Listen, O noble one, as the sage unfolds the subtle truths of mind, offering, and reality with gentle clarity. He begins: When an offering is made for the mother, if someone thinks, “This is for me,” and holds that thought firmly in the heart, then that person partakes of the fruit of the offering, shaped by the strength of their intention. Indeed, whatever the mind is absorbed in, the living being becomes that—this is the universal experience, whether one has a body or not; it is never otherwise. By the awareness “I am related,” even one who is not related shares in the offering; by the awareness “I am not related,” even a true relation does not partake. The reality of things is as one conceives them, and conception itself arises from objects and their causes. Consider: By one’s disposition, even poison may become nectar for a being; so too, by conception alone, that which is unreal can appear real. Without a cause, no effect ever arises for anyone, at any time; be convinced, then, that no effect exists without a cause. Never, up to the great dissolution, has an effect been seen or heard of without a cause—nothing arises by itself, except in one’s imagination. Indeed, it is only impression—deep-seated samskāra—that assumes the form of reality, like an object seen in a dream; it becomes cause and effect, yet remains, in truth, simply itself. Suppose a departed soul, shaped by its tendencies, thinks, “No merit belongs to me,” and a friend, full of virtue, dedicates merit to that soul—then what happens? Does the merit vanish, or does it persist as an impression? And, between true meaning and what is not, does the force of impression hold greater sway? Impressions arise from place, time, action, and available means; wherever these factors are equally present, the stronger one prevails. If the tendency of the one offering merit is powerful, then in a moment the mind of the departed is filled with it; if not, the departed’s own impression quickly prevails. Thus, in this contest, the stronger power wins; therefore, one should diligently cultivate good habits through virtuous effort. But, O Brahman, if the impression arises only when place and time are superior, then at the dawn of a great cosmic cycle, whence do place and time themselves arise? These emerge only due to causes and their cooperating factors; when such causes are absent, from where could any impression arise? Thus it is: in the true Self, at the time of great dissolution or creation, there is nothing like place, time, or anything else. When cooperating causes are absent, perception itself does not exist, nor does anything 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. Hear me further, for I will explain this with many arguments; for this purpose, I make this effort—listen now to the story before you. As you arrived, you saw a palace with a beautiful interior, adorned with fresh flowers and offerings, cool and refreshing as spring. It stood in the capital city, resplendent with morning rituals, garlanded with clusters of mandara and kunda blossoms, draped in fine cloth, shining with beauty. At the head of the funeral couch stood a full water pot, auspicious and undisturbed, while the doors, windows, and sturdy bolts remained in place. The palace walls were dark and spotless, dimly lit by dying lamps. In one part of the house, the gentle sighs of those asleep could be heard. Its splendor, surpassing even Indra’s palace, was beautified by the radiance of the full moon shining through the windows, and its silent, pure, moonlit charm rivaled the loveliness within the lotus buds of Brahma. There, on one side of the funeral bed, before King Viduratha, lay Lila—she who had died and arrived there first. She was just as she had been before: with her former habits, her previous body, her earlier inclinations, and all her features and limbs as beautiful as ever. She appeared as she had remembered herself, her limbs unmoving, turned away from her former garments and ornaments, simply present. She held a charming fly-whisk, fanning the king; silent, with 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. She shone with the splendor of freshly gathered flowers, her actions guided by the gaze fixed on her husband’s face. Yet her face was somewhat faded, like the moon waning at night; those two saw her, but she did not notice them, for she had not yet arisen in accordance with their true resolve. In that place, that former Lila, having established her body, departed through meditation accompanied by awareness, as has been described. But now, what of Lila—whose body was there—has not been described; tell me, O master, what became of her, where did she go, and what happened? Where is that Lila-body, and whence its reality? That, indeed, was only a delusion, like the notion of water in a mirage. Just as Lila, upon awakening, gradually underwent transformation, so too did that body of hers dissolve away like snow on a mountain. From the subtle body, in time, arose the delusion, “I am the physical body,” just as a rope is mistaken for a snake. Whatever is perceived by the subtle body—such as earth and the rest—receives those very names; that is what is called the physical (gross) body. But in reality, the so-called physical body, with earth and the rest as its nature, does not exist in name or in substance—like the horns of a hare. If, in a dream, a man thinks “I am a deer,” does he seek out the deer when his own deer-identity has ceased? So too, the body and its experiences are but fleeting impressions, dissolving in the light of true understanding.