Alas, my daughter—how I remember her! She wore a simple necklace of gunja berries, her youthful breasts full and rounded, clad only in a garment of leaves. Her skin was blue, shimmering like water stirred by the wind, untouched by the dust that gathers at the cloud’s edge. She was serene, untroubled by the world. And you, prince, radiant as the moon, you turned away from the company of pure and graceful women, seeking instead the love of my daughter. Yet, even with you, she found no lasting happiness. In this river of worldly existence, with its own waves breaking and playful distractions, what trivial thing has not been done by that king who was united with the daughter of a pukkasa? The world, with all its mockery and pretense, swept them along. My daughter, whose eyes resembled those of a startled deer, and her husband, whose strength was like a lion content after the hunt—both of them, in a single step, walked together into destruction, just as hope and wealth vanish in an instant, like gold lost forever. Now, I am left as the wife of a dead man. My children have faded away. I have wandered to a foreign land. I am destitute, born of low lineage, stricken by misfortune, and I alone bear witness to the ruin that has overtaken me. For women who are humiliated by contempt, weakened by hunger, burdened by family, and overwhelmed by unstoppable grief, their own bodies become their only refuge. There is no other support. For one tormented by fate, separated from loved ones, confused and rooted in suffering, life itself becomes no different from death. When misfortune is so great, death seems the highest blessing. For those deprived of kin, living in a foreign land, endless sorrows arise, crowding together like thousands of grass blades and branches on a rain-soaked mountain. After comforting the woman, now aged and surrounded by her family, and with the help of his maidservants, the king gently asked her, “What has happened here? Who are you? Who is your daughter? And who was your husband?” With tears in her eyes, she replied, “This village is called Pukkasa settlement. My husband was a pukkasa, and we had a single daughter, radiant like the full moon. “By the will of fate, she found a husband worthy of her—a king who arrived here by destiny. Like a poor female elephant who finds only a broken honey-jar in the forest, she came to him alone. “She enjoyed happiness with him for a long time, giving birth to a daughter and sons. She grew old in this forest hollow, like a gourd vine sheltered by a tree.” Then, after some time, O lord of people, a terrible drought struck the village, breaking the spirits of its people. Because of this great suffering, all the villagers left, journeying far away, and there they met their end. Now, O lord, we who remain are left to share in this suffering. We are pitiable, we weep, our eyes brimming with tears. Hearing these words from the lips of the women, the king was filled with wonder. He looked at his ministers, his face as if transfixed by a marvelous painting. He reflected again and again on this extraordinary event, questioning the women repeatedly, his astonishment growing with every answer. Moved by compassion, and seeing the world in all its aspects, he relieved their suffering, honoring them and bringing comfort to their minds. After spending a long time there, reflecting on the mysterious workings of destiny, the king returned to his city, greeted with honor by his citizens, and entered his palace. The next morning, in the assembly hall, the king questioned me, his heart still astonished: “O sage, how has this dream appeared as if it were real?” I explained to him, according to the true nature of things and with sound reasoning, and his doubts were dispelled from his heart, like a cloud driven away by the wind. Thus, O Raghava, it is great ignorance that causes such delusion. It swiftly makes the unreal seem real, and the real seem unreal. “How is it, O Brahman,” the king pressed, “that a dream has become reality? This question weighs on my mind, like a heavy burden of confusion.” All of this, O Raghava, truly arises from ignorance—like seeing cloth in a pot, or the confusion of dreams and similar illusions. That which is far appears near, like a mountain reflected in a mirror; what is long seems brief, as a night seems short to a youth in love. The impossible becomes possible in dreams, even one’s own death; and the unreal appears real, like flying in the sky in a dream. What is steady seems to move in delusion, just as the earth appears to turn; the weak seem strong, as when the mind is agitated by intoxication. Whatever the mind, colored by its impressions, intensely imagines, it quickly experiences. Such things are neither truly real nor unreal. When ignorance—rooted in ego and the like—arises, then, in that very moment, the beginningless, endless, and centerless delusion appears to be infinite. By the force of appearance alone, all things are transformed: a moment becomes an aeon, and an aeon a moment. A creature whose mind is inverted may fall into any state; by the power of impressions, even a deer may assume the nature of a lion. Poison, delusion, intoxication, ignorance, confusion, ego, and the rest are all alike—they arise from the distortion of the mind and bring about their own results. Just as in the tale of the crow and the palm fruit, so too, by the force of mental impressions, great undertakings and interactions arise of themselves. Whatever was experienced before, like the salt of a king in a previous birth, that appears to this one, whether good or bad, as conceived in the mind. Just as the mind forgets even great deeds it has performed, so too does it remember actions never done, as though they truly occurred. Thus, one may think, “I have not eaten,” or “I have eaten,” or even experience travel to distant lands in a dream, though it never happened. This interaction with the villages of Vindhya and Pukkasa is of such a kind—arising in appearance for him in a dream, just like stories from the past. Or, the illusion seen in a dream by Lavana has now entered the awareness of Vindhya and Pukkasa. The awareness of Vindhya and Pukkasa has arisen in the mind of the prince, just as the speech and faces of many people may appear the same. In the same way, even a dream has its own time, place, and action; and in the context of such dealings, its existence is apparent through its manifestation.