As the sage journeyed across the land, he beheld a rich tapestry of regions and peoples—some wholly devoted to the pursuit of wealth, others firmly established in righteousness. He saw lush forests and groves, trees heavy with fruit, and fields cultivated with care, their bounty a testament to the diligence of those who tended them. Along his way, he encountered ascetics absorbed in austerities, priests engaged in solemn rituals, yogis immersed in the discipline of yoga, and forest-dwellers and vanaprasthas living out their chosen stages of life. The sage witnessed followers of Śiva, adherents of the Pāśupata path, Sauras devoted to the Sun, Śāktas worshipping the Divine Mother, and Vaiṣṇavas dedicated to Viṣṇu—so many paths of dharma, each with its own discipline and devotion. Marveling deeply at the diversity and richness of spiritual practice, the sage pressed onward. In the span of two years, his determined steps carried him across the mighty Mount Meru. Another year of travel took him over the Himalayas, until at last he arrived at the famed city of Mithilā. As he entered its bounds, he was struck by the city’s supreme prosperity: the people were content, virtuous, and firmly rooted in good conduct, their happiness evident in every face. Yet, as he approached the heart of Mithilā, a vigilant guard halted him. “Who are you, stranger, and what is your business here?” the guard demanded. The sage, deep in thought, offered no reply. Instead, he stood silent and unmoving, like a pillar, his mind awash with astonishment and contemplation. The gatekeeper pressed him again: “Speak! Are you mute, O Brahmin? For what purpose have you come? No task can be accomplished without action.” He explained that, by royal order, entry into the city was strictly regulated—no one whose family and conduct were unknown could enter. Yet, noticing the sage’s radiant presence, he added, “Surely you are a Brahmin, learned in the Vedas. Tell me your lineage and purpose, and then you may go as you wish.” At last, the sage Śuka replied, “The very purpose for which I came has been fulfilled by your words: to see the city of Videha, where entry is so difficult. My own confusion, born of poor judgment, led me to cross two mountains. Hoping to meet the king, I have wandered and arrived here. I have been deceived by my own father—who else is to blame? Whether by fate or my own actions, I have been made to roam the earth. The desire for wealth drives men to wander, but I have no such desire, and yet I find myself here, lost in confusion. For one without hope, happiness should be constant—unless he sinks into delusion. Though I am without hope, I am submerged in this ocean of delusion. What is the distance between Mount Meru and Mithilā, and how have I come so far on foot? What fruit has my effort borne? Surely, I have been deceived by fate. Whatever is set in motion must be experienced, good or bad; all effort is subject to destiny. There is no sacred place or Veda here—why have I labored so? Entry is denied, and the king is called Videha.” Having spoken thus, Śuka fell silent, standing motionless as if mute. The gatekeeper, recognizing him as a wise and eminent Brahmin, addressed him with gentleness: “Go wherever your business takes you, O best of Brahmins. It was my fault to stop you—please forgive me; forgiveness is the strength of those who are truly free.” Śuka replied, “You have no fault here, gatekeeper. You act under another’s authority, and a servant must carry out the master’s command. There is no fault in the king either, for you have protected me. The wise must always be vigilant against thieves and enemies. The fault is mine alone for coming here; it is my own doing that I entered another’s house, and this is the cause of my disgrace.” The doorkeeper then inquired, “O twice-born, what is happiness, what is sorrow, and what should one do who desires good? Who is an enemy, and who a benefactor? Please tell me all this today.” Śuka answered, “In all the worlds, there is duality; everywhere, people are of two kinds: those with attachment and those without, and their minds are likewise divided. The detached are of three kinds: those who know, those who do not know, and those who are intermediate; the attached are of two kinds: the foolish and the clever. Cleverness itself is of two types: that which is founded on scripture, and that which arises from intellect. And intellect, in this world, is of two kinds: proper and improper.” The gatekeeper, still puzzled, said, “O learned one, as you have spoken, I do not understand the meaning. Please explain all this to me in detail, as it truly is.” Śuka replied, “He who has attachment in this world is truly called ‘attached’; for him, there are many sufferings, and also various happinesses. When he gains wealth, sons, wives, honor, or victory, and when he fails to gain them, he experiences great sorrow at every turn. His duty is to seek the means of happiness and to perform actions that bring happiness; his enemy is the one who obstructs his happiness. For the attached, a friend is always the one who brings joy. The clever do not become deluded, but the foolish are deluded everywhere. “For one who is detached and devoted to the Self, happiness lies in solitary practice, in contemplation of the Self, and in reflection on the Vedānta. All worldly talk and the like is suffering for him; many are the enemies of the wise who desire good. Desire, anger, and heedlessness are his various enemies. His only friend in all the three worlds is contentment—there is no other.” Hearing these profound words and recognizing the sage as a true knower, the gatekeeper respectfully allowed him to enter a most delightful inner chamber. As Śuka entered, he observed the city bustling with people of three kinds, its markets full of goods, alive with the activity of buying and selling. The city was filled with both attachment and aversion, overwhelmed by desire, greed, and delusion, noisy with disputes yet populated by good people, and abounding in wealth—a truly great city. Beholding these threefold types of people, Śuka made his way to the royal palace, his brilliance so radiant that he appeared like a second sun.