When Viduratha’s wife, overwhelmed by terror for her husband’s fate, heard the grim words spoken, she collapsed to the ground in a faint, as if a delicate vine had been severed by an axe. Meanwhile, Viduratha himself, though his knees had been cut, continued to strike desperately at his enemy. Yet, his strength failed, and he fell upon his chariot like a great tree uprooted. As he tumbled, his charioteer hurriedly drove him away in the chariot, but in the chaos, an agitated horse struck Viduratha’s neck. With his neck half-severed, Viduratha was chased by the horse and entered the palace in his chariot, in a manner reminiscent of Lakshmi entering a lotus. But though the house was radiant with the power of Sarasvati, Viduratha, now delirious and wounded, could not truly enter, just as a drunken fly cannot pass through a blaze of fire. His body, now thin and stained with blood from his sword-cut neck, his clothing smeared in red, was left by the charioteer near the goddess; the charioteer himself entered the house and, having escaped his enemy, lay down upon the bed of death. A cry then arose throughout the land: “The king is slain! The king is slain by the rival king in battle!” At this, the whole kingdom was seized with fear. The people, burdened with their possessions and household goods, fled in panic. The city, filled with the wailing of wives, became a fortress of flight. As the people escaped, the streets echoed with cries; wives were torn away, and the great conflict was marked by desperate looting and chaos. Foreign soldiers, drunk with triumph, danced through the city, which was now bereft of rulers, elephants, horses, spies, or messengers. Doors rattled as they were flung open, treasure chests were broken into, and enemy soldiers wrapped themselves in countless silken garments they had plundered. The palace courtyard was stained with the intestines of the slain, torn out by daggers, and the royal inner chambers were heaped with the corpses of outcastes and dog-eaters. Commoners, desperate for food, had their meals stolen from their homes, and children lay on the ground, their limbs crushed beneath the feet of gold-laden thieves. Young women of the inner apartments, their hair disheveled by the assaults of strangers, wandered helplessly, while the streets were littered with priceless jewels dropped by fleeing thieves. The vassal lords were in disarray, their horses and chariots colliding, while the chief ministers rushed to prepare for a new royal consecration. Master architects stood on the city’s slopes, building anew, as the king’s favorites fell from wells, windows, and balconies in the chaos. The city resounded with hundreds of victory cries and was filled with multitudes of warriors, surrounded by countless hosts of local kings, standing firm like an ocean. Yet even the king’s favorites were forced to flee as villages were overrun and neighboring territories were plundered. The roads became impassable, blocked by endless thievery and harsh words, while the oppressive heat of day was made more intense by the dazzling presence of powerful men, glittering like jewels. The cries of those mourning their dead mingled with the sounds of musical instruments and the heavy, indistinct noise of horses and elephants. Then, in every city, drums were sounded, and the proclamation rang out: “Victory to King Sindhudeva, sovereign of the single-umbrella realm!” Sindhu himself, his neck held high, entered the capital city as if he were another Manu at the end of an age, ready to create a new world of subjects. People from all ten directions poured into Sindhu’s city, like treasures rushing into the ocean from the stables of elephants and horses. For a brief moment, the ministers established new regulations, marks, and decrees for each region and the entire realm. Soon, order arose everywhere—in life and death, in honor and dishonor—just as discipline is brought by Yama. In an instant, the disturbances and confusion of the land subsided; the winds of calamity were calmed, and all things returned to their proper course. The region, adorned in all directions, swiftly became gentle, like the ocean of milk calmed after the Mandara mountain was lifted. Winds blew, tossing the hair and stirring the lotus-like faces of the women of Sindhu; everywhere, restless gusts filled the air, as if bearing inauspicious omens. At that moment, Lila turned to Sarasvati, after gazing upon her husband, who now clung to life by the barest thread. “O Ambika,” she said, “my husband is about to abandon his body, and I, too, stand here as if lifeless, my limbs unmoving. With this body, this wife must go with her hero—tell me, O Ambika, how shall we reach that place where both of us must go?” She continued, “Even when such a great undertaking is set in motion—a battle, a nation’s turmoil—though it seems to be happening, or is underway, or is loudly proclaimed, its marvelous beginnings are slow to manifest. Nothing is truly accomplished; neither the kingdom nor the earth remains as it is, for all this is of the nature of a dream.” “O sinless one, within this pavilion, near the corpse, in the space beside it, the kingdom of the earth appears thus—as the domain of your husband’s life. That inner chamber of yours is this house, whose belly is joined to the kingdom; within the house of sage Vasiṣṭha, within the house of corpses, the world abides. Thus, this vast undertaking is a delusion composed of the three worlds; you, I, and this chariot are united with the oceanic earth.” “Within the mountain village house, in the midst of the sky-vessel, the self of space moves about manifestly, or does not move at all. In this way, even in the dense halls of these two pavilions, within their belly, only empty space exists; there is no delusion of the world. For, in the absence of one who perceives wandering, what wandering can there be? There is truly no existence of delusion; what exists is the unborn state. In delusion, the visible is unreal; for that, how can there be a state of the seer? Because, when there is no sequence of seer and seen, what remains is simply that which is innate.” Thus, Sarasvati revealed to Lila the deeper nature of reality—how all that seemed so real was but a dream, and the world itself, with all its turmoil and triumphs, was but a passing vision in the vastness of the unborn.