At that auspicious moment, cries of victory echoed all around. An unearthly fullness of rasa—divine flavor—pervaded the air, and showers of fragrant powdered flowers rained down again and again. The sound of conch shells resonated, filling the atmosphere with sacred energy. Those gathered in the great hall became so absorbed that they forgot their bodies, their homes, even their very selves. Observing this profound state of immersion, the sage Narada addressed them with these words: “O venerable sages, such extraordinary glory as I have witnessed today, arising from this seven-day event, is truly rare. Even the ignorant, the deceitful, the beasts and birds present here—all become completely freed from sin. Therefore, among people in this age of Kali, there is nothing else that so thoroughly purifies the mind. Nowhere else on earth is there anything that destroys mountains of sin as does the hearing of these sacred stories. Who, I ask, are purified by this seven-day sacrifice of storytelling? Has any compassionate soul, moved by concern for the world’s welfare, ever revealed a new path such as this?” At this, the wise Kumaras responded: “Those humans who are ever steeped in wrongdoing—always engaged in wicked acts, straying from the path, scorched by the fires of anger, crooked and lustful—such people are purified in this age of Kali by the seven-day sacrifice of hearing these stories. Those devoid of truth, who insult their parents, overwhelmed by desire, neglecting the duties of their station, hypocritical, envious, and violent—they too are purified in Kali Yuga by this seven-day sacrifice. Even those who commit the five great sins, act deceitfully, are cruel and merciless like demons, who misuse Brahma’s wealth and indulge in adultery—they are also purified in Kali Yuga by this seven-day sacrifice. Those who constantly sin by body, speech, and mind, who are stubborn and deceitful, who thrive on the wealth of others, are impure and harbor evil intentions—even they are purified in Kali Yuga by this seven-day sacrifice. Now, let me recount to you an ancient tale, the mere hearing of which brings about the destruction of sin. On the banks of the Tungabhadra river, there once stood a splendid city. Its people, belonging to all four varnas, were devoted to truth and to performing virtuous deeds according to their own dharma. In that city lived Atmadeva, a brahmin deeply learned in all the Vedas, an expert in both śruti and smṛti, shining like a second sun. Though he owned much in the world, he was like a beggar at heart. His beloved wife, Dhundhuli, was steadfast in her words, beautiful, and born into a noble family. Yet Dhundhuli was deeply attached to worldly affairs, often harsh, fond of talking, skilled in household tasks, but miserly and quick to quarrel. Thus, the couple lived together, enjoying their wealth and desires, but happiness eluded them both at home and elsewhere. In time, longing for a child, they turned to the path of dharma, generously giving cows, land, gold, and garments to the needy. Half their wealth was spent in acts of charity, yet neither son nor daughter was born to them, and so they were consumed by anxiety. One day, the twice-born Atmadeva, weighed down by sorrow, left his home and wandered into the forest. At midday, parched with thirst, he came to a pond. After drinking, he sat down, thin and emaciated from his grief over being childless. Soon, a certain renunciant arrived there. Seeing him, the brahmin, having quenched his thirst, approached the ascetic, bowed at his feet, and stood before him, sighing deeply. The renunciant asked, “Why are you weeping, brahmin? What is this powerful anxiety that afflicts you? Tell me quickly, what is the cause of your sorrow?” The brahmin replied, “O sage, what can I say of the sorrow that has accumulated from my past sins? My ancestors must drink hot water instead of cool, for I have no offspring. The gods and twice-born do not accept my offerings with joy; 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 that ends with me. The cow I tend becomes barren; the tree I plant bears no fruit. Any fruit that does come to my house quickly perishes. What use is life to me, so unfortunate and childless?” Having spoken thus, he wept loudly at the ascetic’s side, overwhelmed by sorrow. Seeing his distress, great compassion arose in the heart of the renunciant. Through his yogic insight and the garland of sacred letters on his forehead, the ascetic perceived all and spoke to the brahmin in detail: “Give up this ignorance that takes the form of longing for children; the workings of karma are powerful indeed. Cultivate discernment and abandon desire for worldly existence. Hear me, brahmin: today I have seen your destiny. For seven lifetimes, you will not have a son—not at all. Long ago, even King Sagara suffered for the sake of offspring; now, give up your hope for family. There is happiness in renunciation in every way.” But Atmadeva pleaded, “Of what use is discernment to me? Grant me a son, even by force! Otherwise, overwhelmed by grief, I will end my life before your eyes. Renunciation without the happiness of children and such is truly dry; the householder, surrounded by sons and grandsons, is lively in this world.” Seeing the brahmin’s insistence, the ascetic, rich in austerity, replied, “Even Citraketu suffered hardship by trying to erase the lines of fate. You will not find happiness from a son, for effort that opposes destiny is doomed to fail. Yet, since you are so determined, what more can I say?” Finally, seeing the brahmin’s unwavering desire, the ascetic gave him a single fruit and said, “Take this and have your wife eat it; then you will have a son. Let her observe truthfulness, purity, compassion, charity, and eat only once a day for a year. By this, the son will be exceedingly pure.” Having spoken thus, the yogi departed, and the brahmin returned home. He placed the fruit in his wife’s hand and then went out again. But Dhundhuli, crooked in mind, wept before her friends, saying, “Oh, I am troubled with anxiety; I will not eat this fruit. If I eat the fruit, I will conceive; with pregnancy, my belly will grow; eating little, I will have no strength—how then will I manage the household duties?