The king, troubled by the suffering of souls in hell, spoke with a heavy heart: “How will people come to long for my presence if, even when surrounded by the virtuous, they find no relief from their pain?” In his compassion, he turned to Indra, the lord of the gods, and declared, “Therefore, whatever merit I have gained, may it serve to release those sinners who suffer in hell.” Indra, moved by the king’s selfless wish, replied, “O king, by this act you have attained an even higher state. Behold, those evil-doers are now released from hell by your merit.” At that moment, a shower of celestial flowers rained down upon the king. The divine Hari placed him in a heavenly chariot and carried him up to heaven. As for me and the others who were freed from our torments, we entered new births, each according to the fruits of our actions. Thus, O best of the twice-born, I have described to you the nature of these hells and the specific wombs one attains for each sin. All this I have recounted exactly as I saw it, knowledge born of direct experience—unfailing and true. O fortunate one, what else would you have me tell? Hearing this, the father said, “My child, you have described the fixed nature of worldly existence—its true, unchanging form, bewildering to the mind, like the workings of a water-clock. I have understood all you have explained. Now tell me, in this established order, what should I do?” The son replied, “If you trust my words without doubt, father, then renounce household life and become a forest-dweller. Perform the proper rites, relinquish the keeping of sacred fires, and establish yourself in your own self—free from dualities and possessions. Be moderate in eating, self-controlled, a tireless mendicant. Devoted to yoga, avoid contact with external objects. By this, you will attain yoga, the remedy for the suffering of bondage to pain—the incomparable and indescribable cause of liberation. Through this union, you will not again be joined with the elements of worldly existence.” The father asked, “My child, explain to me that yoga—the supreme cause of liberation—by which, once freed from the elements, I will not again fall into this state. Tell me of that yoga where, even for one attached, the self is not bound by worldly fetters, whether in yoga or not. My body and mind are scorched by the burning pain of worldly life; sprinkle me with the cool water of your words—the water of Brahman-knowledge. 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 maddening elephant of attachment to son, wife, house, and land, quickly free me with the key of true knowledge of the real and the good.” The son responded, “Listen, father, to the yoga as taught by the wise Dattatreya to Alarka long ago, when he was properly questioned in detail.” The father, curious, asked, “Whose son is Dattatreya, and how did he teach yoga? And who is this fortunate Alarka who inquired about yoga?” The son began his account: “There was a Brahmin named Kaushika in the city of Pratishthana. Due to sins from previous births, he was afflicted with leprosy. Despite his condition, his wife served him devotedly, treating him as a god—massaging his feet, bathing him, clothing him, feeding him, and tending to all his needs, even the most unpleasant, with affection and humility. Yet, though she honored him, Kaushika, overcome by intense anger, would often rebuke her harshly. Still, his devoted wife regarded him as her deity, considering him the greatest, even though he was dreadful in appearance and manner. One day, unable to walk, Kaushika said to his wife, ‘Take me to her dwelling—the courtesan I saw on the royal road, who now lives in a house. She alone dwells in my heart. The girl I saw at sunrise remains in my thoughts even now at night. If that beautiful woman, full-hipped and full-breasted, does not embrace me, you will see me dead. Desire is fickle among men, and many seek her. My inability to walk makes the path seem impossible.’ Hearing her husband’s plea, his wife—noble, fortunate, and ever devoted—tied up her garments, took extra payment, and, carrying her husband on her shoulder, set out gently into the night. The sky was covered with clouds and flashes of lightning as she walked along the royal road. On the path, impaled on a stake, was a thief suspected of crime—Māṇḍavya, a twice-born, suffering in the darkness. As Kaushika’s wife passed by, carrying her husband, her foot struck Māṇḍavya, who, angered by the pain, cried out, ‘Who has so greatly distressed and shaken me with their feet, causing me to suffer in this terrible state? That sinful, vile person—at sunrise, he will lose his life. As soon as he sees the sun, he will meet his destruction.’ Hearing this dreadful curse upon her husband, the wife, distressed, declared, ‘Then the sun will not rise!’ Because of her words, the sun did not rise, and night continued unbroken for many days. The gods became fearful, for without the sun, there were no recitations, no oblations, no offerings to ancestors and gods—how could such a state not bring destruction to the world?