As the day drew to a close, O gentle one, and the sun slipped beneath the horizon, the sage sat alone, his mind and senses restrained, free from worldly hopes and possessions. He prepared a seat that was neither too high nor too low, laying upon it a cloth, a deerskin, and sacred kusa grass. Settling himself there, he began to practice yoga, intent on purifying his very self. With steady focus, he fixed his gaze upon the tip of his nose, turning his eyes away from all directions, drawing his mind inward and restraining it in devotion to me. United in this way, he sat in deep meditation, wholly dedicated to the Divine. Thus the twilight hours passed, and as night descended, he completed his ritual offering with firm resolve. Yet, afterwards, a sense of remorse overcame him. He reflected with sorrow that the ritual he had performed was impure—undertaken for the sake of obtaining a son. He wondered how, due to the curse, the great sages had not already destroyed him with their fiery power. He worried what the ancestors, those who dwell in the ancestral realms, would say of his actions. When dawn approached and the early light of the sun appeared, the descendant of Atri, burdened by distress, fell deeper into worry. He lamented, “Fie upon old age, fie upon my actions, fie upon strength, and fie upon life itself!” He understood, as the wise do, that the hell called Pūti is not a place but a suffering that dwells in the heart. Yet he remembered that by worshipping the gods and giving many gifts, a man attains merit through his son, and the ancestors are sustained through the grandson. Lamenting his fate, he cried, “Deprived of a prosperous son, I can no longer bear this life.” Seeking solace, he journeyed to the forest where ascetics dwelled, a place adorned with the hermitages of sages. Entering one such radiant hermitage, he was received with honor: his host offered water for washing his feet, an arghya, and a seat. There, the sage Nārada spoke to him, saying, “You grieve for those who should not be grieved for. Though 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 devas, asuras, gandharvas, humans, beasts, and birds—indeed, for every being that is born—time, in the form of death, is ever present. “Your son was truly great, renowned, and a treasure of good fortune. Having reached his destined end, he has attained the highest divine state.” Hearing these words from Nārada, the best among the twice-born was filled with fear. His voice faltered, and he sighed again and again. “Ah, best of great sages! Ah, foremost among knowers of dharma!” he cried. “Out of affection, friendship, or love, I will tell you—listen to this. Out of love for my son, I resolved to perform these rites. Afterwards, I offered the rice-ball, spreading darbha grass upon the ground. Overcome by grief, I acted as I did. My intellect, memory, and resolve were lost, deluded by ignorance. “I see now the terrible fear arising from the fierce curse of the sage. Yet do not be afraid, best of twice-born—take refuge in your father. I see no unrighteousness here; indeed, there is no doubt this is righteousness.” Thus, by deed, by mind, and by speech, he took refuge in his father. Meditating on these truths, he quickly approached the ascetic, who was endowed with great austerity.