O revered sages, having approached you, I humbly request: please remain with me, as I fix my mind upon the Supreme Lord and await my destiny by the sacred Gaṅgā. Whether my end comes by the curse of a brāhmaṇa or by the serpent Takṣaka, let it come as it will; in the meantime, let us fill these final days with the praises of Viṣṇu. May unwavering devotion and loving attachment ever return to the infinite Lord, and to His devotees who take shelter in Him. Wherever I am born among the noble, may I always have friendship with them, and let me bow in reverence to all brāhmaṇas everywhere. Thus resolved, King Parīkṣit sat facing north on the eastern bank of the Gaṅgā, upon a bed of sacred kuśa grass. He was steadfast, having entrusted his wife and son to the care of the daughter of the ocean, the Gaṅgā herself. As this king among men and gods began his fast unto death, the hosts of gods in heaven rejoiced. They showered flowers upon the earth in celebration, and the sound of celestial drums echoed again and again. The great sages assembled there praised and approved his course of action. They spoke among themselves, “His conduct brings welfare to the people and is adorned with the very virtues praised in the Lord Himself.” And they reflected, “It is no wonder, O foremost of royal sages, that those devoted to Kṛṣṇa—who once ruled with royal crowns—should at once renounce everything, desiring only the presence of the Lord.” “We shall all remain here today until he abandons his body; then this foremost devotee of the Lord will attain the supreme world, free from passion and sorrow.” Hearing the words of the assembled sages, King Parīkṣit, accompanied by his teacher Madhucyuda, greeted them all with respect, eager to hear the glorious deeds of Viṣṇu. He said, “All of you have gathered here from every direction, as if the Vedas themselves have taken form in the three worlds. In your presence, there is no purpose but the supreme welfare and the true nature of the self.” “Therefore, O brāhmaṇas, I ask you: what is the pure duty of one who is dying? Please deliberate and instruct me, for I place my trust in your guidance.” Just then, by chance, the son of Vyāsa—Śukadeva, the venerable sage—arrived there, wandering the earth without expectation or attachment. His appearance was unassuming, his marks unrecognizable, content with what came to him, surrounded by children, and wearing the garb of a mocker. He was in his sixteenth year, with tender feet, hands, thighs, arms, shoulders, and cheeks. His limbs were graceful, his eyes large and elongated, his ears and nostrils beautifully formed, his brows lovely, his face radiant, and his neck shaped like a conch. His collarbones were hidden, his chest broad and high, his navel deep and whorled, his belly softly rounded and marked with auspicious lines. Unclothed, his hair spread over his face, and his long arms hung down, resembling the best among gods. His complexion was dark, his youthful beauty ever fresh, his limbs marked with auspicious signs. With a gentle smile, he charmed the minds of women. Even the assembled sages, though knowing his true nature, rose to honor him, for his greatness was hidden beneath his outward appearance. King Parīkṣit, known as Viṣṇurāta, bowed low and worshipped this honored guest. When the women and children withdrew, Śukadeva was seated with honor upon the great seat. There, surrounded by the greatest sages—Brahmarṣis, Rājarṣis, and Devarṣis—the illustrious Śukadeva shone brilliantly, like the full moon surrounded by planets, stars, and constellations. The king, a devoted servant of the Lord, approached the sage, who sat in perfect peace, his wisdom undiminished. Bowing with folded hands, Parīkṣit spoke respectfully and gently. He said, “O brāhmaṇa, today we kṣatriyas have become truly blessed, for by your mercy you have come as a guest and sanctified our land.” “Just 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?” “By your presence, O great yogi, even the gravest sins are destroyed, just as Viṣṇu destroys the demons.” “May the Lord Kṛṣṇa, beloved of the sons of Pāṇḍu, be pleased with me, for He has shown affection to His relatives out of love for His own lineage.” “Otherwise, how could we mortals, especially those facing death, be graced by your audience—you whose mind is fixed in the unmanifest and who dwell perfected in the forest?” “Therefore, O supreme teacher of yogis, I ask you 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, O master? Or, tell me if there is anything else contrary to this.” “Surely, O brāhmaṇa, the presence of the Lord is not perceived in the homes of householders, not even at the auspicious time of milking the cows.” Sūta Gosvāmī said: Thus addressed and questioned by the king in gentle words, the wise and learned son of Bādarāyaṇa, Śukadeva, replied. He spoke of the qualities of Śrī as independence and the like; happiness, he said, is the end of pleasure and pain, and pain arises from the desire for pleasure. The wise know the difference between bondage and liberation. He explained, “The fool identifies with the body and such; my path is called the Veda. Distraction of mind is a wrong path; heaven is the rise of sattva-guṇa.” “Hence, hell is darkness and pride; friend, teacher, and self are one. The body is the home; humanity is wealth in qualities, and the truly wealthy is so called.” “He is poor who is not content; pitiable is he who has not mastered his senses. One whose mind is unattached to the qualities is a lord; attachment to the qualities is the opposite.” “O Uddhava, all your questions have been properly answered. Why elaborate further on the characteristics of virtue and fault? To see faults in virtues is itself a fault, but virtue is that which is free from both.” Śuka continued: Meanwhile, in Vraja, the cowherds recounted to the women the wondrous deeds of the two brothers—how Kṛṣṇa extinguished the raging forest fire and how Pralamba, the demon, was slain. Hearing these marvels, the elder cowherds and the women were astonished and regarded Kṛṣṇa and Rāma, who had come to Vraja, as foremost among the gods. Then the rainy season began, bringing life to all creatures. The horizon was lit up, and the sky and earth echoed with thunder. The sky, thick with dark clouds streaked by lightning and roaring with thunder, shone dimly, veiled—just as Brahman appears when endowed with qualities. When the time was ripe, the clouds began to pour down the water they had drawn from the earth over eight months, releasing it by their own power. 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 the rain, just as a body emaciated by austerity is restored upon attaining its desired fruit. At nightfall, only fireflies shone in the darkness, not the planets—just as, in the age of Kali, the Vedas do not shine among heretics because of sin. And as the thunder of the clouds resounded, the frogs, who had been silent, began to croak—just as brāhmaṇas, after their vows, resume their recitation. Thus, the sacred story flows from the king’s renunciation and the arrival of the great sage, to the wondrous deeds of the Lord in Vraja and the onset of the blessed rains, each event shining with meaning and grace.