At that moment, the wise Kumāras spoke, “She has now arisen from the very essence of this sacred narrative.” Hearing their words, Bhakti, accompanied by her two sons, approached Sanatkumāra with deep humility. She said, “Today, through your grace, I have been nourished—though I was lost in the age of Kali, the nectar of this story has revived me. Now, I ask you, O Brāhmaṇas, where shall I reside? Please guide me.” The sages replied, “O Bhakti, among devotees you manifest the forms of Govinda; you alone uphold love and devotion, and you dispel the disease of worldly existence. Therefore, remain always, with unwavering resolve, in the hearts of the Vaiṣṇavas.” Thus, Bhakti was instructed to take her seat in the hearts of Hari’s servants, and even the faults and influences of Kali could not touch her there, nor could their power prevail in the world. It is said that even those who are destitute in all the worlds are truly blessed if they hold devotion to Śrī Hari within their hearts. For it is such devotion that draws Hari himself from his divine abode—he enters their hearts, bound by the thread of love. What greater praise can there be for one known as a Bhāgavata, whose very being is Brahman made manifest on earth? By seeking refuge in such a devotee, both the speaker and the listener of his words attain the pure equality with Kṛṣṇa, a state that no other dharma can bestow. Sūta then continued: Seeing the extraordinary devotion that filled the hearts of the Vaiṣṇavas, the Lord—ever affectionate to his devotees—abandoned his own celestial realm. He appeared, adorned with a garland of forest flowers, his complexion dark as a raincloud, clad in radiant yellow garments. His form was enchanting, his waist bound with a golden sash, his crown and earrings shining brilliantly. He stood in a graceful threefold-bending posture, adorned with the Kaustubha gem, surpassing the beauty of ten million Cupids, his body anointed with fragrant sandalwood paste. He was the embodiment of supreme bliss and consciousness, sweet in form, holding his beloved flute. In this divine form, he entered the pure hearts of his devotees. Even the Vaishnavas who dwell in Vaikuntha—such as Uddhava and others—had taken on hidden forms in this world, solely to hear these sacred stories. At that time, cries of victory resounded through the air, and a supernatural fullness of rasa was felt by all. Showers of powdered flowers fell again and again, and the sound of conch shells echoed everywhere. Those assembled in the hall became so absorbed that they forgot their bodies, their homes, even their very selves. Witnessing their deep absorption, Nārada spoke to the gathered sages. He said, “O sages, I have today witnessed this extraordinary glory arising from the seven-day event. Even the ignorant, the deceitful, the beasts and birds here—all are freed entirely from sin by its power. Therefore, in this age of Kali, there is nothing else in the world that so purifies the mind; nothing else on earth destroys heaps of sin as does the hearing of these sacred stories.” He then asked, “Who are purified by the seven-day sacrifice of storytelling? Tell me, has any compassionate soul, concerned for the world’s welfare, ever revealed a new path such as this?” The Kumāras replied, “Those humans who constantly commit sins, who engage in wickedness and stray from the path, who are burned by anger, crookedness, and lust—all are purified in Kali Yuga by the seven-day sacrifice. 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 sacrifice. Even those guilty of the five gravest sins, those who act deceitfully, who are cruel and merciless like demons, who live off the wealth of Brahmins and commit adultery—these also find purification through the seven-day sacrifice. Those who sin by body, speech, and mind, who are stubborn and deceitful, who enrich themselves by others’ wealth, who are impure and harbor evil intentions—they too are cleansed in Kali Yuga by this sacred practice.” “Now,” the Kumāras continued, “I shall recount to you an ancient tale, by hearing which the destruction of sin is assured. On the banks of the Tungabhadra river, there once stood a splendid city, where the people of the four varnas lived devoted to truth and to virtuous deeds according to their own dharma. In that city lived Atmadeva, a brāhmaṇa thoroughly learned in all the Vedas, expert in both śruti and smṛti, shining like a second sun. Though wealthy, he lived like a beggar in the world. His beloved wife was named Dhundhuli, steadfast in her own words, beautiful, and born in a noble family. Yet she was attached to worldly affairs, cruel, talkative, skilled in household duties, miserly, and fond of quarrels. Thus the couple lived together, enjoying their wealth and desires, but happiness eluded them in their home and in all matters. Later, longing for a child, they began to practice dharma more fervently, giving cows, land, gold, and garments to the needy. Half their wealth was spent in charity, yet neither son nor daughter was born to them, and they were tormented by anxiety. One day, distressed, Atmadeva left his home and wandered into the forest. At midday, overcome by thirst, he came upon a pond. After drinking, he sat down, his body emaciated by sorrow over his childlessness. As he rested, a certain renunciant arrived there. Seeing him, Atmadeva 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.” Atmadeva replied, “O sage, what can I say of the sorrow that has accumulated from my past sins? My ancestors, instead of drinking cool water, must drink hot. The gods and twice-born do not accept my offerings with pleasure. Consumed 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; what use is wealth or lineage without continuity? Even the cows I tend become barren, the trees I plant bear no fruit, and any fruit that does come to my house quickly perishes. What use is life to me, so unfortunate and childless?” Having spoken thus, Atmadeva wept loudly at the renunciant’s side, overwhelmed by grief. Great compassion arose in the heart of the ascetic. Through his yogic power and reading the garland of letters on his forehead, the ascetic understood all and spoke to Atmadeva in detail. He said, “Give up this ignorance which takes the form of longing for children. The course of karma is powerful indeed. Attain discernment, and abandon desire for worldly existence.