King Parīkṣit, with a mind once entangled in the affairs of his household, now recognized that the Supreme Lord, master of all, had turned his thoughts toward detachment. This sense of renunciation was born from the wise words of the twice-born sages, for where there is strong attachment, fear swiftly follows. Addressing the assembled brāhmaṇas, Parīkṣit spoke with humility and resolve: “O revered ones, please remain with me, for I have come to you with my mind fixed upon the Lord. Whether death comes by the curse of a brāhmaṇa or by the snake Takṣaka, let it come as it will. Meanwhile, let us sing the glories of Viṣṇu.” He prayed that in every future birth he might again have devotion to the infinite Lord and friendship with those who seek shelter in Him. “Wherever I am born among the noble, may I always honor the brāhmaṇas, and may my heart remain attached to the Lord and His devotees,” he said, bowing reverently. Having made his decision, the king sat facing north on the eastern bank of the sacred river, upon a bed of kuśa grass. He had entrusted the care of his wife and son to the daughter of the ocean, the goddess Gaṅgā, and sat steadfast in his resolve. As Parīkṣit, king among men and gods, began his fast unto death, the hosts of heaven rejoiced. The gods showered flowers upon the earth, drums resounded, and all praised his noble act. The great sages assembled there, lauding his conduct and declaring it for the welfare of all people, adorned by the virtues extolled by the highest. “It is not surprising,” they said, “that those devoted to Kṛṣṇa, who once adorned the throne with the royal crown, can so readily renounce everything, desiring only the Lord’s presence.” The sages resolved, “We shall remain here until the king leaves his body. Then, this foremost devotee of the Lord will attain the supreme world, free from passion and sorrow.” Hearing their words, Parīkṣit, together with his teacher Madhucyuda, greeted the assembled sages with great respect, eager to hear the deeds of Viṣṇu. He marveled at their gathering, saying, “All have come from every direction, as the Vedas pervade the three worlds. Here or elsewhere, there is no greater purpose than the supreme welfare and understanding the nature of the self. Therefore, O brāhmaṇas, I place my trust in you—what is the pure duty for one who is dying? Let those wise in action deliberate upon it.” At that moment, the illustrious son of Vyāsa, the venerable Śuka, appeared there by chance, wandering the earth without expectation. His appearance was unassuming, his marks not easily recognized, content in his own gain, surrounded by children, and dressed as a playful ascetic. Though only in his sixteenth year, his form was radiant—his limbs tender and graceful, eyes large and elongated, features beautiful and auspicious, with a complexion dark and ever youthful. His charm captivated the hearts of all, and even the sages, knowing his true greatness though it was concealed, rose from their seats to honor him. King Parīkṣit bowed his head and worshipped this honored guest. As the women and children respectfully withdrew, Śuka was seated with honor upon a great seat. Surrounded by assemblies of Brahmarṣis, Rājarṣis, and Devarṣis, the sage shone like the full moon amidst the stars and planets. Approaching with folded hands, the king spoke with humility: “O brāhmaṇa, today we kṣatriyas have become blessed, for by your mercy you have come as a guest and made our land holy. By merely remembering you, the homes of men are purified—what then of seeing you, touching you, washing your feet, or offering you a seat? By your presence, O great yogi, even the gravest sins are destroyed, just as Viṣṇu destroys the demons. May Kṛṣṇa, beloved of the Pāṇḍavas, be pleased with me, for He has shown favor to His own kin. Otherwise, how could we mortals, especially those about to die, be graced by your presence, you whose mind is fixed in the unmanifest and who are perfected in the forest?” With deep sincerity, Parīkṣit continued, “Therefore, I ask you, supreme teacher of yogis, about the highest perfection: what should a person do when death is near? What should be heard, recited, remembered, or worshipped, O master? Or, is there anything else contrary to this?” He concluded, “Truly, O brāhmaṇa, the presence of the Lord is not perceived in the homes of householders, not even at the time of milking the cows.” Sūta then narrated: Thus addressed by the king in gentle words, the wise and learned son of Bādarāyaṇa replied. He spoke of the qualities of Śrī—independence and the like—and explained that happiness is found when pleasure and pain end, while pain arises from desire for pleasure. The wise know the difference between bondage and liberation. The fool identifies with the body, but my path is called the Veda. Distraction is a wrong path; heaven is the rise of sattva-guṇa, while hell is darkness and pride. Friend, teacher, and self are one; home is the body; true wealth is virtue, and the truly wealthy are so called. He who is not content is poor; pitiable is he who has not mastered his senses. One whose mind is unattached to the qualities is a lord; attachment is the opposite. “O Uddhava,” he concluded, “all your questions have been answered. Why elaborate further? To see faults in virtues is itself a fault, but true virtue is free from both.” Śuka then continued: In Vraja, the cowherds recounted to the women the wondrous deeds of Kṛṣṇa and Balarāma—how they had extinguished the raging forest fire and slain the demon Pralamba. Hearing these marvels, the elder cowherds and women, astonished, considered Kṛṣṇa and Rāma, who had come to Vraja, to be foremost among the gods. Then, the rainy season began, bringing forth all living beings. The horizon blazed with lightning, and the sky and earth resounded with thunder. The sky, dense with dark clouds streaked by lightning and roaring thunder, shone dimly, veiled—just as Brahman is veiled by qualities. When the time was right, the clouds released the water they had drawn from the earth over eight months. Great clouds, lit 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 the rain, just as a body emaciated by austerity is restored upon attaining its desired fruit. At night’s beginning, only fireflies glimmered in the darkness, for the planets were hidden—just as, in the age of Kali, the Vedas do not shine among heretics because of the weight of sin.