As the age of Kali unfolded, people became dull-witted, their understanding poor, afflicted by misfortune and suffering. Virtuous souls grew scarce; even those who claimed goodness were absorbed in hypocrisy, and renunciants—who should have abandoned worldly life—maintained households instead. In homes, young women took charge, brothers-in-law offered counsel, and daughters were sold out of greed. Discord and quarrels arose between husband and wife. The sacred āśramas, havens of spiritual practice, were obstructed by foreigners, as were the holy rivers. Temples of the gods, once vibrant with worship, had been destroyed by the wicked. No yogī, no accomplished sage, no wise man nor person of good conduct could be found; the wildfire of Kali had reduced all spiritual practices to ashes. Villages suffered under the attacks of bandits, the twice-born were struck by the trident of Śiva, and women—with disheveled hair—became lustful in this troubled age. Witnessing these faults of Kali, I wandered the earth, searching for hope. Eventually, I reached the banks of the Yamunā, the very place where the Lord’s divine pastimes had once unfolded. There, I saw a wonder: a young woman sat, her mind weary and distressed. Beside her lay two old men, collapsed and barely breathing, unconscious. She served them, tried to rouse them, and wept before them. The young woman looked in all ten directions for her protector, while her own form was fanned by hundreds of women, who repeatedly tried to awaken her. Seeing this scene from a distance, curiosity drew me closer. The young woman rose, agitated, and addressed me: “O holy one, please stay a moment and dispel my anxiety. Your very presence destroys the sins of the world. Through your words, relief from suffering will come. When great fortune arises, your presence is obtained.” I, Nārada, asked her gently, “Who are you? Who are these two men, and these lotus-eyed women? Tell me, O goddess, the cause of your distress.” The young woman replied, “I am known as Bhakti. These two are my sons, Jñāna and Vairāgya, now aged and worn by the influence of time. These women, headed by Gaṅgā, have come here remembering me, to serve me. Even the gods have served me, yet I have gained no true welfare.” She continued, “Listen attentively, 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 some places in Mahārāṣṭra and Gurjara I became aged. There, under the terrible influence of Kali, I was attacked by heretics and grew weak. For a long time, I remained feeble along with my sons. But having reached Vṛndāvana again, I became youthful and beautiful—a young woman in her prime, now possessing the best form. Yet here, my two sons lie exhausted from fatigue; leaving this place, I am about to go to another land. They have become old, and I am pained by this sorrow. Though I am young, why are my sons so aged? How has this reversal come about, though the three of us have always been together? It is natural for the mother to age and the sons to be young. Therefore, I grieve for myself, my mind filled with wonder. Tell me, O treasure of yoga, O wise one, what could be the cause?” I replied, “By knowledge, O sinless one, I perceive all this within the Self. You should not be despondent, for Hari will bring you auspiciousness.” Instantly understanding my words, I spoke further: “Listen attentively, child. This yoga and the fierce Kali age have caused the disappearance of good conduct, the path of yoga, and austerities. People have become like Aghāsura, engaging in deceit and wicked deeds. The virtuous are distressed while the unrighteous rejoice; but the wise person who maintains courage is truly steadfast and learned. Seeing these untouchables, this earth has become a burden-bearer; year by year, gradually, no auspiciousness is seen. Now, no one even sees you together with your sons, neglected by those blinded by attachment, and reduced to a state of decrepitude. By union with Vṛndāvana, you again became young and fresh; blessed is Vṛndāvana, where devotion also dances. Here, due to the absence of those who would receive them, even old age does not leave these two; with a little self-contentment, they consider themselves at rest.” Devotion asked me, “How was impure Kali 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; I will be happy.” I answered, “Since you have asked, child, listen with affection. I will tell you everything, O fortunate one, and your confusion will depart. When Mukunda, the Lord, left the earth and returned to His own abode, from that day Kali arrived, obstructing all means of virtue. Seen by the king during his conquest, Kali, miserable, sought refuge; I did not kill him, like a bee spared by the honey-gatherer. The result not attained by austerity, yoga, or meditation is fully obtained in Kali by the praise of Keśava. Seeing Kali as uniform, devoid of essence and substance, Viṣṇurāta established him for the happiness of those born in Kali. Because of evil deeds, the essence has now departed from everywhere; objects remain on earth like husks without seed. By the brāhmaṇas, the Bhāgavata teaching was made known in every home and to every person, but because of greed for a fee, the essence of the stories has departed.” Thus, in the age of Kali, devotion, knowledge, and renunciation have grown weak, but the praise of the Lord remains the one path by which true welfare may be attained.