He appeared, adorned with a garland of forest flowers. His complexion was dark as a rain-laden cloud, his form enchanting, clothed in radiant yellow garments. A golden waistband gleamed at his waist, and a brilliant crown and shining earrings graced his head and ears. He stood gracefully in the threefold-bending posture, dazzling in beauty, the Kaustubha gem glowing upon his chest. The sweetness of his form surpassed the charm of ten million Cupids, and his body was anointed with fragrant sandalwood paste. He was the very embodiment of supreme bliss and consciousness, holding his flute with gentle sweetness. In this form, he entered the pure hearts of his devoted worshipers. At that time, even those beings who dwell in Vaikuntha—Vaishnavas such as Uddhava and others—had taken on hidden forms in this world, drawn here for the sake of hearing these divine stories. Suddenly, cries of victory resounded in the air. A supernatural fullness of rasa, or divine flavor, was felt by all. Showers of powdered flowers rained down repeatedly, and the deep, auspicious sound of conch shells echoed throughout. Those gathered in the assembly hall became so absorbed that they forgot their own bodies, homes, and very selves. Witnessing their profound state of absorption, the sage Narada addressed the assembly. He said, “O sages, today I have witnessed this extraordinary glory, which has arisen from the seven-day event. Even the ignorant, the deceitful, and even the beasts and birds who are present here become utterly freed from sin. Therefore, in this world of men, especially in Kali Yuga, there is nothing else that so purifies the mind; nothing else on earth destroys the heaps of sin as does the hearing of these sacred stories.” Narada continued, “Who, indeed, are purified by this seven-day sacrifice of listening to these stories? Has any compassionate person, mindful of the world’s welfare, revealed such a new and wondrous path?” The four Kumaras then spoke: “Those humans who are always committing sins, constantly engaged in wicked conduct and straying from the path, who are burned by anger, crookedness, and lust—they are purified in Kali Yuga by the seven-day sacrifice of hearing these stories. Even those devoid of truth, who insult their parents, overwhelmed by desire, neglecting the duties of their ashrama, filled with hypocrisy, envy, and violence—they too are purified in Kali Yuga by this sacrifice. Those who commit the five great sins, who act deceitfully, who are cruel and merciless like demons, who live off Brahma’s wealth and engage in adultery—they are purified in Kali Yuga by this seven-day sacrifice. Those who constantly sin by body, speech, and mind, who are stubborn and deceitful, who enrich themselves with others’ wealth, who are impure and harbor evil intentions—they too are purified in Kali Yuga by this seven-day sacrifice.” The Kumaras then said, “Here, we shall recount to you an ancient story, by hearing which alone, the destruction of sin arises. On the banks of the sacred Tungabhadra river, there once was a splendid city, where people of all four varnas were devoted to truth and to virtuous deeds according to their own dharma. In that city lived Atmadeva, a learned brāhmaṇa, thoroughly versed in all the Vedas, expert in both śruti and smṛti, shining like a second sun. Though he was wealthy in worldly terms, he resembled a beggar in matters of progeny. His beloved wife, Dhundhuli, was renowned for her beauty and noble birth, and was always steadfast in her own words. Yet, she was attached to worldly affairs, often cruel and excessively talkative, skilled in household duties, miserly, and fond of quarrels. Thus, while the couple lived together in love and enjoyed themselves, their wealth and desires did not bring happiness to their home or other matters. In time, seeking to have a child, they began to practice dharma, generously giving cows, land, gold, and garments to the needy. Half their wealth was spent in the pursuit of dharma, yet neither son nor daughter was born to them, and they were greatly troubled by anxiety. One day, that twice-born Atmadeva, distressed beyond measure, left his home and went into the forest. At midday, overcome by thirst, he came to a pond. After drinking the water, he sat down, his body emaciated by the sorrow of childlessness. After a short while, a certain renunciant arrived there. Seeing the ascetic, the brāhmaṇa, having quenched his thirst, approached him. Bowing at the renunciant’s feet, he stood before him, sighing deeply. The renunciant asked, “Why are you weeping, brāhmaṇa? What is this powerful anxiety that afflicts you? Quickly, tell me the cause of your sorrow.” The brāhmaṇa replied, “What can I say, O sage, of the sorrow accumulated by my past sins? My ancestors drink hot water instead of cool, for I have no son to offer them oblations. 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 does come 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. Great compassion arose in the heart of the ascetic. Knowing all through his yogic power and reading the garland of letters on his own forehead, the ascetic spoke in detail to the brāhmaṇa. He said, “Give up this ignorance, this longing for children. The course of karma is powerful. 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. In the past, even Sagara suffered for the sake of offspring. So now, give up hope for family—there is happiness in renunciation in every way.” But the brāhmaṇa pleaded, “Of what use is discernment to me? Give me a son, even by force! Otherwise, I will give up my life before you, overwhelmed by grief. Renunciation without the happiness of children and the like is truly dry; the householder, surrounded by sons and grandsons, is lively in the world.” Seeing the brāhmaṇa’s insistence, the ascetic, rich in austerity, replied, “Citraketu suffered hardship by erasing the lines of fate. You will not find happiness from a son, for effort opposed by fate fails. Since you are so obstinate, what more can I say to one so intent on his desire?” Seeing the brāhmaṇa’s reluctance to accept any other course, the ascetic gave him a single fruit and said, “Eat this, together with your wife; then you will have a son.