As the age of Kali set in, the world became a shadow of its former self. The pillars of truth, austerity, purity, compassion, and charity had all but vanished. People, unfortunate and afflicted, lived only to fill their bellies, their words laced with deceit. The masses were dull-witted and poor in understanding; those who were good-hearted were few, and even among them, hypocrisy prevailed. Renunciants, who once gave up all worldly ties, now maintained households, abandoning the ideals of their order. In homes, young women took charge, while brothers-in-law offered their counsel and daughters were given away out of greed. Quarrels arose between husbands and wives, tearing the family fabric. The sanctity of the āśramas was obstructed by foreigners, and the sacred rivers, too, were blocked. Many temples of the gods had been destroyed by the wicked. No yogī, no accomplished one, no wise man, nor anyone of good conduct could be found. In the raging wildfire of Kali, all spiritual practices were reduced to ashes. Villages were beset by bandits; the twice-born suffered under the trident of Śiva, and women, their hair disheveled, became overtaken by lust. Witnessing the faults of this age, I, Nārada, wandered the earth, my heart heavy. Eventually, I came to the bank of the Yamunā, the sacred land where the Lord had enacted His pastimes. There, a wondrous sight greeted me, O sages: a young woman sat, her mind weighed down by sorrow and fatigue. Beside her lay two old men, collapsed and barely breathing, unconscious. She tended to them, trying to rouse them, all the while weeping in distress. The young woman anxiously scanned all ten directions, searching for her protector. Around her, hundreds of women fanned her, each trying to revive her spirits. Moved by curiosity and compassion, I approached. Seeing me, the young woman rose, visibly agitated, and addressed me: “O holy one, please stay for a moment and dispel my anxiety. Your very presence destroys the sins of the world. Through your words, relief from suffering will surely come; your presence 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 in detail.” She replied, “I am known as Bhakti. These two are my sons, Jñāna and Vairāgya, now old and worn by the relentless march of time. These women, led by Gaṅgā, have come here, remembering me, to serve me. Yet, though even the gods have served me, I have found no true welfare. Listen, O sage rich in austerity, to my story, which 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 aged. 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 reached Vṛndāvana again, I became youthful and beautiful, a young woman in her prime. Yet here, my two sons lie exhausted with fatigue. I am about to leave this place for another land. Though I am young, my sons are old, and this brings me sorrow. How has this reversal come to pass, when we have always been together? It is natural for the mother to age and the sons to be young, not the other way around. This fills me with wonder and grief. Please, O treasure of yoga, tell me the cause of this.” I replied, “By knowledge, O sinless one, I perceive all this within the Self. Do not be despondent, for Hari will bring you auspiciousness.” Instantly understanding my words, I continued, “Listen attentively, child: this age of Kali and certain yogic practices 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 person who remains courageous is truly steadfast and learned. Seeing these untouchables, the earth has become a burden-bearer. Gradually, year by year, no auspiciousness is seen. Now, no one even sees you with your sons; you are neglected by those blinded by attachment and reduced to a decrepit state. By your union with Vṛndāvana, you have become young and fresh again. Blessed is Vṛndāvana, where devotion herself dances. Yet, because there are none to receive them, old age does not leave your sons; with a little self-contentment, they consider themselves at rest.” Bhakti then asked, “How was impure Kali established by King Parīkṣit? With the onset of Kali, where did the essence of all virtue go? Even though Hari is compassionate, how is unrighteousness allowed to persist? Please remove this doubt of mine with your words.” I replied, “Since you have asked, child, listen with affection. I will tell you everything, 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 means of virtue. When King Parīkṣit saw Kali during his conquest of the directions, Kali, miserable, sought refuge. The king did not kill him, sparing him like a honey-gatherer spares a bee. Yet, what is not attained by austerity, yoga, or meditation is fully obtained in Kali by the praise of Keśava. Seeing Kali as uniform and devoid of essence, Viṣṇurāta established him for the happiness of those born in Kali. Because of evil deeds, the essence has now departed from everywhere; what remains on earth are objects like husks without seed.