Dharma, the personification of righteousness, approached the Earth, perceiving her sorrowful state, and gently inquired about the cause of her distress. He asked if she grieved for the women and children left unprotected on earth, suffering at the hands of cruel men, or for the sacred speech of the goddess, now corrupted among the brahmins. Perhaps, he wondered, she mourned the noble families degraded by unrighteous kings, or the kṣatriya clans afflicted by the age of Kali and the ruin of their kingdoms. Was her sorrow for the people who now wandered, deprived of food, drink, shelter, and the means to bathe, their livelihoods thrown into chaos? Dharma further asked if her heart ached from recalling the deeds of Hari, the Supreme Lord, who had incarnated to relieve her heavy burden but had now departed, delaying her deliverance. He implored her to reveal the true root of her suffering—had her good fortune, once worshipped by the gods themselves, been snatched away by mighty Time, the strongest of all forces? The Earth replied with gentle reverence, acknowledging Dharma’s wisdom and his upholding of the four legs—truth, purity, compassion, and forgiveness—that bring happiness to the world. She spoke of the many virtues that resided in him: renunciation, contentment, straightforwardness, tranquility, self-control, austerity, equanimity, forbearance, withdrawal, and learning; knowledge, detachment, lordliness, heroism, brilliance, strength, memory, independence, skill, beauty, courage, and gentleness; boldness, humility, good conduct, endurance, vigor, prosperity, depth, steadiness, faith, fame, honor, and absence of pride. All these qualities, she said, and many more, ever resided in Dharma, and those who desired greatness sought them, for they never diminished in him. Yet now, the Earth confessed, she grieved for the world, bereft of the presence of Śrīnivāsa, the worthy vessel of all virtues, and afflicted by the sinful gaze of Kali. She lamented for herself, for Dharma, the best among rulers, for the gods, ancestors, sages, all the virtuous, and for all social orders and stages of life. Even Brahmā and the other gods, she recalled, had performed severe austerities yearning for a mere sidelong glance from the Lord. Yet that very goddess Śrī, abandoning her own abode in the lotus forest, lovingly worshipped the dust of His feet, adorned with auspicious marks. The Earth mourned that she had once been adorned by the glorious footprints of the Lord—marked with the lotus, thunderbolt, goad, banner, and other symbols. Even after attaining such splendor, she did not find favor with Him; in the end, He cast her aside, and the worlds, too, turned away from her. The Lord, by His own power, had removed her unbearable burden—the hundred armies of demonic kings—and had restored Dharma, even though weakened, to its strength, delighting the Yadu dynasty by bearing their charming forms. Who, she wondered, could endure separation from the Supreme Person, whose loving glances, radiant smiles, and sweet words could steal away the steadfastness even of the honey-bees? The very dust of His feet, marked with auspicious signs, thrilled her being. As Earth and Dharma thus spoke, King Parīkṣit, the royal sage, arrived at the eastern bank of the Sarasvatī river. There, he offered his obeisance to the Supreme Lord, the great soul, the abode of all beings, the source of everything, the transcendent Supreme Self. With devotion, he praised the Lord as the treasure-house of knowledge and wisdom, the Absolute, of infinite power, beyond qualities, unchanging, and not of this world. He offered salutations to Time, the source and witness of all divisions of time, the universe itself, the overseer, creator, and cause of all. He honored the Lord as the Self within elements, senses, breath, mind, intellect, and inner disposition—experienced inwardly, yet concealed by identification with the three qualities. He praised Him as the infinite, the subtle, the immutable, the all-knowing, who accommodates all doctrines and is the power behind both the spoken and unspoken. Parīkṣit saluted the Lord as the root of all valid knowledge, the sage, the source of the scriptures, the path of action and renunciation, the Veda itself—again and again, he offered salutations. He invoked the names of Kṛṣṇa, Rāma, the son of Vasudeva, Pradyumna, Aniruddha, and the Lord of the Sātvatas, offering them all his reverence. He saluted the lamp of qualities, the one who veils Himself with those qualities, who is perceived through their functions, the seer of qualities, and the inner consciousness. He honored Hṛṣīkeśa, who sports in the unmanifest, who perfects all that is manifest, the sage, the silent ascetic. Parīkṣit praised Him who knows the course of the higher and lower, who oversees all, who is both the unmanifest and the manifest, the seer of all and the cause of all. He acknowledged the Lord as unattached to the qualities, yet presiding over the birth, existence, and dissolution of the world, upholding the power of time, awakening various natures in beings, and by His unfailing glance, engaging in wondrous play. The Lord’s many forms in the three worlds—some peaceful, some restless, some born of delusion—were all dear to Him, but the peaceful ones were especially beloved, for it was out of the desire to uphold dharma that Parīkṣit now strove to protect and preserve the virtuous. Parīkṣit was reminded that a single offense by a subject should be endured by the ruler, and that one ought to forgive, with a tranquil mind, those who act in ignorance. The wives of the serpent pleaded for mercy, asking that their husband, the very life of their lives, be restored to them. They offered to obey the Lord’s command, for one who performs His order with faith is freed from all fear. Śuka then narrated that, praised by the serpent’s wives, the Lord released the unconscious serpent, whose head had been crushed. Regaining his senses and breath, Kaliya, weak and distressed, looked upon Hari and, with folded hands, spoke humbly. He confessed that, born wicked and enveloped in darkness and anger, it was difficult to abandon such a nature, for it is the false grasping found among all beings. Kaliya acknowledged that the Lord had fashioned the universe, distributing all qualities, natures, powers, energies, forms, seeds, and inclinations. Among these, he said, serpents are born with fierce anger; how could they abandon the Lord’s māyā, which is so hard to give up, when they themselves were deluded by it? He recognized the Lord as the cause of all, omniscient and sovereign, and surrendered to His will, whether He chose to grant mercy or punishment. Hearing these words, the Lord, acting as a human, instructed Kaliya: he must not remain there, but go at once to the ocean, leaving the river to be enjoyed by cows, men, and his own kin, children, and wives. The Lord further declared that any mortal who remembered this instruction and recited it at both twilights would have nothing to fear from Kaliya. Whoever bathed in that place where the Lord had played, offered water to the gods and others, then fasted and worshipped the Lord, remembering Him, would be freed from all sins.