As King Parīkṣit sat steadfast in his vow of fasting, his body and mind resolute, the hosts of gods in heaven looked down in admiration. With joyous hearts, they showered flowers upon the earth, and the sound of celestial drums echoed repeatedly through the skies, celebrating the king’s noble resolve. Gathered around him were great sages from all directions, and they too praised Parīkṣit, approving his actions. “His conduct,” they declared, “is for the welfare of all people, adorned by the very virtues of the Lord Himself—virtues praised by the highest beings.” They reflected that such renunciation was not surprising among those devoted to Kṛṣṇa. It was not unusual for those who had once sat upon thrones, crowned in glory, to abandon all, seeking only the Lord’s presence. “We shall remain here until he sheds his mortal coil,” the sages decided, “for when this foremost devotee of the Lord departs, he will surely attain the supreme world, free from all passion and sorrow.” Hearing these words, Parīkṣit, accompanied by his teacher and with flawless conduct, humbly greeted the assembled sages. He was eager to listen to the stories of Viṣṇu’s deeds. “You have all gathered here from every direction,” he said, “just as the Vedas pervade the three worlds. Whether here or elsewhere, there is no higher purpose than the supreme welfare and the realization of the true self.” He then addressed the brāhmaṇas: “I place my trust in your guidance. What is the pure duty for one who is about to die? Let those who are wise deliberate upon this.” At that very moment, the venerable son of Vyāsa—Śuka—arrived there by chance. He wandered the earth without expectation, his appearance unassuming and his signs unrecognizable, content in his own fulfillment, surrounded by children, and garbed as a mocker. Though he was in his sixteenth year, Śuka’s limbs were tender and graceful, his eyes large and elongated, his features radiant and well-formed, his neck shaped like a conch. His collarbones were hidden, his chest broad and high, his navel deep and whorled. His belly bore auspicious lines, and though unclothed, his long hair fell over his face and shoulders, his arms extended like those of the gods. His complexion was dark, his youthful beauty ever fresh, and his limbs marked by auspicious signs. His charming smile captivated even the minds of women. Though the sages recognized his true nature, they all rose from their seats to honor him, for his greatness was hidden beneath simplicity. Parīkṣit, called Viṣṇurāta, bowed his head and worshipped this honored guest. As the women and children withdrew, Śuka was seated with great honor upon a distinguished seat. Surrounded by assemblies of Brahmarṣis, Rājarṣis, and Devarṣis, the illustrious sage shone with brilliance, just as the moon shines surrounded by stars and planets. The king, a devoted servant of the Lord, approached Śuka, who sat peacefully, his wisdom undiminished. Parīkṣit bowed with folded hands and, with gentle speech, addressed him: “O brāhmaṇa, today we, mere kṣatriyas, are blessed to serve you, for by your grace, you have come as a guest and sanctified our land. By remembering you, the homes of men are instantly purified—what then can be said of seeing you, touching you, washing your feet, or offering you a seat?” “O great yogi, your presence destroys even the gravest sins, just as Viṣṇu destroys the demons. May the Lord Kṛṣṇa—so dear to the sons of Pāṇḍu—be pleased with me, for He has embraced His relatives out of love for His lineage. Otherwise, how could we mortals, especially those facing death, be graced by your presence, you whose mind is fixed upon the unmanifest, perfected and dwelling in the forest?” He continued, “Therefore, I ask you, supreme teacher of yogis, about the highest perfection: what should a person do in every way when death is near? What should be heard, recited, done, remembered, or worshipped by people? Or, if there is anything else, please tell me.” He added, “Certainly, O brāhmaṇa, the presence of the Lord is not perceived in the homes of householders, not even at the time of milking the cows.” Then Sūta narrated: Thus addressed and questioned by the king with gentle words, the wise and learned son of Bādarāyaṇa—Śuka—replied. He spoke of the qualities of Śrī, such as independence, and explained that happiness is the end of pleasure and pain, while pain arises from the desire for pleasure. The wise understand the difference between bondage and liberation. Fools identify with the body and the senses, but the true path is that of the Veda. Distraction of mind leads one astray, while the rise of sattva-guṇa is like heaven. Hell is found in darkness and pride; friend, teacher, and self are one. The body is the home, and true wealth lies in qualities, not possessions. He who is not content is truly poor, and pitiable is the one who has not mastered his senses. One whose mind is unattached to the qualities is a lord; to be attached is the opposite. “O Uddhava,” Śuka concluded, “all your questions have been answered. Why elaborate further on the characteristics of virtue and fault? To see faults in virtues is itself a fault, but true virtue is that which is free from both.” Śuka continued, recounting the happenings in Vraja: The cowherds told the women about the wondrous deeds of Kṛṣṇa and Rāma—how they had extinguished the terrible forest fire and slain the demon Pralamba. Hearing these marvels, the elder cowherds and the women were astonished. They began to consider Kṛṣṇa and Rāma, who had come to Vraja, as foremost among the gods. Then the rainy season commenced, bringing life to all beings. The horizon glowed, and the sky and earth resounded with the thunder’s roar. The sky, heavy with dark clouds streaked by lightning and roaring with thunder, shone dimly, veiled—just as Brahman is veiled by qualities. When the appointed time arrived, the clouds released the water they had drawn from the earth over eight months. Great clouds, accompanied by lightning and shaken by fierce winds, poured down life-giving rain, like compassion itself. The earth, parched and scorched by the sun, was drenched by this rain, just as a body emaciated by austerity is restored upon attaining its desired fruit. At the beginning of night, only fireflies shone in the darkness, not the planets—just as, in the Kali age, the Vedas do not shine among heretics due to sin. Hearing the thunder of the clouds, the frogs, who had been silent, began to croak—just as brāhmaṇas, after observing vows of silence, recite again. The small rivers, which had dried up and wandered from their courses, began to flow once more—just as a man’s wealth and bodily strength return when he regains independence. The earth turned green with grass, red with indragopa insects, and was shaded by mushrooms—like the arrival of fortune for men. The fields, rich with crops, brought joy to the farmers, but regret to the proud who do not understand that all things depend upon fate.