He had wandered through countless forms—first a sheep, then an elephant, a buffalo, Indra, Agni, and once again as a man—each existence endured but once, the fruit of his actions. Witnessing this bewildering cycle of transformations, the sage Gokarṇa, calm and steadfast, perceived the profound misery of the soul before him. He approached, his heart moved by compassion, and addressed the being: “Who are you, so fierce and restless by night? From where have you come to this dreadful state? Are you a ghost, a goblin, or a demon? Speak and reveal yourself.” Thus questioned, the spirit wailed loudly, again and again, unable to form words, communicating only with anguished gestures—his very consciousness a plea for help. Gokarṇa, understanding his suffering, took water in his cupped hands and, with a sacred act, raised the spirit up. In that instant, the sinner was freed from his speechless torment and found his voice. The ghost spoke: “I am your brother, Dhundhukari. Through my own fault, I have destroyed the gift of human birth. My misdeeds are beyond counting, born of deep ignorance. I brought harm to the worlds and, tormented by women, met my end in suffering. Thus, I have become a ghost, condemned to this miserable state, sustained only by air, receiving the results of my past as fate allows. O brother, ocean of compassion, quickly release me from this agony!” Hearing these words, Gokarṇa replied: “For your sake, I have performed the ancestral rites at Gayā, as prescribed. Yet you remain unliberated—this astonishes me. If even the śrāddha at Gayā cannot grant release, what else can I do for you, O departed one? Speak truly and tell me what must be done.” The departed soul answered: “Even with a hundred Gayā śrāddhas, I cannot be freed. Seek now some other means for my liberation.” Gokarṇa was amazed. “If you are not liberated even after a hundred śrāddhas, then indeed your release is difficult. Still, stay in your place without fear. I will consider and perform some act to bring about your liberation.” Thus reassured, Dhundhukari returned to his own place. Gokarṇa spent the night deep in thought, sleepless, pondering a way to save his brother. When morning came, the people gathered joyfully around Gokarṇa, eager to hear what had transpired. He recounted the events of the night. The learned, the steadfast in yoga, the wise, and the speakers of Brahman—all examined the scriptures, searching for a means to liberate the departed soul, but found none. Then, all remembered the words of the Sun, which were held supreme in matters of liberation. At that moment, Gokarṇa, with great resolve, restrained the speed of the Sun and prayed: “O witness of the world, I offer you my respects. Tell me the cause of liberation.” Hearing this prayer from afar, the Sun spoke clearly: “Recite the Śrīmad Bhāgavatam for seven days—this brings liberation.” All assembled recognized this as the true path of dharma. The people declared, “This must be done with effort, for it is indeed easy.” Gokarṇa, thus resolved, began the recitation. People from villages and distant regions flocked to hear—the lame, the blind, the old, and the slow—all seeking the destruction of their sins. A great assembly formed, wondrous even to the gods, as Gokarṇa took his seat and began to narrate the sacred story. At that time, the departed Dhundhukari also arrived, seeking a place to listen. He found a bamboo with seven knots, standing upright, and entered a hole at its base to listen, abandoning his form as a restless spirit and residing within the bamboo. Gokarṇa, recognizing the chief Vaiṣṇava brāhmaṇa as the foremost listener, began the clear narration of the Bhāgavatam from the very first book. At the end of the first day, as the verse was recited, a wondrous event occurred: the first knot of the bamboo split with a resounding crack, witnessed by the virtuous. On the second evening, the second knot broke; on the third, the third knot; and so it continued, each day breaking another knot. Over seven days, as the twelve cantos were recited, all seven knots were broken. Having listened with devotion, Dhundhukari abandoned his state as a departed soul. He emerged in a divine form, adorned with a garland of tulasi leaves, clad in yellow garments, his complexion dark as a rain cloud, crowned and wearing earrings. He immediately bowed to his brother Gokarṇa and said, “By your compassion, I have been freed from bondage and the impurity of being a departed soul.” He praised the discourse: “Blessed is the narration of the Bhāgavatam, which destroys the suffering of departed souls. Blessed too is the seven-day recitation, which grants the fruit of attaining Krishna’s realm. All sins tremble when the seven-day hearing is undertaken; this narration brings immediate deliverance. Whether moist or dry, light or heavy, done by speech, mind, or action, hearing burns away sin just as fire consumes fuel.” He continued: “In this land of Bharata, among the wise and in the assembly of gods, the birth of those who do not hear the narration is declared fruitless. What is the use of protecting a well-nourished, strong body, which is unstable, without hearing the teachings of Shuka? For the body is but a pillar of bones, bound by sinews, smeared with flesh and blood, covered by skin, foul-smelling, a vessel for urine and excrement. Afflicted by old age, sorrow, and the consequences of actions, it is a house of disease and suffering, hard to fill, hard to bear, corrupted, flawed, and perishable in a moment. The body ends in worms, filth, and ashes; how can unstable actions performed with such a body ever accomplish anything lasting? The food prepared in the morning perishes by evening; in a body nourished by such food, what permanence can there be?” Thus, through the grace of Gokarṇa and the power of the seven-day recitation of the Bhāgavatam, Dhundhukari was liberated, and the assembly witnessed the glory and transformative power of the sacred narration.