His complexion was dark, his youthful beauty ever fresh, and his limbs bore auspicious signs. With a charming smile, he captivated the hearts of women, and even the assembled sages—who knew well his true nature—rose from their seats to honor him, for his greatness was hidden beneath a gentle exterior. Viṣṇurāta, the noble King Parīkṣit, respectfully bowed his head and offered worship to this honored guest who had just arrived. As the women and children, unversed in deeper matters, withdrew from the gathering, the guest was seated with reverence upon the great seat prepared for him. There, in the midst of illustrious assemblies—Brahmarṣis, Rājarṣis, and Devarṣis—the radiant sage shone brilliantly, just as the moon shines surrounded by the planets, stars, and constellations. The king, a true devotee of the Lord, approached the sage, who sat peacefully, his wisdom undiminished by age or circumstance. Bowing deeply with folded hands, Parīkṣit addressed him with gentle and respectful words. He said: “O brāhmaṇa, today we, mere kṣatriyas, have become truly blessed and worthy of service, for by your mercy you have come to us as a guest, sanctifying our land by your presence. Simply remembering you instantly purifies a household—how much more so to see you, touch you, wash your feet, or offer you a seat and other honors! “O great yogi, your presence destroys even the gravest sins of people, just as Lord Viṣṇu destroys the demons. May Lord Kṛṣṇa, dear to the sons of Pāṇḍu, be pleased with me, for out of affection for his own lineage he has accepted us, the relatives of his paternal aunt. Otherwise, how could we mortals—especially one who stands at the threshold of death—be graced by your audience, you who are perfected, dwelling in the forest, your mind fixed in the unmanifest? “Therefore, O supreme teacher of yogis, I ask you about the highest perfection: what should a person do, in all respects, when death is near? What should be heard, recited, done, remembered, or worshipped by people at such a time? Or, if there is anything else contrary to this, kindly instruct me. “Truly, 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 then spoke: Thus addressed and questioned in gentle words by the king, the wise and learned son of Bādarāyaṇa replied. He said: “The qualities of Śrī are independence and the like; happiness is found at the end of pleasure and pain. Pain arises from the desire for pleasure. The wise understand both bondage and liberation. The fool identifies with the body and such; but my path is called the Veda. Distraction of mind is a wrong path; the rise of sattva-guṇa is heaven. Darkness and pride are hell; friend, teacher, and self are one. The home is the body; humanity is wealth in qualities, and the truly wealthy are 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 true lord; attachment is the opposite. O Uddhava, all your questions have been properly answered. Why elaborate further on virtue and fault? To see faults in virtues is itself a fault, but virtue is that which is free from both.” Then Śuka continued: The cowherds recounted to the women the wondrous deeds of the two brothers—how the raging forest fire had been extinguished and how the demon Pralamba had been slain. Hearing these marvelous accounts, the elder cowherds and the women were astonished, and they began to consider Kṛṣṇa and Rāma, who had come to Vraja, as foremost among the gods. Soon, the rainy season began, bringing forth all living beings. The horizon was bright 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 proper time arrived, the clouds began to release the water they had drawn from the earth over the past eight months, pouring it down by their own power. Great clouds, accompanied by lightning and shaken by fierce winds, showered life-giving rain upon the earth—like compassion itself descending. The earth, parched and scorched by the sun, was drenched by the rain, just as a body emaciated by austerity is restored upon attaining the 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 the prevalence of sin. Hearing the thunder of the clouds, the frogs, long silent, began to croak again—just as brāhmaṇas, after completing their vows, resume their recitations. 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 is independent. The earth became green with fresh grass and red with indragopa insects, shaded by mushrooms—like the arrival of fortune for men. The fields, now rich with crops, brought joy to the farmers, but regret to the proud who do not understand that all depends on fate. All creatures on land and in water, refreshed by the new rains, took on a lovely appearance—just as one does by serving Hari. The river, joined by many streams, swelled and surged with waves driven by the wind—like the mind of an immature yogi, agitated by passion and the qualities of nature. The mountains, struck by torrents of rain, did not tremble—just as those whose minds are fixed on the Supreme remain unmoved by calamities. The paths became uncertain, overgrown with grass and unmarked—like the Vedas, neglected by brahmins and obscured by quarrel. Just as the bonds among people are as fleeting as lightning among clouds, so too the constancy of women did not remain toward men, even those endowed with virtues. The rainbow in the sky appeared without qualities, yet seemed to possess them—just as, when qualities are manifest, a person without qualities appears to have them. The moon, veiled by clouds radiant with its own light, did not shine forth—just as a person blinded by ego does not shine by his own true brilliance. The peacocks, delighted by the arrival of clouds, rejoiced; yet in their homes, scorched and disheartened, they waited for the coming of the Lord, just as His devotees long for Him. The trees, having drunk water through their roots, regained their forms; previously, they had been withered and exhausted by austerity, just as one is by the pursuit of desires. The cranes settled in the tranquil waters of the lakes and reservoirs, just as people with vain hopes dwell in households filled with restless duties.