Bhakti herself spoke, her voice gentle yet filled with relief: “Today, by your grace, I have been nourished once more. Though I was lost in the darkness of Kali Yuga, the nectar of this sacred narrative has revived me. Now, where shall I reside? Let the Brāhmaṇas, the wise ones, tell me.” The Brāhmaṇas replied with affection: “O Bhakti, it is you who bring forth the forms of Govinda among devotees. You alone sustain the very love that binds us to the Lord, and you alone destroy the disease of worldly existence. Therefore, remain always, with unwavering resolve, in the hearts of the Vaiṣṇavas.” Because of this, the faults and corruptions of Kali Yuga could not touch her, nor could their power prevail in the world. By the command of the Brāhmaṇas, Bhakti then took her seat firmly in the hearts of Hari’s devoted servants. Even those who are destitute in all the worlds are truly blessed if devotion to Śrī Hari dwells within their hearts. For even Hari himself, abandoning his own divine abode, enters their hearts, drawn by the unbreakable thread of their devotion. What more can be said of the greatness of one called a Bhāgavata, whose very self is Brahman manifest on earth? By taking refuge in such a soul, both the speaker and the listener of his words are elevated to the pure equality with Kṛṣṇa—a state that no other dharma can bestow. Sūta continued: At that time, seeing the extraordinary devotion shining in the hearts of the Vaiṣṇavas, the Lord—ever affectionate to his devotees—abandoned his own celestial realm to be present among them. He appeared adorned with a garland of forest flowers, his complexion dark as a rain-laden cloud, clad in radiant yellow garments. His form enchanted the eyes, glowing with a golden waistband, a shining crown, and brilliant earrings. Graceful in his threefold-bending posture, he was beautiful beyond compare, adorned with the Kaustubha gem, his loveliness surpassing that of ten million Cupids, his body anointed with fragrant sandalwood paste. He was the embodiment of supreme bliss and consciousness, sweetness itself, holding his flute. In this divine form, he entered the pure hearts of his devotees. Those who dwell in Vaikuṇṭha—Vaishnavas such as Uddhava and others—had taken on hidden forms in this world for the sake of hearing these very stories. At that moment, cries of victory resounded in all directions. An extraordinary fullness of rasa, of spiritual flavor, was felt. Showers of powdered flowers fell repeatedly from above, and the deep sound of conch shells echoed through the air. Those assembled in the hall became utterly absorbed, forgetting all sense of body, home, and self. Seeing their state of absorption, Nārada spoke these words: “O sages, today I have witnessed this extraordinary glory, arising from this seven-day event. Even the ignorant, the deceitful, beasts and birds present here—all become utterly free from sin. Therefore, in the world of men, there is nothing else in Kali Yuga that so purifies the mind; nothing else on earth destroys heaps of sin as does the hearing of these sacred stories. Who, then, are purified by this seven-day sacrifice of stories? Tell me, has any compassionate soul, seeking the welfare of the world, revealed a new path such as this?” The Kumāras replied: “Those humans who are ever sinful, constantly engaged in wicked deeds and straying from the path, who are burned by the fire of anger, crooked and lustful—they are purified in Kali Yuga by the seven-day sacrifice of hearing these stories. Those without truth, who insult their parents, overwhelmed by desire, neglectful of ashrama-dharma, hypocrites, envious, and violent—they too are purified by this seven-day sacrifice. Even those who commit the five gravest sins, who act deceitfully, who are cruel and merciless like demons, who live off Brahma’s wealth and indulge in adultery—by this seven-day sacrifice, they too are purified. Those who constantly sin by body, speech, and mind, who are stubborn, enriched by others’ wealth, impure, harboring evil intentions—they, too, are cleansed by this seven-day sacrifice in Kali Yuga. Now, let me recount to you an ancient story, by the mere hearing of which the destruction of sin arises. On the banks of the Tungabhadra, there was once a splendid city, where people of the four varṇas lived, devoted to truth and virtuous deeds according to their respective dharmas. In that city lived Atmadeva, a Brāhmaṇa thoroughly learned in all the Vedas, expert in both śruti and smṛti, like a second sun among men. Though he was a beggar, he was wealthy in the world’s eyes. His beloved wife was known as Dhundhuli, steadfast in her words, beautiful, and born in a noble family. Yet she was attached to worldly affairs, cruel in temperament, mostly talkative, skilled in household duties, miserly, and fond of quarrels. Thus, while the couple lived together in love and enjoyed themselves, neither their wealth nor their desires brought happiness to their home or in other matters. Later, yearning for a child, they began to practice dharma more earnestly, giving cows, land, gold, and garments to those in need. Half their wealth was spent on the path of dharma, yet neither son nor daughter was born to them, and so they were greatly troubled by anxiety. One day, that twice-born man, distressed, left his home and wandered into the forest. At midday, overcome by thirst, he came upon a pond. After drinking the water, he sat down, emaciated by sorrow at having no children. After a short while, a certain renunciant arrived there. Seeing him, the Brāhmaṇa, having quenched his thirst, approached and bowed at the ascetic’s feet, standing before him and sighing deeply. The renunciant asked, “Why are you weeping, Brāhmaṇa? What is the source of your powerful anxiety? Tell me quickly the cause of your sorrow.” The Brāhmaṇa replied, “O sage, what can I say of the sorrow accumulated by my past sins? My ancestors must drink hot water instead of cool, for my offerings do not reach them. 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, 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?” Having spoken thus, he wept loudly, afflicted by sorrow at the renunciant’s side. Compassion welled up in the heart of the ascetic. Then, knowing all through his yogic power and the garland of letters on his forehead, the ascetic spoke in detail to the Brāhmaṇa: “Give up this ignorance, this longing for children. The course of karma is powerful indeed. Attain discernment and abandon your desire for worldly existence. Hear me, Brāhmaṇa: today I have seen your destiny. For seven lifetimes, you will not have a son—not at all.