Sūta continued his narration: “O Śaunaka, as the sages unfolded this sacred dharma in the great assembly at Nāgaśravaṇa, a most wondrous event took place—please hear of it with attention. Suddenly, Bhakti herself appeared amidst the gathering, radiant with pure love, leading her two youthful sons by the hand. She moved among the sages, her lips softly and repeatedly uttering the blessed names: Śrī Kṛṣṇa, Govinda, Hare, Murāri, Nātha. The assembly gazed upon her in awe—she was adorned with the very essence and ornaments of the Bhāgavata’s teachings, her attire beautiful and resplendent. The sages wondered amongst themselves: from where had she come, and how had she entered their midst? At that moment, the wise Kumāras spoke: ‘She has now emerged from the very heart of this narrative.’ Hearing their words, Bhakti, with her sons, approached Sanatkumāra with humility and spoke: ‘Today, by your grace, I have been revived—though I was lost in the darkness of Kali Yuga—by the nectar of this sacred story. Now, O Brāhmaṇas, where shall I reside? Please tell me.’ The sages replied to her with affection: ‘O Bhakti, it is you who manifest the forms of Govinda among devotees, you alone sustain love, and you destroy the disease of worldly existence. Therefore, remain always, with unwavering resolve, in the hearts of the Vaiṣṇavas.’ Thus, even the faults and afflictions of Kali cannot reach you, nor can their power prevail in this world. By the command of the sages, Bhakti took her seat in the hearts of Hari’s servants. Truly, those who are destitute in all the worlds are blessed if only devotion to Śrī Hari dwells in their hearts, for even Hari himself, leaving his own abode, enters their hearts, bound by the thread of their devotion. What more need be said of the greatness of a Bhāgavata—one whose very being is Brahman on earth? By taking refuge in such a soul, both the speaker and the hearer of his words attain the pure equality with Kṛṣṇa, a state no other dharma can bestow. Sūta resumed: “Then, seeing the extraordinary devotion that had arisen in the hearts of the Vaiṣṇavas, the Lord—who is ever affectionate to his devotees—left his own transcendental realm. He appeared, adorned with a garland of forest flowers, his complexion dark as a rain-laden cloud, clad in yellow garments, enchanting in form, radiant with a golden waistband, and crowned with a shining diadem and earrings. He stood graceful, in the threefold-bending posture, adorned with the Kaustubha gem, his beauty surpassing that of ten million Cupids, his body anointed with fragrant sandalwood paste. He was the embodiment of supreme bliss and consciousness, sweetly holding the flute, and he entered the pure hearts of his devotees. Even the Vaishnavas of Vaikuntha—such as Uddhava and others—had taken on hidden forms in this world, just to hear these sacred stories. In that assembly, cries of victory resounded, a supernatural fullness of rasa was felt, showers of powdered flowers fell again and again from the heavens, and the auspicious sound of conch shells echoed through the hall. So deep was the absorption of those assembled that they forgot their bodies, their homes, and even themselves. Observing their state, Nārada spoke: ‘O sages, today I have witnessed this extraordinary glory, born from the seven-day narration. Here, even the ignorant, the deceitful, the beasts and the birds—all are utterly freed from sin. Therefore, in this world, especially in Kali Yuga, there is nothing else that so purifies the mind, nothing else on earth that destroys heaps of sin as does the hearing of these stories. Who are those purified by the seven-day sacrifice of listening to these tales? Tell me—has any compassionate soul, concerned for the world’s welfare, ever revealed a new path?’ The Kumāras replied: ‘Those humans who are ever engaged in sinful deeds, who stray from the path, who are scorched by the fire of anger, twisted by crookedness and lust—even they are purified in Kali Yuga by the seven-day sacrifice of hearing these stories. Those devoid of truth, who insult their parents, overwhelmed by desire, neglectful of ashrama-dharma, hypocritical, envious, and violent—they too are purified by this practice. Those who commit the five great sins, act deceitfully, are cruel and merciless like demons, who misuse Brahma’s wealth and engage in adultery—they are purified by the seven-day sacrifice. Those who commit sins by body, speech, and mind, who are stubborn, who live off others’ wealth, impure and of evil intent—they too are purified by this sacrifice. Now, let me recount to you an ancient story, by merely hearing which one’s sins are destroyed. On the banks of the Tungabhadra River, there was once a splendid city, where the people of all four varṇas lived devoted to truth and to their own dharma. In that city lived Atmadeva, a brāhmaṇa thoroughly learned in all the Vedas, expert in both śruti and smṛti—a veritable second sun. Though he was a beggar, he was wealthy in the world; his beloved wife, Dhundhuli, was always steadfast in her own words, beautiful, and born in a noble family. Yet, she was attached to worldly affairs, often cruel, talkative, skilled in household duties, miserly, and fond of quarrels. Thus, though the couple lived together and enjoyed their wealth and desires, happiness eluded their home and their hearts. Later, longing for children, they began to practice dharma, always giving cows, land, gold, and garments to those in need. Half their wealth was spent in the path of dharma, yet neither son nor daughter was born, and they were consumed by anxiety. One day, that twice-born man, distressed, left his home and wandered into the forest. At midday, overcome by thirst, he came to a pond. After drinking, he sat down, emaciated by the sorrow of having no children. After a short while, a certain renunciant arrived there. Seeing him, the brāhmaṇa, having quenched his thirst, approached, bowed at his feet, and stood before him, sighing deeply. The renunciant asked, ‘Why are you weeping, brāhmaṇa? What is this powerful anxiety that troubles you? Quickly, tell me the cause of your sorrow.’ The brāhmaṇa replied, ‘O sage, what can I say of the sorrow that has accumulated from my past sins? My ancestors are forced to drink hot water instead of cool, the gods and twice-born do not accept my offerings with pleasure; emptied by the sorrow of having no children, I have come here to give up my life. Fie on a life without children, fie on a home without offspring; fie on the wealth of one without a son, and fie on a lineage without continuity. The cow I tend becomes barren in every way; the tree I have planted also bears no fruit. Any fruit that comes to my house quickly perishes. What use is life to me, so unfortunate and without a child?