As the noble King Parīkṣit sat surrounded by the great sages who had gathered from all directions, their hearts filled with admiration for his actions, they spoke among themselves, praising his conduct as truly for the welfare of the people. His deeds, they said, were adorned with the virtues of the Supreme Lord and worthy of the highest praise. They remarked that it was not surprising, especially among those devoted to Kṛṣṇa, that rulers who once wore the royal crown would renounce their thrones without hesitation, seeking only the presence of the Lord. Such devotion was natural for those whose hearts were dedicated to Him. The sages resolved to remain there that day, waiting until Parīkṣit would leave his mortal body, for they knew that this foremost devotee would then attain the supreme world, free from all passion and sorrow. Upon hearing the words of these venerable sages, Parīkṣit, accompanied by his teacher Madhucyuda, responded humbly and faultlessly. He greeted those assembled, eager to hear of the glorious deeds of Viṣṇu. He observed that all had gathered from every direction, as the Vedas themselves manifest in the three worlds. Whether here or elsewhere, he said, their purpose was nothing but the supreme welfare and the realization of the true nature of the self. Turning to the brāhmaṇas, Parīkṣit asked sincerely what should be done, trusting in their guidance. He wished to know the pure duty of one who is facing death, and invited those engaged in such deliberations to consider it together. Just then, by chance, the venerable son of Vyāsa, Śuka, arrived. Wandering the earth without expectation, his appearance was unrecognizable, content in his own gain, surrounded by children, and wearing the garb of a mocker. Though only sixteen years old, Śuka’s body was tender and graceful—his feet, hands, thighs, arms, shoulders, and cheeks all delicate. His limbs were elegant, his eyes large and elongated, his ears equal to his raised nostrils, his brows beautiful, his face radiant, and his neck well-formed like a conch. His collarbones were hidden, his chest broad and high, his navel deep and whorled, his belly marked with lines and softly rounded. Unclothed, his hair fell over his face, his arms long and hanging, resembling the best among gods. His complexion was dark, his youthful beauty ever-fresh, and his limbs bore auspicious signs. With a charming smile, he captivated the minds of women. Even the sages, though knowing his true nature, rose from their seats to honor him, for his greatness was concealed. Parīkṣit, recognizing the honored guest, bowed his head and offered worship to Śuka. As the women and children withdrew, Śuka was seated with honor upon the great seat. There, surrounded by assemblies of Brahmarṣis, Rājarṣis, and Devarṣis, the illustrious sage shone brilliantly, like the moon surrounded by planets, stars, and constellations. The king, a devotee of the Lord, approached the sage, who sat peacefully, his wisdom undiminished. Bowing with folded hands, Parīkṣit addressed him with respectful and gentle words. He said, “O brāhmaṇa, today we, mere kṣatriyas, have become worthy of service, for by your mercy, you have come as a guest and made our land holy. By remembering you, the houses of men are instantly purified—what then can be said of seeing you, touching you, washing your feet, or offering you a seat and so on?” He continued, “By your presence, O great yogi, even the gravest sins of people are immediately destroyed, just as the demons are by Viṣṇu. May the Lord Kṛṣṇa, dear to the sons of Pāṇḍu, be pleased with me, for He has accepted the relatives of His paternal aunt out of affection for His own lineage. Otherwise, how could we mortals, especially those about to die, have your audience, you whose mind is fixed in the unmanifest and who are perfected and dwelling in the forest?” Parīkṣit then asked, “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, O master? Or, tell me if there is anything else contrary to this.” He reflected, “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.” Sūta, the narrator, explained that thus addressed and questioned 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; happiness as the end of pleasure and pain; pain arising from desire for pleasure. The wise understand bondage and liberation. He said, “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. Hell is darkness and pride; friend, teacher, and self are one. Home is the body; 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.” He concluded, “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 then spoke of the cowherds, who recounted to the women the wondrous deeds of Kṛṣṇa and Rāma—how they had extinguished the forest fire and slain Pralamba. Hearing this, the elder cowherds and women were astonished and considered Kṛṣṇa and Rāma, who had come to Vraja, to be foremost among the gods. Then the rainy season began, awakening all living beings, its horizon lit up, the sky and earth resounding with thunder. The sky, dense with dark clouds streaked with lightning and roaring thunder, shone dimly, veiled like Brahman endowed with qualities. When the time arrived, the clouds began to release, by their own power, 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 the 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 because of sin. Hearing the thunder of the clouds, the frogs, who had been silent, began to croak—just as brāhmaṇas, after their vows, recite again. The small rivers, which had dried up and wandered off their courses, began to flow again—just as the wealth and bodily strength of a man who is independent. The earth became green with grass and red with indragopa insects, shaded by mushrooms—like fortune for men. The fields, rich with crops, brought joy to the farmers, but regret to the proud who do not know that all depends on fate. All creatures on land and water, refreshed by the new rains, took on a lovely appearance—just as by serving Hari. Thus, the story unfolds, weaving together the wisdom of sages, the humility of a king, the arrival of Śuka, and the wondrous transformations of nature, all pointing to the supreme welfare and the glory of devotion to the Lord.