In the heart of the capital city stood a resplendent mansion, radiant from the morning’s rituals. Its halls were adorned with garlands of mandara and kunda flowers, draped in fine cloth, shimmering with beauty. At the head of the funeral couch, an auspicious full water pot was placed, and the doors, windows, and sturdy bolts remained intact, undisturbed. The walls, dark yet spotless, were faintly illuminated by lamps whose flames were dying away. In a quiet corner, the gentle sighs of those asleep could be heard, adding to the tranquil atmosphere. The grandeur of this house surpassed even the palace of Indra himself. The full moon’s radiance streamed through its windows, bathing the rooms in silent, pure light. Its moonlit charm rivaled the loveliness found within Brahma’s lotus buds. Within this serene abode, Lila was seen lying on one side of the funeral bed, before Viduratha—the one who had died and arrived there first. She appeared just as she had been before: her habits, body, inclinations, and features were unchanged, as beautiful as ever. She lay unmoving, turned away from her former garments and ornaments, simply resting there as she remembered herself. In her hand, Lila held a charming fly-whisk, gently fanning the king, her left hand resting in silence, her face lowered like the moon. Adorned with ornaments, creepers, and flowers, she shone like a blossoming woodland, and her glances seemed to shower jasmine and lotus petals in all directions. Her own beauty seemed to emit drops like rising moons; she appeared as if goddess Lakshmi herself had joined with Vishnu, the lord of men. Lila sparkled with the freshness of newly gathered flowers, and her actions seemed guided by her gaze fixed upon her husband’s face. Yet her face was somewhat faded, like the waning moon at night. Though those two saw her, she did not notice them, for she had not yet arisen in accordance with their true resolve. In that place, the former Lila, having established her body, departed through meditation accompanied by awareness, as had been described. But now, the fate of Lila—whose body was there—remained unexplained. The question arose: what became of her, where did she go, and what happened? Where was that Lila-body, and what was its reality? It was only a delusion, much like the illusion of water in a mirage. Just as Lila, upon awakening, gradually underwent transformation, so too did her body dissolve away like snow melting on a mountain. From the subtle body, in time, arose the mistaken belief: “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; this is what is called the physical, or gross, body. Yet in truth, the so-called physical body, with earth and the rest as its nature, does not exist, neither in name nor 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 seeing a rope. For any mind-born being who is not awakened, this perception arises as 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 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. Does the elemental body attain the state of the subtle body, or is it something else? The question is asked, as if in confusion. Though the answer has been given many times, it is not accepted: only the subtle body exists; here, the elemental body does not exist at all. Through repeated practice, the notion of the elemental body arises; when that subsides, the former state prevails again. Then, heaviness, hardness, solidity, and mistaken grasping would cease, just as in a dream these qualities vanish for a person due to the pure awareness of the knower. Then arises the experience of lightness, like cotton, just as in a dream the body becomes light through the recognition that it is a dream. Likewise, through awakening, this body, though gross, becomes capable of leaping, as happens for those whose minds have matured through many days of sustained intention. When this body, now a corpse, is burned, those who remain there will inevitably experience a subtle embodiment. Through the intensity of awakening, even while living, yogis attain this; when memory arises there, the notion “I am this” is formed by mere thought. Whatever form that body may have, such is the body of the awakened one; this illusion appears just like the appearance of a snake in a rope. When it is gone, what is lost? When it arises, what is gained? If, immediately after, they see their familiar surroundings as before, and if, by the power of true resolve, they become aware—what of it, O Lord?