Jñapti, radiant and graceful, greeted her companion with affection: “I am your daughter, friend Jñapti; welcome, beautiful one. Awaiting only you, I have lingered here upon the path of the sky.” With gentle eyes like shimmering water, she beseeched, “O goddess, lead me to my husband, for the sight of the great is never fruitless.” Moved by her words, the maiden—intent on showing the way—stood before her in the sky, saying, “Let us go there.” Guided by this celestial companion, she followed along, soon reaching a hollow in the atmosphere, clear and shining, flawless as a polished hand or a line drawn with perfect skill. Together, they crossed the path of clouds, rising through the rushing winds, surpassing even the sun’s course and entering the luminous realm of the stars. Swiftly, they traversed the domains of wind, Indra, the gods, and the siddhas, journeying all the way to the outer shell of the universe, the realm presided over by Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva. Just as the chill inside a pot may be felt beyond its walls, so, by the power of her resolve, she emerged outside the universes themselves. Yet, within, she experienced a bewilderment—arising only from the bodies created by her own mind and the radiance of her intention. Undaunted, she crossed the nine cosmic coverings—water and the rest—beyond the universe, reaching the vast expanse of the great consciousness-sky. With incredible speed, she moved through this limitless realm, swifter than Garuda in all directions, her journey stretching beyond even hundreds of millions of aeons. There, she saw countless millions of cosmic eggs, each invisible to the others, scattered like fruits in a boundless forest. Entering one such egg, she found herself in a city surrounded by immense boundaries, piercing through as a worm enters the inside of a fruit. Further she went, surpassing the radiant realms of Brahma, Indra, Vishnu, and others, until she reached the splendid earth-circle lying below the starry path. Arriving there, she entered the city and its pavilion, and stood near the lifeless body of Pushpagupta. Yet, the maiden who had guided her was nowhere to be seen; the beautiful-faced girl, known as Maya, had vanished. Gazing upon her husband’s face, now still in death, she understood with deep certainty the truth of what had transpired: “This is my husband, slain in battle by Sindhu. Having attained these heroic worlds, he now rests for a moment in comfort. By the grace of the goddess, I have reached him here in this form. Blessed am I, for there is no one else like me.” With these thoughts, she gently took a beautiful fan in her hand and began to fan him, just as the sky cools the moon with its circle of clouds. Meanwhile, the servants, the maidens, and the awakened king would soon ask, “Who are you? By what means have you come, and with what intention?” Yet, by the unity of consciousness-space and the power belonging to both herself and her guide, the king, she, and the servants would come to know each other. Great manifestations of consciousness, by the firm resolve of supreme order, would thus mutually recognize one another, reflected as if in a mirror. “This is my natural wife, my natural companion, my natural queen, and this servant is naturally mine,” each would realize. But only she, her guide, and the maiden would know the full truth of what had happened, uninterrupted and as it truly was. This great wonder would be understood by them alone, and by no one else. A question arose: “Why did she not come to her husband with this very body, even after the wedding was arranged, O Līlā, you who speak gracefully?” The answer was clear: those whose minds are not awakened, though they reach the worlds of the siddhas by the force of merit, cannot arrive there with their own bodies—just as a shadow cannot reach sunlight. In the beginning of creation, destiny is established by the awakened; truth can never merge with falsehood. As long as a child clings to the fantasy of a goblin, no real experience can arise for one free from such thoughts. While the fever of indiscrimination persists, the coolness of discernment’s moon cannot arise. One who is convinced, “I am this body of earth and elements; I have no higher movement in space,” cannot hold any other conviction. Therefore, through knowledge, discernment, virtue, or even a boon, one does not reach the supreme world merely by having a virtuous body. Just as a dry leaf instantly burns when it falls onto a coal, so too this body, though divine, perishes as soon as it is obtained. This alone is the extent of expansion gained by good fortune: as one remembers, “I am that consciousness,” so is one’s state. If one mistakes a rope for a snake, how can he act as a snake? In oneself, what does not exist—how can any activity arise from it? What is experienced as “this is dead” is merely false, arising from habitual imagination. In the web of the world perceived by oneself, the delusion of transmigration is easy; but in what is imagined by others, such habitual notions of creation do not occur. The cycles of transmigration experienced within are far removed from the external web of beings, unseen and unknown, like the moon’s disk to those who do not perceive it. Therefore, only those who know the knowable, or who have taken refuge in the supreme dharma, attain the ātivāhika body; others do not. The state of the elemental body is false, its nature woven of delusion—how can others reach stability, just as shadows cannot stand in sunlight? Thus, Līlā, who knows the knowable but has not taken refuge in the supreme dharma, has merely reached the city imagined by her husband.