When the noble prince spoke, his words shimmered with auspiciousness, filled with the essence of supreme nobility and the fragrance of detachment. The meaning he conveyed stood firm, clear, and appropriate—evident to all, noble in intent, worthy of being cherished and practiced with love, unwavering and free from confusion. Every utterance was distinct and pleasing, nourishing and deeply satisfying; truly, who would not marvel at the speech of Raghava? Even among a hundred, it is rare to find one who inspires such wonder; Bharati, the goddess of speech, seems to devote herself entirely to expressing the meaning he desires. O prince, without you, for whom does the tender vine of wisdom, bearing the fruit of discernment, blossom so radiantly? He whose heart holds the flame-tip of wisdom, as Rama’s does, shines brilliantly, illuminating all around him; such a one is remembered through time. The body—its flesh, blood, and bones—draws things to itself and passes through many states, but consciousness is not found within these fleeting forms. Birth, death, old age, and suffering follow one another ceaselessly, yet those lost in delusion do not pause to reflect on this endless cycle of existence. Only rarely, and in some special place, is one seen whose mind is pure and capable of contemplating both what has been and what is yet to come, as does this slayer of enemies. Forms that yield supreme wonder and auspiciousness are indeed rare in the world, like sandalwood trees among the common forest. True vision at the very dawn of creation, the marvel of one’s own discernment—within such a noble soul, a different sight is revealed. Fruitful and blossoming trees are easily found upon the earth, but sandalwood trees are not. Likewise, every forest may boast trees laden with fruit and leaves, but the clove tree, with its rare fragrance, is not always easily found. Just as moonlight is to the cool-rayed moon, or a cluster of blossoms to a splendid tree, or fragrance to a flower—so is Rama’s marvel witnessed among beings. This creation, shaped by the overwhelming play of fate, makes the essence distilled from a world scorched by suffering exceedingly rare, O best of twice-born. Those who strive with understanding to attain this essence, who are repositories of fame, are truly blessed, esteemed among the noble, and the best of men. In all the three worlds, there is truly none equal to Rama—wise, noble-hearted, and great-souled; such is our conviction. Even if something delights all the worlds, if it does not gladden the heart of Raghava, then it is nothing; indeed, we sages must confess our understanding has failed. When the great sage Narada had spoken these words in the assembly, Visvamitra, filled with affection, also addressed Rama, who was seated at the forefront. “O Raghava, there is nothing more for you to know; you are the foremost among the wise, for by your own subtle intellect you have understood everything. Only a slight cleansing remains for your mind, which is ever naturally pure, like a flawless mirror of clear understanding. Just as the mind of Śuka, son of Vyāsa, so too your mind seeks only a state of rest within, even after knowing all that is to be known. O revered one, you may wonder how it was that the mind of Śuka, son of Vyāsa, was at first not at rest, and then later became peaceful again. Listen, Rama, as I recount to you the story of Vyāsa’s son—a tale as profound as the knowledge of the end of my own self, and which reveals the cause of the end of birth itself. He who sits beside your father, Vyāsa—dark as collyrium, resplendent upon a golden seat, radiant like the sun—is the venerable sage. He had a son with a face like the moon, skilled in wisdom, named Śuka—a great sage, steadfast as the very embodiment of sacrifice. As Śuka deeply examined the course of the world in his heart, just as you do, a keen discernment arose in him as well. Through his own insight, O wise one, he diligently investigated for a long time and attained what is true. When his tireless mind reached the ultimate reality by itself, he neither entertained the idea that ‘this is not the truth,’ nor did he find rest in the Self. His mind simply became still, free from restlessness, withdrawing from the many fleeting pleasures of the world, like a cātaka bird turning away from the earth. Once, that pure-minded one, while staying alone on Mount Meru, respectfully approached his father, the sage Kṛṣṇadvaipāyana, with devotion and asked, ‘O sage, how has this display of worldly existence arisen? How does it come to rest, and for how long, for whom, and when?’ Thus questioned by his son, the sage Vyāsa, who knew the Self, spoke to him everything pure and appropriate that ought to be said. I had previously learned this from my own father, but Śuka, with his pure intellect, did not regard those words as many or significant. Understanding his son’s intention, the venerable Vyāsa replied again, ‘I do not know this truly. There is a king on earth named Janaka; he knows this subject thoroughly. From him, you will obtain everything.’ Thus addressed by his father, Śuka departed from the slopes of Mount Sumeru and reached the city of Videha, ruled by King Janaka. The gatekeepers announced his arrival to the great-souled Janaka, saying, ‘O King, the son of Vyāsa, Śuka, is standing at the gate.’ Desiring to test Śuka, Janaka, with a sense of disregard, said, ‘Let him wait,’ and remained silent for seven days. Only then did Janaka have Śuka brought into the courtyard, where he remained, absorbed in thought, for another seven days in the same manner.