In the haunted hours of the night, the cremation ground became a blazing cauldron, its fires fed by the quarrels of drunken ghosts. The wind that swept through carried the thick, unmistakable scent of blood and fat, swirling through the air. Amidst this macabre scene, the clatter of coins and the rattle of dice rang out harshly, as yakṣas, eager for the taste of half-cooked corpses, rejoiced in their grim feast. Women from Bengal and Kaliṅga stood out in the chaos, swords flashing in their hands. The flames before them shone brilliantly, like stars falling from the heavens. All around, ghosts tumbled and fell in wild revelry, their descent marked by flowing blood, while nearby, bands of yogis sang sacred songs, their voices reaching even the ears of the piśācas. The music that filled the air was played mostly on great stringed instruments, their deep notes resonating through the night. Men, overtaken by the impulses of the piśācas, seemed to transform into piśācīs themselves, losing all sense of their former selves. Even seasoned warriors, who had never before been frightened by the sight of ghosts, now stood frozen, half-dead with fear, as the very earth seemed to rise up, teeming with ghosts and demons. Some night-wandering beings, terrified by corpses falling from the shoulders of ghosts, pressed together in the narrow spaces of the sky, which was crowded with the chests of spirits. Dying kings were carried off with great effort, while heaps of Śavaras were scattered and disturbed by yakṣas in search of a good meal. The darkness of night was pierced by fragments of flame issuing from the mouths of ghosts, casting a strange light like clusters of fresh ashoka flowers scattered everywhere. Children with the heads of trunks were bound to the necks of headless bodies, and the sky itself was filled with yakṣas, rākṣasas, piśācas, ajas, cāḍas, and globular spirits—an unending host of supernatural beings. Within the mountain caves that floated in the sky, darkness gathered like a heavy mass, filling the seats of the clouds. The wind, wild and restless like the play of spirits, shook the very gates of the world as if they were no more than the stalks of trees. Thus did the battlefield become a place haunted by the dreadful wanderings of night-roaming beings, where the howls of vetālas and the cries of owls rose up into the night air. As the armies of sky-gazers departed as they had come, the kings rested in their chariots or wherever they found shelter, each in his own abode, appearing at ease. By the time dawn neared, the battlefield was visible like a vast lake. People stood as if it were day, for the dark ones had withdrawn, and it seemed as though night itself had ceased its course among men. In the house of night, with walls made clear by handfuls of darkness, the host of spirits danced joyfully, their minds swelling with the festival of gain. In the silent, peaceful quarters of the sky, the noble lord of play appeared somewhat weary, as if on the verge of sleep. With the coming of early morning, ministers skilled in counsel swiftly deliberated the affairs of state, while the lord reclined on a bed cool as moonlight, long and curved like the crescent moon. He entered a chamber that resembled the rising moon, a cool and sheltered retreat, and there he slept for a short while, his lotus-like eyes gently closed. Then, O lovely one, leaving that house behind, they entered the sky, just as a breeze slips through the openings of a lotus bud. At this, a question arises: O foremost of the learned, how can this gross body, which is only so much, pass through an opening as slender as a thread? O Lord, one whose mind is deluded into thinking, “This is a physical body,” cannot pass through such a tiny opening. But for one whose understanding is not confined by thoughts such as, “I am obstructed by this,” or “I am not here,” experience itself becomes the experiencer. Whoever perceives the first half of experience, saying, “I will go,” that very one performs the act—so how does consciousness turn toward proceeding to the latter half? Just as water does not rise upward, nor does fire descend, but each proceeds according to its own nature, so too does consciousness remain as it is set in motion. How could one seated in the shade experience heat? The experience of one is not felt by another in any way. Whatever way the mind has proceeded, in that very way it remains; only by supreme effort can it be brought again to another state. The notion of a snake in a rope, arising from false perception, is dispelled by force; otherwise, it remains as it is. As is awareness, so is the mind; as is the mind, so is action. This is evident even to a child—who does not experience this? But that which is merely the form of a person in dream, imagination, or image—having only the shape of space—how, and by whom, could it be restrained? Indeed, for everyone, everywhere, the body is only mind; it is experienced as sensation, but sometimes it seems to arise from the heart. For such a one, sunrise and sunset occur just as he conceives them; at the beginning of creation, they arise from nature, and later from the contemplation of duality and unity. Know that the space of the mind, the space of consciousness, and the third—physical space—are truly one, for their existence is inseparable. This mind-body is all-pervading in its arising, coming forth with the desire for experience, and arising with experience itself. It dwells within a speck of dust, is carried into the hollow of the sky, merges into the seed-casings, and becomes the sap in the sprout. It shines as the wave upon water, dances within the heart of a stone, pours down as a raincloud, and, becoming stone, remains firm. It moves as it wishes in the sky and even in the bellies of mountains; it assumes the form of infinite space, and then that of a minute atom. It becomes the support of great mountains, the fixed seat with the sky as its head, bearing both the interior and exterior of the body, and the sprouts of countless forms. It becomes space itself, holding millions of lotus-born abodes, unique as the ocean of its own self, like the formation of countless whirlpools. This mind-body, whose awareness has not yet arisen, is at the beginning of creation vast as space; becoming great, it knows, and having attained its own nature, it abides. Its watery nature is indeed unreal, yet it appears to arise through understanding, just as a man in a dream imagines himself to be the son of a barren woman. Thus, the mystery of mind and body, experience and world, is revealed in the dance of creation and perception.