Nārada, the divine sage, began to speak, his voice carrying the weight of his journeys and the sorrow of what he had witnessed. “I have traveled across the breadth of the earth,” he said, “believing it to be the most sacred realm. My feet have touched the holy grounds of Puṣkara, Prayāga, and Kāśī; I have bathed in the waters of the Godāvarī. I have wandered through revered places—Harikṣetra, Kurukṣetra, Śrīraṅga, Setubandha, and many others—moving from one sacred site to another. Yet, in all my wanderings, I did not find the happiness that truly satisfies the heart. Everywhere I went, I saw that the earth is afflicted by the age of Kali, the friend of unrighteousness. The virtues that once flourished—truthfulness, austerity, purity, compassion, and charity—are now lost. Unfortunate souls live merely to fill their bellies, their words laced with deceit. People have become dull, their understanding clouded, plagued by misfortune and suffering. The truly good are few, and even they seem caught in hypocrisy; those who have renounced the world still maintain households. In many homes, young women rule, brothers-in-law give counsel, daughters are given away for greed, and discord festers between husbands and wives. The sacred āśramas are obstructed by foreigners, just as the holy rivers are hindered; many temples have been destroyed by the wicked. Nowhere do I find yogīs, nor those accomplished in spiritual discipline, nor men of wisdom or good conduct. In the raging wildfire of Kali, all spiritual practices have been reduced to ashes. Villages are tormented by bandits, the twice-born are struck down, and women, their hair unbound, are swept up in the passions of this age. Witnessing all these faults brought by Kali, I continued my search, wandering until I arrived at the banks of the Yamunā, the very place where the Lord’s divine pastimes had unfolded. There, I beheld a most wondrous sight—listen carefully, O sages. I saw a young woman, her mind weary and distressed. Lying beside her were two old men, collapsed and barely breathing, unconscious. She tended to them with care, trying to rouse them, her tears falling as she wept before them. She looked anxiously in all ten directions, searching for a protector, while her own form was fanned by hundreds of women, who also tried to awaken her. Moved by curiosity and compassion, I approached her. Upon seeing me, the young woman rose, agitated, and addressed me: ‘O holy one, please stay for a moment and relieve my anxiety. Your very presence destroys the sins of the world. With your words, you can bring relief from suffering; your arrival is a sign of great fortune.’ I asked her, ‘Who are you? Who are these two men, and who are these lotus-eyed women? Please, O goddess, tell me the cause of your distress.’ She replied, ‘I am known as Bhakti. These two are my sons, Jñāna and Vairāgya, now old and worn by the influence of time. These women, led by Gaṅgā, have come here to serve me, remembering me. Though even the gods have served me, I have found no true welfare. Listen closely, O sage rich in austerity, to my story. Though it is well known, hearing it will bring you happiness. I was born in Drāviḍa, grew up in Karṇāṭaka, and in places like Mahārāṣṭra and Gurjara, I became old. There, under the terrible influence of Kali, I was attacked by heretics and became weak; for a long time, I remained feeble, along with my sons. But when I returned to Vṛndāvana, I regained my youth and beauty, becoming a young woman in her prime, possessing the best of forms. Yet here, my two sons lie exhausted. I am about to leave this place for another land, but I am pained by their sorrow. Why, though I am young, are my sons so aged? How has this reversal occurred, when the three of us have always been together? Is it not natural for a mother to age and her sons to remain young? I grieve for myself, my mind filled with wonder. O treasure of yoga, O wise one, tell me—what could be the cause of this?’ Hearing her lament, I said, ‘By knowledge, O sinless one, I perceive all this within the Self. Do not be despondent, for Hari will bring you auspiciousness.’ At that moment, understanding my words, I continued, ‘Listen attentively, child. The practices of yoga and the fierce age of Kali have caused the disappearance of good conduct, the path of yoga, and austerities. People have become like Aghāsura, engaging in deceit and wickedness. The virtuous are distressed while the unrighteous rejoice, but the wise one who maintains courage is truly steadfast and learned. Because of these untouchables, the earth has become burdened, and year by year, all auspiciousness fades. Now, no one even sees you with your sons; those blinded by attachment neglect you, leaving you all in a state of decrepitude. When you returned to Vṛndāvana, you regained your youth and freshness. Blessed is Vṛndāvana, where devotion itself dances. Yet, due to the absence of those who would receive them, even old age does not leave your sons; with a little self-contentment, they consider themselves at rest.’ Then, Devotion herself asked, ‘How did impure Kali become established by King Parīkṣit? With the onset of Kali, where did the essence of all virtue go? Even by the compassionate Hari, how is unrighteousness witnessed? Remove this doubt of mine with your words, and I will be happy.’ I replied, ‘Since you have asked, child, listen with affection. I will tell you everything, O fortunate one, and your confusion will be dispelled. When Mukunda, the Lord, left the earth and returned to His own abode, from that day Kali arrived, obstructing all paths of virtue. When King Parīkṣit conquered the directions, he saw Kali, miserable and seeking refuge. The king did not kill him, sparing him as a honey-gatherer would spare a bee.’ Thus, Nārada revealed the sorrowful state of the world in the age of Kali, the decline of virtue, and the plight of Devotion and her sons, offering hope that through the grace of Hari, all would one day be made auspicious again.