Passing beyond the boundaries of countless worlds, leaving behind the familiar house of the universe, the travelers journeyed onward. They reached a second realm and entered the circle of the earth, stepping into a new sphere of existence. There, united with the beloved who was formed by their own wishes and bound by the thread of life, they arrived at Padmaraja’s city and entered the inner pavilion belonging to Lila. Their entry was effortless and instantaneous—just as wind moves freely through the sky, as sunlight slips into the heart of a lotus, and as fragrance mingles invisibly with the air. O Brahman, the question arises: how did he come to the house near the corpse? How did he discern the path of one whose body had died? Raghava, whatever is rooted in a person’s own tendencies must surely manifest; all that resides in the heart—how did he attain it within a month? This vast confusion dwells within the subtle atom of life in the world, much like a mighty banyan tree hidden within its tiny seed—who does not see this mystery? The atomic consciousness, its own nature, encompasses the three worlds; just as a person situated in one place can perceive something far away. He continually perceives his own treasure through the mind, ceaselessly, just as a living body perceives the soul in the heart as its own reflection. In the same way, the soul perceives its desired object established within its own tendencies, whether it is endowed with hundreds of births or caught in delusion. O Lord, what form does the body take when it lacks the tendency for offerings such as piṇḍa? For whom is the piṇḍa not given? If an offering is given to the mother, and one thinks, “This offering is for me,” then, with that impression rooted in the heart, the person partakes of the result. Whatever the mind is absorbed in, the living being becomes that—this is the experience. It is true for those with bodies and those without, and never otherwise anywhere. By the awareness “I am related,” even one who is not related partakes of the offering; by the awareness “I am not related,” even one who is related does not partake. The reality of these objects depends on one’s conception of them, and conception arises from the objects and their causes. Just as, by disposition, even poison may become nectar for a being, so too, by conception, an unreal object attains reality. Without a cause, no effect ever arises for anyone at any time; thus, be firmly convinced that no effect exists without a cause. Without a cause, no effect has ever been seen or heard of, even up to the great dissolution—nothing arises by itself, except in one’s own imagination. Indeed, it is only impression that assumes the form of reality, like an object in a dream; it becomes cause and effect, yet in truth, it remains just itself. If a departed one, filled with tendencies, thinks, “There is no merit that belongs to me,” and a friend, endowed with abundant virtue, dedicates merit to him—does the merit become lost, or does it persist as an impression? And between what is truly meaningful and what is not, does the force of impression have greater power? Impression arises from place, time, action, and possession of means; wherever these are equally present, the one with greater strength prevails between the two. If the tendency of the one who offers merit is strong, then in a moment the mind of the departed is filled by it; if not, then the impression of the departed quickly prevails. Thus, in this mutual contest, the one with superior power prevails; therefore, one should diligently cultivate good habits through virtuous effort. O Brahman, if the impression arises with superiority of place and time, then at the beginning of a great cosmic cycle, how could place and time themselves arise? This arises due to causes and their cooperating factors; but when these cooperating causes are absent, from where could impression arise? So it is, O noble one: in the true Self, at the time of great dissolution or creation, there is nothing like place, time, or anything else. When the cooperating causes are absent, the perception of the seen does not exist, nor does it arise, nor does anything at all appear. Because the seen cannot arise without a cause, whatever is perceived here is in truth only Brahman, abiding in this form, free from affliction. I will explain this to you further with hundreds of logical arguments; for this purpose, I am making this effort—listen now to the present story. As you arrived, you beheld a palace with a beautiful interior, adorned with flowers and offerings, cool as the gentle spring. It stood in the capital city, resplendent with the morning’s rituals, garlanded with clusters of mandara and kunda flowers, draped in fine cloth, shining with beauty. The palace was auspicious, with a full water pot placed at the head of the funeral couch; its doors, windows, and sturdy bolts were not yet removed. Its walls, dark and spotless, were dimly lit by dying lamps; in one part of the house, the gentle sighs of those asleep could be heard. Its splendor surpassed even Indra’s palace, beautified by the radiance of the full moon shining through its windows, and its silent, pure, moonlit charm rivaled the loveliness within the lotus buds of Brahma. There, upon the funeral bed, they saw Lila, lying on one side before Viduratha—she who had died and arrived there first. She was as she had been before: with her former habits, her previous body, her earlier inclinations, and all her features and limbs beautiful as they were previously. She remained as she remembered herself, her limbs unmoving, turned away from her former garments and ornaments, simply resting there. She held a charming fly-whisk, fanning the king; silent, her left hand resting, her face lowered like the moon. Adorned with ornaments, creepers, and flowers, she shone like a blossoming woodland; with her glances she seemed to shower jasmine and lotus petals in all directions. From her own beauty she seemed to emit drops like rising moons; she appeared as if the goddess Lakshmi had come together with Vishnu, the lord of men.