Sūta, the revered storyteller, began to speak to the assembled sages at Naimiṣāraṇya about the sacred knowledge that bestows liberation, which must be heard within seven days. This teaching, he explained, was originally imparted by the compassionate sages Sanaka and his brothers to Nārada, and though Nārada himself, through his connection to Brahman, had received it from the divine sage, it was the Kumāras who explained the method of hearing it in seven days. At this, Śaunaka, the chief among the sages, interrupted with a question: “How could Nārada, who is ever free from worldly ties and always wandering, feel any affection or form a connection with those assembled at the ritual?” Sūta replied with reverence, “Listen, and I shall recount the narrative, suffused with devotion, which Śuka spoke to me in confidence, accepting me as his disciple.” He narrated: “Once, in the holy city of Viśālā, four pure-hearted sages gathered together, seeking the company of the virtuous. There, they saw the great Nārada. The Kumāras, perceiving something amiss, approached him and asked, ‘O Brāhmaṇa, why is your face so downcast and your mind so troubled? Where are you hurrying to, and from where have you come?’ They continued, ‘You seem empty-hearted, as if you have lost your dearest treasure, appearing like an ordinary man. This does not befit one who is free from attachment. Tell us, what is the cause of your sorrow?’ Nārada sighed and replied, ‘I have wandered the earth, thinking it to be the highest of realms. I have visited sacred places—Puṣkara, Prayāga, Kāśī, and the banks of the Godāvarī. I have moved among holy sites like Harikṣetra, Kurukṣetra, Śrīraṅga, Setubandha, and many others. Yet nowhere did I find happiness that truly satisfies the heart. The earth now suffers under the influence of Kali, who is the friend of unrighteousness. Truth, austerity, purity, compassion, and charity have vanished. People live only to fill their bellies and speak deceitfully. They are dull, unfortunate, and afflicted, their understanding poor. The good are few, and even those are absorbed in hypocrisy. Renunciants themselves maintain households. Young women rule the home, brothers-in-law give counsel, daughters are sold for greed, and discord arises between husband and wife. The āśramas are blocked by foreigners, as are the sacred rivers. Many temples have been destroyed by the wicked. There is no yogī, no accomplished one, no wise man, nor anyone of good conduct. In the wildfire of Kali, all spiritual practices have been reduced to ashes. Villages are tormented by bandits, the twice-born are struck down, and women, with hair unbound, become overtaken by lust in this age. Seeing these faults of Kali, I wandered the earth, and came to the banks of the Yamunā, where the Lord once performed his divine pastimes. There I beheld a most wondrous sight: a young woman, her mind weary and distressed, sat beside two old men who lay collapsed, breathing faintly and unconscious. She served them, tried to rouse them, and wept before them. Looking in all directions for a protector, her own form was fanned by hundreds of women, who again and again tried to awaken her. Moved by curiosity at this strange scene, I approached. Seeing me, the young woman rose, agitated, and addressed me, “O holy one, please stay a moment and dispel my anxiety. Your very presence destroys the sins of the world. By your words, relief from suffering will surely come. Only by great fortune does one obtain your company.” Then I asked her gently, ‘Who are you? Who are these two men, and who are these lotus-eyed women attending you? Tell me, O goddess, what is the cause of your distress?’ The girl replied, ‘I am known as Bhakti, and these two are my sons—Jñāna and Vairāgya—now aged and worn by the influence of time. These women, led by Gaṅgā, have come here, remembering me, to serve me. Yet, though even the gods have served me, I have gained no true welfare. Listen, O sage rich in austerity, to my story; though it is well known, hearing it will bring you happiness. I was born in Drāviḍa, grew up in Karṇāṭaka, and in some places in Mahārāṣṭra and Gurjara I became aged. There, due to the terrible influence of Kali, I was attacked by heretics and became weak; for a long time I remained feeble, along with my sons. Having reached Vṛndāvana again, I became youthful and beautiful, a young woman in her prime, now possessing the best form. But here my two sons lie exhausted from fatigue; leaving this place, I am about to go to another land. They have become old, and I am pained by this sorrow. Though I am young, why are my sons so aged? How has this reversal come about, though the three of us have always been together? It is natural for the mother to age and the sons to be young. Therefore, I grieve for myself, my mind filled with wonder. Tell me, O treasure of yoga, O wise one, what could be the cause here?’ Nārada responded with gentle compassion, ‘By knowledge, O sinless one, I perceive all this within the Self. You should not be despondent, for Hari himself will bring you auspiciousness.’ Sūta then explained that, instantly understanding Nārada’s words, the great sage continued speaking. Nārada said, ‘Listen attentively, child. This yoga and the fierce age of Kali have caused the disappearance of good conduct, the path of yoga, and austerities. People have become like Aghāsura, engaging in deceit and wicked deeds. Here, the virtuous are distressed while the unrighteous rejoice. But the wise person who maintains courage is truly steadfast and learned. Seeing these untouchables, this earth has become a burden-bearer; year by year, gradually, no auspiciousness is seen. Now, no one even sees you together with your sons, neglected by those blinded by attachment, and reduced to a state of decrepitude.’ Thus Sūta narrated, painting the vivid and sorrowful scene of Bhakti, Jñāna, and Vairāgya in the age of Kali, and the compassionate inquiry of Nārada, all as he had heard from the lips of Śuka.