Impressions, it is said, arise from the convergence of place, time, action, and the possession of suitable means. Whenever these factors are present in equal measure, it is the one with greater strength that prevails. Thus, when two opposing tendencies meet—such as the merit offered by the living and the latent impressions of the departed—it is the stronger that fills the mind. If the merit offered is powerful, in a single moment it pervades the consciousness of the departed; if not, the departed’s own impressions swiftly dominate. In this mutual contest, the superior force always prevails. For this reason, one should earnestly cultivate good habits and engage in virtuous actions, shaping one’s tendencies with care. But, O Brahman, if impressions depend on the superiority of place and time, what then of the very beginning of a great cosmic cycle, when neither place nor time yet exist? At such a moment, how could impressions arise at all? The arising of impressions depends on causes and their cooperating factors. When these causes are absent, impressions cannot arise from anywhere. Thus, noble one, in the true Self—at the time of great dissolution or at creation—there is nothing at all like place, time, or anything else. When the cooperating causes are not present, the perception of the seen does not exist, nor does it arise; nothing at all appears. 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 shall explain this further with many logical arguments; for this purpose, I make this effort—so listen now to the present story. As you arrived, you saw before you a palace with a beautiful interior, decorated with flowers and offerings, cool and refreshing as the spring. It stood within the capital city, radiant with the morning’s ritual purity, adorned with garlands of mandara and kunda flowers, draped in fine cloth, and shining with beauty. At the head of the funeral couch stood an auspicious water pot; the doors, windows, and sturdy bolts remained untouched, not yet removed. The walls, dark and spotless, were dimly lit by the flickering glow of dying lamps. In one part of the house, the gentle sighs of those asleep could be heard. The palace’s splendor surpassed even that of Indra’s own abode, its beauty enhanced by the full moon’s radiance streaming through the windows. Its silent, pure moonlit charm rivaled the loveliness found within the lotus buds of Brahma. There, you saw Lila, lying on one side of the funeral bed before King Viduratha—the very Lila who had died and arrived there first. She appeared just as she had before: with her former habits, her previous body, her earlier inclinations, and all her features and limbs as beautiful as ever. She was as she remembered herself, her limbs unmoving, having turned away from her former garments and ornaments, simply remaining there. Lila held a charming fly-whisk, gently fanning the king. She was silent, her left hand resting, her face lowered like the moon. Decked with ornaments, creepers, and flowers, she shone like a blossoming woodland; her glances 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 herself had come together with Vishnu, the lord of men. She shone with the splendor of a heap 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. Though you both saw her, she did not notice you, for she had not yet arisen in accordance with your 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 told; what became of her, where did she go, and what happened? Where is that Lila-body, and what was 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 melting on a mountain. From the subtle body, in time, arose the delusion, “I am this 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, or 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? Unreal things quickly arise and just as quickly dissolve; delusion occurs for the one who is confused, just as the idea of a snake arises upon a rope. For any mind-born being who is not awakened, this perception arises as a mere imitation, taking on a false form. Everyone, remaining established in their own experience, perceives the so-called creation as a dream, just as one with a recurring body perceives the vibration of the earth’s cycle. When the yogi, moving forward with the worlds before Brahman, proceeds, what is this body of his, seen as a vehicle for transition? The passage from one body to another occurs when the previous body is destroyed; indeed, the transitional body is radiant, as in dreams. Just as a drop of frost vanishes in sunlight, or a white cloud disappears in the autumn sky, so too does the yogi’s body, though seen, become unseen. Sometimes, the yogi’s body is suddenly not perceived at all by the other yogis present, just as a bird swiftly flies up into the sky and is gone. According to their own tendencies, some people at some time see a certain yogi ahead of them and think, “He is dead.” For them, the identification of the body with the self is mere delusion, which subsides through true knowledge, just as the notion of a snake in a rope ceases upon recognizing the rope. What is the body? Whose is existence? Whose is destruction? How and from where? All that was only persistent ignorance, which has now vanished.