In the boundless expanse of existence, countless millions of cosmic eggs are scattered like fruits in a vast forest, each hidden from the others, unseen and untouched. Within one such cosmic egg, nestled in a city surrounded by immense boundaries, she—Līlā—pierced through its shell and entered, just as a worm burrows into the heart of a fruit. Journeying further, she transcended the radiant realms of Brahma, Indra, Vishnu, and other divine beings. She passed beyond their luminous spheres and reached the splendid circle of the earth, situated below the path of the stars. Upon arriving at this earth-circle, she entered its city and pavilion, where she found herself standing beside the lifeless body of Pushpagupta. Yet, she did not find the maiden there; the beautiful-faced girl, known as Māyā, had vanished, gone somewhere unknown. Looking upon the face of her husband, Pushpagupta, now lying as a corpse, Līlā discerned with clarity, through her own insight, the truth of the situation: “This is my husband, slain in battle by Sindhu. Having attained these worlds of heroes, he now rests for a moment in comfort.” Moved by the grace of the goddess, Līlā realized she had reached him in this form. She felt blessed, recognizing that no one else could claim such fortune. With this understanding, she took a beautiful fan in her hand and gently began to fan him, much like the sky cools the moon with its ring of clouds. Soon, the servants, maidens, and the awakened king would approach and inquire, “Who are you? By what means and with what intention have you come here?” Yet, through the unity of consciousness-space and the power shared between Līlā and her husband, all of them—the king, Līlā, and the servants—would come to know each other. Great manifestations of consciousness, guided by the firm resolve of supreme order, would recognize one another, reflected mutually as if in a mirror. Each would acknowledge their natural relationships: “This is my natural wife, my companion, my queen, and this servant is naturally mine.” Only Līlā, her husband, and Māyā would truly know the uninterrupted unfolding of these events; they alone would understand this great wonder, while no one else would perceive it. A question arises: Why did Māyā not come to her husband with this very body, even when the wedding was arranged? Līlā, who speaks gracefully, pondered this. Those whose minds are not awakened, even if they reach the worlds of the siddhas through merit, cannot arrive there with their own bodies—just as a shadow cannot reach sunlight. In primal creation, destiny is established by the awakened ones, just as truth can never merge with falsehood. As long as a child holds the fantasy of a goblin, real experience cannot arise for one who is free from such thoughts. Similarly, as long as the fever of indiscrimination persists, the coolness of discernment cannot emerge. One who is firmly convinced, “I am this body made of earth and elements, I have no higher movement in space,” cannot hold any other conviction. Thus, knowledge and discernment, virtue, or even a boon do not grant access to the supreme world merely through a virtuous body. Just as a dry leaf instantly burns when it falls on a coal, so too this body, though divine, perishes as soon as it is obtained. The true extent of expansion gained by good fortune is this: as one remembers, “I am that consciousness,” so is one’s state. If someone mistakes a rope for a snake, how can he perform the actions of a snake? What does not exist within oneself cannot produce any activity. That which is experienced as “this is dead” is merely false, arising from habitual cultivation. In the web of the world perceived by oneself, the delusion of transmigration is easy; but in what is imagined by others, habitual notions of creation and so forth 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 from delusion; others cannot reach stability, just as shadows cannot stand in sunlight. Līlā, though she knows the knowable, has not taken refuge in the supreme dharma; thus, she has merely reached the city imagined by her husband. Now, she has departed, O Ambikā. Her husband has begun to abandon his life-force—what remains to be done here? How does destiny weave itself among the existences and non-existences of beings? Why is non-destiny spoken of in matters like death and birth? How does natural disposition arise? How does existence enter into objects? How does heat reside in fire and the like, and how does stability abide in earth and such? How does coldness exist in things like snow? What is existence in time, space, and so forth? How do the arising and ceasing of being and non-being, and the perception of gross and subtle, occur? How does the great height seen in grass, bushes, sprouts, and the like not come to a thing, even when the cause for its height remains and the object itself is not destroyed? At the time of the great dissolution, when creation and its foundation have ceased, only the infinite, peaceful, space-like existence—the true Brahman—remains. This Brahman, in the form of consciousness, imagines itself as a particle of light, thinking, “I am this,” just as in a dream one experiences awareness or flying in the sky. The particle of light perceives grossness within itself. This universe, though unreal, appears as real. Within that, Brahman knows itself as Brahman, declaring, “I am this.” Then, it creates a kingdom of thought; this world is truly only its own sky-like self. In that first creation, whatever forms of awareness were described as existing in whatever way and wherever, those forms remain even now, unmoving.