Moved by compassion, the noble king spoke, “If by my suffering, many afflicted souls might find happiness, then what greater attainment could there be? Delay no longer—go at once.” At that moment, the servant of Yama appeared before him and said, “Here are Dharma and Indra, come to take you away. You must go with us, O King; depart now.” Dharma himself addressed the king, “I will lead you to heaven, for you have worshipped me faithfully. Ascend this celestial chariot without delay, and go forth.” Yet the king replied, “O Dharma, in hell, thousands are tormented; their cries echo, ‘Save us!’ Because of their suffering, I will not go.” Indra, king of the gods, spoke next, “These people have reached hell because of their own evil deeds. But you, O King, by your virtuous actions, must go to heaven.” The king humbly asked, “If you know, O Dharma, or you, O Indra, lord of Shachi, tell me the measure of my merit, whatever it may be.” Dharma answered, “Your merit is as countless as the drops in the ocean, the stars in the sky, the streams of rain, or the sands on the banks of the Ganga. Just so, O great king, your merit cannot be measured.” He continued, “By showing compassion today to those in hell, your merit has increased a hundred thousandfold. Therefore, go, best of kings, to the immortal realm and enjoy its rewards. Let these sinners exhaust their own evil deeds in hell.” The king persisted, “How will people develop longing for my company if, even in the presence of the virtuous, they do not experience relief from their suffering?” He declared, “Therefore, O lord of the gods, whatever merit I possess, may those sinners suffering in hell be released by its power.” Indra replied, “Thus, O king, you have attained an even higher state; behold, these evildoers are released from hell.” Then, a shower of flowers descended upon the king, and Hari placed him in a celestial chariot, taking him to heaven. The king’s son narrated, “I, and others who were released from those torments, entered new births as determined by the fruits of our actions. Thus, O best of twice-born, I have described these hells and the particular wombs one attains according to each sin. All this I have explained exactly as I saw it before; I have given you knowledge born of past experience, unfailing and true. O fortunate one, what else shall I tell you now?” The father responded, “My child, you have described to me the established nature of worldly existence—its true form, unchanging, like the mechanism of a water-clock, bewildering to the mind. I have understood all that you have explained. Tell me, what should I do now, given this established order?” The son replied, “If you trust my words without doubt, father, then renounce household life and devote yourself to the life of a forest-dweller. Perform the proper rites, give up tending the sacred fires, and establish yourself in your own self, free from dualities and possessions. Eat little, be self-controlled, a tireless mendicant; devoted to yoga, avoid contact with external objects. Then you will attain that yoga—the remedy for the suffering of union with pain, the incomparable and indescribable cause of liberation. By that union, you will not again be joined with the elements.” The father asked, “My child, explain to me that yoga, the supreme cause of liberation, by which, having become free from the elements, I will not again enter such a state. Tell me of that yoga in which, even for one attached, the self is not bound by the fetters of worldly existence, whether in yoga or not. My body and mind are scorched by the burning pain and distress of worldly existence; sprinkle me with the cool water of words, the water of knowledge of Brahman. Bitten by the black serpent of ignorance, tormented by its poison, revive me—who am as if dead—by the nectar of your words. Afflicted by the stupefying elephant of attachment to son, wife, house, and land, quickly free me by unlocking the true knowledge of the real and the good.” The son said, “Listen, father, to the yoga as taught by the wise Dattatreya to Alarka long ago, when he was properly questioned in detail.” The father inquired, “Whose son is Dattatreya, and how did he teach yoga? Who is this fortunate Alarka who questioned him about yoga?” The son began, “There was a Brahmin named Kaushika in the city of Pratishthana. Because of sins from previous births, he became afflicted with leprosy. Though diseased, his wife served him like a god—massaging his feet, rubbing his limbs, bathing, clothing, and feeding him. She washed away his phlegm, urine, feces, and blood, attended to him in private, and spoke affectionately. Despite being honored by her and her humility, Kaushika, overcome by intense anger, rebuked her harshly. Yet, his devoted wife regarded him as her deity, considering him the greatest of all, even though he was exceedingly dreadful. Unable to walk, Kaushika once said to his wife, ‘Take me to her dwelling—that courtesan whom I saw on the royal road, who lives in a house. Bring me to her, O knower of dharma! She alone dwells in my heart. The girl seen at sunrise has now arrived at night; after seeing her, she does not depart from my heart. If that beautiful woman, with full hips and breasts, does not embrace me, O slender one, you will surely see me dead. Desire is fickle among men, and she is sought by many; my inability to go makes the path seem difficult to me.