As the moment of passing approached, there was a hush. “She has departed, O Ambika,” someone whispered, “and see—her husband, too, begins to abandon his life-force. What now remains for us to do?” In that solemn hour, questions welled up, profound and searching: How does destiny weave itself among the living and the non-living? And yet, how is it that people speak of things happening outside destiny, especially in matters of birth and death? What gives rise to the natural tendencies within each being? How does existence settle into objects—how does heat dwell in fire, and stability in the earth? We wonder, too, how coldness comes to reside in snow, what it means for something to exist within time and space, and how the arising and ceasing of being and non-being, as well as the perception of the gross and subtle, come to pass. Why is it that, even when the cause for greatness or height remains—like in grass, bushes, and sprouts—a particular thing may not attain that height, though it is not destroyed? When the time of the great dissolution arrives, and all creation and its foundation have subsided, nothing remains but the infinite, peaceful, space-like existence—the true Brahman. In that stillness, Brahman, in the form of consciousness, imagines itself as a tiny spark of light, thinking, “I am this”—just as, in a dream, one may feel awareness or the sensation of flying in the sky. This spark of light perceives within itself the sense of grossness, and so the universe, though ultimately unreal, appears as real. Within that, Brahman recognizes itself, declaring, “I am this,” and thereby creates a kingdom of thought; this world is truly nothing but its own sky-like self. In that first creation, whatever forms of awareness were described as existing—wherever and however they were—they remain there even now, unmoving. However consciousness appears, it takes that very form as another self; being unrestrained, nothing here is fixed or permanent. The idea of “nothing at all” does not apply to the very nature of consciousness, for if consciousness were to abandon all forms, how could it possibly remain? At the beginning of creation, consciousness itself, within, takes on various forms in itself; even now, it abides as cold, fire, and so on, by its own nature. Therefore, for one who exists, it is not possible to abandon one’s own being. As long as there is consciousness and its expressions, this order does not perish. Whatever is formed, wherever it may be—whether space-like or earth-like—from the beginning of creation until now, it cannot depart from its own state. Whatever consciousness manifests as, in whatever way, it remains so unless acted upon by an opposing force; by the habit of experience, it stays as it is. At the world’s beginning, what is not produced yet is experienced as this—this is the formation of consciousness-space, like a woman’s pleasure in a dream. It is established that the appearance is unreal, though it seems real; such is the awareness of its own nature, and so are the experiences of beings. The stream of consciousness established at the beginning of creation is still observed to remain, even when stirred by another influence. The awareness that assumes the nature of space becomes the consciousness of sky; the awareness that takes on the form of time becomes the consciousness of time’s ether. The awareness that takes on the nature of water becomes the consciousness of water, established in the ether; just as in dreams, a person perceives water within himself. It shines forth with its own awareness of wind, remaining as it is; this cleverness of consciousness imagines what is unreal. The states of being space, wind, earth, water, and fire are all ultimately unreal; consciousness itself knows this inwardly, as in dreams, imaginations, and meditations. Now, listen to what is taught for the cessation of all actions, concerning the sequence of experiencing the results of karma after death, which is truly beneficial. The fixed order at the beginning of creation may be onefold, twofold, threefold, or fourfold; now hear of the order regarding the vitality of beings, nourishment, and so forth. The cause of the increase or decrease of human lifespan is the purity or impurity of place, time, action, substance, and one’s own deeds. When the performance of one’s prescribed duty declines, the lifespan of people also diminishes; when it increases, so does lifespan; and when it remains steady, so too does lifespan. A child meets death through actions that cause childhood death, a youth by actions leading to death in youth, and an elder through actions bringing death in old age. Whoever performs their own duty as prescribed by scripture becomes a recipient of prosperity and lifespan according to that scripture. Thus, according to one’s actions, a living being reaches the final state—becoming speechless, with vision fading, and experiencing pain at the vital points. O moon-faced one, briefly tell me about death: what makes death pleasant, what makes it painful, and what happens after dying? There are three types of people at the end of the body who wish to die: the ignorant, the practitioner of concentration, and the person endowed with discernment. The practitioner of concentration and the one possessing discernment, having practiced, depart happily, leaving the body behind. But one who has not attained the practice of concentration does not gain liberation; the ignorant, at the time of death, experiences suffering, helpless and without hope. When one cultivates attachment to sense objects and is overwhelmed by the force of latent impressions, he falls into deep dejection, like a lotus withering away. A mind unrefined by scripture and devoted to the company of the wicked experiences inner burning at death, as if cast into fire. As the body fails—when hoarseness of voice and distortion of vision arise—this destructive condition brings about a depressed mind. His appearance becomes utterly dark, as if day has turned into night; his form wanders aimlessly, surrounded by dense, cloud-like gloom. Afflicted by pain at his vital points, his vision reels among trees; earth seems to become sky, and sky appears as earth. He spins like the turning wheel of a well, tossed as if in the ocean, drawn as if into the sky, his mind inclining toward the sleep of dense clouds.