Hear now a wise and gentle teaching, as if spoken by a compassionate sage to an earnest seeker. For the one who is steadfast in truth and purity, the gates of heaven are not hard to reach; indeed, a person whose words are always truthful achieves a merit surpassing even the grand Aśvamedha sacrifice. Yet, consider: even if a wicked person bathes a thousand times with clay and a hundred with water, if his mind is corrupted by evil, he cannot become pure. True pilgrimage is not only in wandering to holy places, but in restraining one’s hands, feet, and mind, in possessing knowledge, practicing austerity, and earning good repute—such a one attains the true fruits of pilgrimage. The virtuous person does not rejoice when honored, nor become angry at insult; and even when angered, he does not speak harsh words. Yet, when words are timely and beneficial—spoken to the poor, the wise, or the sweet-natured—they often go unappreciated by others. And know this: by spells, strength, intelligence, or effort, mortals cannot obtain what is truly unattainable, so why should one grieve? What comes to us unbidden, and what departs after being sent away, both simply return to their origin—what cause is there for sorrow? Consider the birds that gather on one tree at night and depart at dawn—why grieve at such separations? Or travelers in a caravan, when one departs quickly on his own—what cause is there for sorrow? All beings begin in the unmanifest, dwell for a while in the manifest, and return to the unmanifest; thus, why lament? No one dies before their appointed time, even if pierced by countless arrows; and when one’s time has come, even a blade of grass can end life. Each person attains only what is destined—be it happiness or sorrow, gain or loss—so what use is lamentation? Just as flowers and fruits appear only in their season, so too do the results of past actions come at their appointed time. Not character, family, learning, knowledge, virtue, or noble birth—none of these alone ensure destiny; rather, the fortunes earned by austerity in past lives bear fruit in their own time, just as trees do. Where death is destined, there the slayer appears; where prosperity is destined, there wealth arrives—each drawn by their own karma. Our past actions follow us faithfully, just as among a thousand cows, a calf finds its own mother. Therefore, the fruits of previous deeds pursue us; let us enjoy the good we have earned—why grieve? As were our deeds in past births, so do we follow after them in this life, whether good or bad. A base person notices even the smallest faults in others, like a mustard seed, but ignores his own, even when they are as large as a bilva fruit. Those attached to passion, hatred, and the like find happiness nowhere; true happiness, it is said, lies in contentment. Where there is attachment, there is fear; attachment is the root of suffering, and when it is abandoned, great happiness arises. The body is the house of both suffering and happiness; body and life are born together. All that depends on others is suffering; all that is under one’s own control is happiness—this is the mark of joy and sorrow. Happiness and suffering revolve among people like a wheel—after happiness comes suffering, and after suffering, happiness. What is gone is past; if it remains, it is far away. One should live in the present and not be burdened by sorrow. Then Sūta spoke: No one is truly anyone’s friend or enemy; friendships and enmities arise only from circumstances. Who created the two-syllable word ‘friend’? It is a refuge from grief and fear, a vessel of love and trust, and bestows a pride greater than jewels. And by uttering even once the two-syllable name ‘Hari’, one is girded with protection that leads toward liberation. There is no one in whom a man places such trust—not mother, wife, brother, or son—as in a friend of his own nature. If one desires lasting affection, one should avoid three faults: gambling, lending money, and seeking another’s wife in secret. One should not sit alone with one’s mother, sister, or daughter, for even a wise man can be led astray by the powerful senses. There is no contrary passion for one’s own women; as is the means, so is the result or penalty that follows. The movements of the wind, a horse, or the great ocean may be understood, but not the mind of a woman without affection. There is no moment, no solitude, no one to make requests—thus, O Śaunaka, arises the chastity of women. A devoted wife delights in serving only her husband, even if others are pleasing; but for men, not obtaining other women is not considered a fault. If a mother, overcome by passion, commits secret acts, her sons—especially if of good character—should not dwell on them. The courtesan’s life is marked by sleep dependent on others, always following another’s will, constant jesting and laughter, even feigned sorrow, a body pledged for a price, a throat torn by the nails of libertines, and a neck adorned with many ornaments—such is valued as the price of a courtesan. Fire, water, women, fools, serpents, and royal households—these six are always to be served by others, yet any one of them can instantly take away life. What is remarkable if a learned Brahmin is skilled in the Vedas, or a king is righteous, or a beautiful woman is virtuous yet passionate? Truly remarkable is the poor man who does not commit sin at any time. One should not reveal one’s own faults to others, nor the faults in another’s learning; one should conceal one’s limbs like a tortoise and observe the weaknesses of others. Thus, the wise words flow, teaching the path of contentment, restraint, friendship, and the fruits of karma—always urging us to live with understanding, compassion, and self-control.