King Parīkṣit, known as Viṣṇurāta, received the honored sage with deep reverence. Bowing his head, he offered worship to his august guest as the ignorant women and children withdrew from the assembly. The sage was then seated with honor upon a great seat, befitting his stature. Gathered around them were illustrious assemblies: Brahmarṣis, Rājarṣis, and Devarṣis—great sages and kings—who filled the place with their presence. Amidst this assembly, the sage shone brilliantly, like the full moon surrounded by stars, planets, and constellations, radiating wisdom and serenity. King Parīkṣit, a devoted servant of the Lord, approached the sage, who sat peacefully, his wisdom undiminished by age or circumstance. With folded hands and a bowed head, the king spoke with gentle words, full of respect. “O brāhmaṇa,” Parīkṣit said, “today we who are but kṣatriyas have become blessed, for by your grace, you have come as our guest and sanctified our land. Simply remembering you purifies a household—how much more so to see you, touch you, wash your feet, or offer you a seat and hospitality! By your very presence, O great yogi, even the gravest sins are destroyed, just as demons are vanquished by Viṣṇu Himself. May Lord Kṛṣṇa, so dear to the sons of Pāṇḍu, be pleased with me, for He has accepted the relatives of His paternal aunt out of love for His own lineage. Otherwise, how could we mortals, especially one so close to death, have the fortune to receive your audience—you, whose mind is fixed in the unmanifest, who are perfected and dwell in the forest? Therefore, O supreme teacher of yogis, I ask: what is the highest perfection? What should one do, in every way, when death approaches? What should be heard, recited, done, remembered, or worshipped by people? Or, if there is anything contrary to this, please tell me. Certainly, 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.” Thus addressed with humility and gentle speech, the wise son of Bādarāyaṇa replied: “The qualities of Śrī—such as independence—are her true nature; happiness arises when pleasure and pain come to an end. Pain itself is born from desire for pleasure. The wise know well the difference between bondage and liberation. The fool identifies himself with the body and its attributes. My path is that of the Veda. Distraction of mind is a wrong path; heaven is the rise of sattva-guṇa, the quality of goodness. Hell is darkness and pride. Friend, teacher, and self are in truth one. The home is the body; humanity is wealth in qualities, and the truly wealthy are called so for this reason. He who is not content is poor; pitiable is the one who has not mastered his senses. One whose mind is unattached to the qualities is a true lord; attachment to 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.” And so, the discourse continued. Meanwhile, in Vraja, Śuka narrates how 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 of these marvelous acts, the elder cowherds and the women were astonished and began to regard Kṛṣṇa and Rāma, who had come to their village, as foremost among the gods. Then the rainy season arrived, bringing forth all living beings anew. The horizon shone with flashes of lightning, and the sky and earth resounded with the deep rumble of thunder. The heavens grew dense with dark clouds, streaked with lightning and roaring with thunder, their brilliance veiled—much like Brahman, the Absolute, when perceived with qualities. At the appointed time, the clouds, by their own power, began to release the water they had gathered from the earth over eight months. Great clouds, accompanied by lightning and shaken by fierce winds, poured down life-giving rain—like compassion itself descending upon the world. The earth, parched and scorched by the sun, was drenched by these showers, 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, while the planets remained unseen—just as, in the age of Kali, the Vedas do not shine among heretics because of sin. Hearing the thunder of the clouds, the frogs—silent for so long—began to croak, much like brāhmaṇas who, after their vows, return to recitation. The small rivers, which had dried up and wandered off course, began to flow again, just as wealth and bodily strength return to a man who is independent. The earth became green with grass and red with indragopa insects, shaded by mushrooms—like fortune blossoming for men. The fields, 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 Lord. The rivers, joined by many streams, swelled and surged with waves driven by the wind, resembling 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, overgrown with grass and unmarked, became uncertain—like the Vedas, neglected by brahmins and obscured by quarrel in the age of Kali. 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 appeared in the sky, seemingly possessing qualities though itself without them—just as a person without qualities appears to have them when qualities are manifest. The moon, veiled by clouds radiant with its own light, did not shine forth—just as a person blinded by ego does not shine with his own true brilliance. The peacocks, delighted by the coming of the clouds, rejoiced; yet in their homes, scorched and disheartened, they waited for the coming of the Lord, just as His devotees do. The trees, having drunk water through their roots, regained their forms, having been previously 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. The embankments were broken by the torrents of water sent by the lord of rain, just as the paths of the Vedas are broken in the age of Kali by the false words of heretics. Thus, the world was transformed by the season’s arrival, just as hearts are transformed by the presence of the wise and the divine.