For thousands of years, O Earth, Nimi undertook severe austerities, his heart heavy with longing and loss. When, after that long span, he beheld his lost son, a wave of sorrow swept over him, filling him with deep grief. Yet, after passing through this pain, Nimi resolved to perform the proper rites for his departed child, O Mādhavi. Purified in every way, Nimi waited for the twelfth day in the sacred month of Māgha. On that day, with a mind wholly concentrated, he carefully contemplated each step of the śrāddha ceremony. He gathered all manner of foods, including the nine varieties derived from juice, ensuring that nothing was omitted from the offerings. With reverence, Nimi addressed the Brahmin, his heart and mind purified and focused on the sacred task. Seven times in succession, he sat there, performing the rites with unwavering attention. Seven times, too, he worshipped the Brahmins, O beautiful one, honoring them as tradition prescribed. Then, reciting the name and lineage, he offered the sacred rice ball to Śrī, completing the ritual with devotion. As the day drew to a close and the sun slipped below the horizon, Nimi remained alone, his mind and senses restrained, free from hope or attachment to possessions. He prepared a seat that was neither too high nor too low, laying cloth, deer skin, and kusa grass upon it. Seated thus, he practiced yoga, seeking purification of the self. He fixed his gaze on the tip of his nose, not letting his eyes wander in any direction, restraining his mind and uniting it in devotion to me. Whoever sits thus, devoted and steadfast, attains true unity with me. When twilight ended and night descended, having completed the offering with firm resolve, Nimi was overtaken by remorse. He questioned the purity of his ritual, knowing it had been performed out of attachment to his son. He wondered how the sages, because of their curse, had not destroyed him, and what the ancestors would say of his actions. With the coming of dawn, as the early light of twilight spread and the sun rose, Nimi, descendant of Atri, fell once more into deep worry and distress. He lamented, "Fie upon age, fie upon my actions, fie upon strength, and fie upon life itself." He reflected that the wise know the hell called Pūti is truly suffering in the heart. Yet, he remembered, after worshipping the gods and giving many gifts, a man attains fulfillment through his son, and the ancestors are satisfied by the grandson. But deprived of a prosperous son, Nimi felt unable to endure his existence any longer. Seeking solace, he journeyed to the forest of ascetics, where the hermitages of sages shone with their own splendor. Entering one such hermitage, he was welcomed with the customary offerings: water for washing the feet, an arghya, and a seat. There, the sage Nārada addressed him: "You grieve for those not to be grieved for, though you are wise, you do not understand. The truly wise do not mourn for the living or the dead. Even if one's enemies rejoice, the departed do not return. For all beings—devas, asuras, gandharvas, humans, beasts, and birds—time in the form of death is ever present. "Your son was truly great, renowned, and a treasure of fortune. Having reached the destined time, he has now attained the highest, divine state." Hearing these words of Nārada, the best of the twice-born, Nimi, trembled with fear. His voice faltered, and he sighed again and again, the weight of wisdom and sorrow mingling in his heart.