Śuka, the great sage, spoke with calm assurance: “The purpose for which I came here has been fulfilled by your words—to behold the city of Videha, whose gates are not easily entered. My own delusion, born from poor judgment, led me to cross two formidable mountains. Wishing to see the king, I wandered far and have now arrived here. I have been deceived by my own father—who, then, is to blame for this? O fortunate one, it is by fate or by my own actions that I have wandered the earth. “The desire for wealth drives men on restless journeys in this world, yet I do not possess such a desire. Still, I find myself here, seemingly out of confusion. For one without hope, happiness is constant—unless he sinks into delusion. I am without hope, O blessed one, yet I am submerged in this ocean of delusion. What is Mount Meru to me, and what is Mithila, and how have I come here on foot? What fruit has my effort yielded? Surely, I have been deceived by fate. “What has been set in motion must be experienced, whether good or bad; all effort is ever subject to destiny. There is no sacred place here, nor the Veda—why, then, have I labored thus? Entry to the city is denied, and the king is called Videha.” Having spoken thus, Śuka fell silent, standing as if mute. The gatekeeper, recognizing the sage as a wise and eminent Brahmin, addressed him with gentle words: “Go, sir, wherever your business leads you, as you wish, O best of Brahmins. It is my fault, O Brahmin, that I stopped you. Forgive me, O fortunate one; forgiveness is the strength of those who are free.” Śuka replied kindly, “What fault is yours here, O gatekeeper? You are always under another’s authority. A servant must properly carry out his master’s command. There is no fault of the king here either, for you protected me; the wise must ever be vigilant regarding thieves and enemies. The fault is entirely mine for having come here; it is my own doing that I entered another’s house, and this is the cause of my disgrace.” The doorkeeper, moved by Śuka’s words, asked, “O twice-born, what is happiness, what is sorrow, and what should one do who desires good? Who is an enemy, who is a benefactor? Please tell me all of this today.” Śuka responded, “In all the worlds, there is duality; everywhere, people are of two kinds: those with attachment and those without, and their minds are likewise divided. The detached are of three kinds: those who know, those who do not know, and those who are intermediate; the attached are said to be of two kinds: the foolish and the clever. Cleverness itself is of two types: that which comes from scripture and that which arises from intellect, and intellect in the world is either proper or improper.” The doorkeeper humbly said, “O learned one, as you have spoken, I do not understand the meaning. O best of the twice-born, explain all this to me in detail, as it truly is.” Śuka explained, “He who has attachment in this world is surely called ‘attached’; for him, there is much suffering and, at times, various kinds of happiness. When he gains wealth, sons, wives, honor, and victory, he rejoices; when he fails to obtain them, great sorrow arises at every moment. His duty is to seek the means of happiness and to perform actions that bring happiness; his enemy is the one who obstructs his happiness. For one filled with attachment, a friend is always the one who brings happiness; the clever never become deluded, but the foolish are deluded everywhere. “But for one who is detached and devoted to the Self, happiness lies in solitary practice, in contemplation of the Self, and in reflection on the Vedānta. All worldly talk and the like are suffering for him; many are the enemies of the wise one who desires good. Desire, anger, and heedlessness are his various enemies; his only friend in the three worlds is contentment—there is no other.” Hearing these profound words and recognizing Śuka as a true knower, the doorkeeper allowed him to enter the most delightful inner chamber. As Śuka entered, he observed the city, crowded with people of three kinds, filled with all manner of market goods, bustling with buying and selling. The city was full of both attachment and aversion, overwhelmed by desire, greed, and delusion, noisy with disputes yet filled with good people, and abundant in wealth—a truly great metropolis. Beholding the threefold kinds of people, Śuka proceeded to the royal palace, his supreme brilliance making him appear like a second sun. There, at the palace gate, he was stopped by another doorkeeper. Śuka stood motionless, like a log, contemplating liberation. In shade and sunlight alike, the great ascetic saw both as equal and stood alone in meditation, unmoving as a pillar. After a moment, the king’s minister approached him, palms joined in reverence, and led him into the second chamber of the royal palace. There, showing him a divine and delightful garden with blossoming celestial trees, the minister performed all the proper acts of hospitality for a guest. Within, the chief women of the palace, devoted to royal service, skilled in singing and playing instruments, and expert in the arts of love, were present. The foremost minister instructed these women to serve Śuka, then departed, leaving Vyāsa’s son standing there. Those women worshipped Śuka with utmost devotion, according to custom, and delighted him with foods suited to the place and time. Enchanted by his presence, they showed him the beautiful inner garden of the palace. Śuka, young, handsome, charming, gentle in speech and delightful, upon being seen by them, caused all to faint, as if he were another god of love. Recognizing him as a sage who had conquered his senses, all served him with reverence. Yet the pure-hearted forest-dweller regarded them with the feeling of a mother—untouched by desire, his mind utterly serene.