Therefore, in this world, even the faults and dark influences of Kali Yuga cannot truly touch or overpower those who are devoted to the Lord; by the will of the great, Bhakti herself took her seat in the hearts of Hari’s servants. Even those who are otherwise destitute in all the worlds are truly blessed if only devotion to Śrī Hari dwells in their hearts, for Hari himself, forsaking his own celestial abode, enters their hearts, bound by the thread of their love. What more can be said of the greatness of one who is called a Bhāgavata, whose very being is Brahman manifest on earth? By taking refuge in such a devotee, even those who speak and those who listen to his words attain the pure equality with Kṛṣṇa—a state no other dharma can bestow. Sūta then spoke: At that time, seeing the extraordinary devotion shining in the hearts of the Vaiṣṇavas, the Lord, ever affectionate to his devotees, left his own divine realm. He appeared, adorned with a garland of wild forest flowers, his complexion dark as a raincloud, dressed in radiant yellow garments. His enchanting form gleamed with a golden waistband, a shining crown, and brilliant earrings. Standing in his graceful threefold-bending posture, beautiful and adorned with the Kaustubha gem, he radiated the charm of ten million Cupids and was anointed with fragrant sandalwood paste. He was the very embodiment of supreme bliss and consciousness, sweetly smiling, holding his flute. In this divine form, he entered the pure hearts of his devotees. The Vaishnavas who dwell even in Vaikuntha—such as Uddhava and others—had taken up hidden forms here on earth, solely to hear these sacred stories. In that sacred assembly, auspicious cries of victory resounded, a supernatural fullness of rasa was felt by all, showers of powdered flowers fell from above, and the deep sound of conch shells echoed throughout. So absorbed were those present that they forgot their bodies, their homes, and even their sense of self. Witnessing their state of pure 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, the beasts and birds who are here, all become utterly free from sin. Therefore, in this age of Kali, there is nothing else in the world that purifies the mind as this does; nothing else on earth destroys heaps of sin like the hearing of these stories. Who are purified by this seven-day sacrifice of hearing? Tell me, has any compassionate soul, seeking the welfare of the world, revealed such a new path?” The Kumāras replied: “Those humans who are ever sinful, always engaged in wicked acts and stray from the path, who are burned by anger, crooked and lustful—all 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, neglecting ashrama-dharma, hypocrites, envious and violent—they too are purified by this seven-day sacrifice. Even those who commit the five great sins, who act deceitfully, who are cruel and merciless like demons, who live off Brahmanas’ wealth and commit adultery—they are purified in Kali Yuga by the seven-day sacrifice. Those constantly sinful in body, speech, and mind, who are stubborn and deceitful, who prosper by others’ wealth, impure and with evil intentions—they, too, are purified by this seven-day sacrifice. Now, I shall recount to you an ancient tale, by the mere hearing of which the destruction of sin arises. On the banks of the sacred Tungabhadra river, there was once a splendid city, where the people of the four varnas lived devoted to truth and virtuous deeds, each according to their dharma. In that city lived a brāhmaṇa named Atmadeva, thoroughly learned in all the Vedas, expert in both śruti and smṛti, shining like a second sun. Though a beggar in spirit, he was wealthy in the world. His beloved wife was known as Dhundhuli, 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 dwelled together in affection and enjoyed themselves, neither their wealth nor their desires brought happiness, either in their home or in other matters. In time, longing for a child, they began to practice dharma for the sake of progeny, giving cows, land, gold, and garments to the needy. Half of their wealth was spent in these pious acts, but still, neither son nor daughter was born to them, and they were greatly troubled by anxiety. One day, the brāhmaṇa, deeply distressed, left his home and wandered into the forest. At midday, overcome by thirst, he came to a pond. After drinking, he sat down, thin and sorrowful over his childlessness. After a short while, 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? Quickly, tell me the cause of your sorrow.” Atmadeva replied, “What can I say, O sage, of the sorrow born of past sins? My ancestors 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, fie on a lineage without continuity. The cow I tend becomes barren, the tree I plant bears no fruit. Any fruit that comes to my house quickly perishes. What use is life to me, so unfortunate and childless?” Having spoken thus, he wept aloud, overwhelmed by grief at the renunciant’s side. Great compassion arose in the heart of the ascetic. Knowing all through his yogic power and reading the garland of letters on his forehead, the ascetic spoke in detail to Atmadeva: “Give up this ignorance in the form of longing for children; the course of karma is powerful. Seek discernment and abandon 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. In the past, even King Sagara suffered for the sake of progeny. Therefore, give up hope for family—there is happiness in renunciation in every way.” But Atmadeva replied, “Of what use is discernment to me? Give me a son, even by force; otherwise, overwhelmed by grief, I will give up my life before you.