Dearest Raghava, listen as the tapestry of consciousness is gently unfurled. All that exists is the one truth—utterly devoid of emptiness, yet abiding as if nothing at all. Within this boundless space, perceptions arise and shine forth as the radiances of one’s own awareness. Just as a person afflicted with eye disease sees visions—strands, specks, or balls that are not truly there—so too do all creations appear within this expanse of consciousness. As one knows oneself, so does one experience reality in an instant; thus, in the space of consciousness, even the unreal seems real, shaped by the force of perception. Here, nothing is truly real nor wholly unreal; whatever form consciousness perceives, that alone arises, beyond all doubt. Just as ropes and similar things may appear—whether true or false—it matters not, for all these are but concepts within the mind. In this infinite sky of consciousness, all-pervading and without form, consciousness itself arises and moves as it wills, shining perfectly in its own radiance. Wherever awareness manifests in the form of ropes or other objects, there it is fully present, experienced exactly as that form. The world itself is but the appearance of one’s own dream; in the sky of consciousness, its form is like the mirage of water seen by a thirsty deer—ever elusive, never truly grasped. Where the sky of consciousness is awakened, there it is called ‘visible’; where it is asleep, that same principle is named ‘liberation.’ Yet, consciousness is never entirely asleep nor fully awake; let it be understood, O dear one, that the sky of consciousness alone is perceived as the world. Liberation and creation are but two expressions of the same glory—there is no difference between them, just as synonyms share meaning. Ultimately, the form called ‘world’ perceives its own nature, much like the diseased eye sees a hair or a speck. Nothing like a ball of hair truly exists; the perception simply remains. There is neither an object seen nor anything at all—thus, the space of consciousness is established. Everywhere, everything exists only as it is experienced; nothing at all is here that is not experienced. This state is peaceful, ever-present, and all-pervading. It remains free from doubt and division—therefore, abide in this. The great consciousness is dense like a mountain cave, tranquil, and clear as the open sky. In perception, there is neither existence nor non-existence anywhere; whatever exists, that alone shines forth as good. Now hear the story, O descendant of Raghu, as Yama spoke for the sake of the rope, the snake, and the pot, prompted by his attendants. When these beings undergo separation and hear the account of their own story, then the ropes and others will certainly be released—without doubt. Where, when, and how will they hear this narrative from you, O Lord? Who will listen to the sequence of their story as it is told? On the marshy banks of the great lotus lake in Kashmir, after repeatedly experiencing births as fish, restless with unfulfilled desires, they will in time reach dissolution. There, in the lotus lake, they will become swans. Amid garlands of water-lilies, clusters of lotuses, and the winding creepers of śevāla grass, where waves curl and wind about, these beings will dwell. On swinging beds of white water-lilies, among vines of blue lotuses, beneath clouds formed by masses of dewdrops, and in the cool swirling eddies, they will enjoy the delights of those lakes and waters, sporting for a long time until they attain purity. Having attained union, they will become separated for the sake of liberation, just as the qualities of rajas, sattva, and tamas become distinct by chance. Within Kashmir, there will be a splendid city adorned with mountains, known as Adhiṣṭhāna. In its midst will rise a peak called Pradyumnaśikhara, a luminous summit like the wheel at the center of a lotus. On the summit of that mountain, a king will build his palace—a great mansion, cloud-capped and towering, a peak upon a peak. In the northeastern corner of the house, at the base of the mountain wall, in a hollow where the wind stirs the marked blades of grass, the demon Vyāla will become a sparrow, uttering meaningless cries like a student with little learning. At that very time and place, there will be a king named Śrī Yaśaskaradeva, shining like another Indra in heaven. The demon Dāma will become a mosquito in his house, making a soft sound in the crevice of a large pillar. In that formidable city of Adhiṣṭhāna, there will also be a monastery named Ratnāvalīvihāra. There, the king’s minister, Narasiṃha, will have the vision of bondage and liberation as clear as an amalaki fruit resting on the palm. In his house, there will be a bird named Kaṭa—a magical demon—kept in a cage made of tamarind twigs as a plaything. This minister Narasiṃha will narrate the story, composed in verses, about Dāma, Vyāla, Kaṭa, and others. Hearing the story, Kaṭa the bird, recalling his own nature, will attain supreme liberation within, his false sense of self pacified. The kalaviṅka bird, dwelling near the summit of Mount Pradyumna, will likewise, upon hearing its own story, attain supreme liberation. Even the mosquito, living in a wound within the firewood of the royal palace, will, by chance, hear this story and reach peace. Thus, O Raghava, the sparrow from Pradyumna’s peak, the mosquito from the palace, and the cricket from the garden will all attain liberation. This entire sequence of the rope, serpent, and stick has now been explained to you. Know that this world is but illusion—utterly void, yet exceedingly radiant.