy for nine years. For eight years in Saurashtra, O goddess, I lived as a cow, enduring the mischief of wicked people and the playful commands of ignorant cowherds. As a bird, I was caught by an enemy’s snare in the forest meadows, and with great suffering I broke free—just as these desires are now being severed. I rested with a bee in the lap of a lotus, amidst the beds of unopened lotus buds, secretly enjoying the pollen within. I wandered with a deer of beautiful eyes among lofty mountain peaks; in the lovely forest clearings, I was struck in the vital parts by a hunter. In all eight directions, I beheld the waves of the ocean carrying me along, with the sounds of fish, horses, and turtles bursting, neighing, and striking. I drank on the shore of a leathery river, singing with a sweet voice; in delightful union, I freely enjoyed, surrounded by the good and the virtuous. In groves of palm and tamala trees, with a woman of restless face and eyes, I gazed upon my beloved, intoxicated by the agitations of her glances. With lotus-like thighs, beautiful as streams of flowing gold, the divine bees—the gods—were delighted by the celestial nymph of the heavenly lake. On jeweled and golden ground, strewn with rubies and pearls, in the wish-fulfilling forest of Mount Meru, I enjoyed union together with a youthful companion.