As ominous signs began to appear all around, Yudhishthira, the tiger among men, grew troubled. He observed celestial, terrestrial, and bodily portents—terrible and foreboding—manifesting nearby, filling everyone with fear and confusion. His own thighs, eyes, and arms trembled again and again, and his heart felt unsteady. Surely, he thought, something inauspicious was approaching. He saw a she-jackal with a fiery mouth howling at the rising sun, and a dog crying at him like one afraid. Animals circled him on both sides, and even his horses were weeping. A pigeon, the messenger of death, and an owl disturbed his mind, while the screeching of the night-owl foretold sleeplessness and emptiness. The quarters filled with smoke, the horizons trembled along with the mountains, and thunderclaps echoed, accompanied by lightning. The wind blew harshly, scattering dust and darkness, while clouds rained blood everywhere in a dreadful manner. The sun’s brilliance was dimmed, planets collided in the sky, and the heavens blazed, crowded with strange beings. Rivers and streams were agitated, lakes and minds alike disturbed, and even fire would not blaze, despite being fed with ghee. Calves refused to drink from their mothers, cows did not yield milk, and both cows and bulls cried, joyless and tearful. The deities seemed to weep, sweat, and tremble, and the towns, villages, gardens, lakes, and hermitages had lost their splendor and joy. Yudhishthira wondered what misfortune these signs revealed. He reflected, “By these great omens, it seems the earth has been deprived of the feet of the Lord, and of those unique persons endowed with His fortune, losing its prosperity.” While his mind was thus disturbed by these portents, Arjuna—the one with the monkey-banner—returned from the city of the Yadus. Yudhishthira saw him fall at his feet, unlike before, distressed, his face lowered, shedding tears from the lotus of his eyes. Seeing his brother so troubled and changed in appearance, the king questioned him in the midst of friends, recalling Narada’s words. Yudhishthira asked, “Are our relatives in Anarta city—the Madhus, Bhojas, Dasharhas, Ahukas, Satvatas, Andhakas, and Vrishnis—living happily? Is Shura, our maternal grandfather, and his wife well? Is our uncle Anakadundubhi, along with his younger brothers, safe? Are the seven sisters, their husbands, other maternal uncles with their sons, and their daughters-in-law, led by Devaki herself, all well? Is King Ahuka alive, and his son and younger brother? Is Hridika with his son, Akrura, Jayanta, Gada, and Sarana well? Are Shatrujit and others safe? Is Rama, the Lord of the Satvatas, living happily?” He continued, “Is Pradyumna, the great chariot-warrior of all the Vrishnis, well? Is Aniruddha, deep in his passions, growing and blessed? Are Sushena, Charudesha, Samba—the son of Jambavati—and others, the foremost of the Karsnis, with their sons, like Rishabha, well? Are the followers of Shauri—Shrutadeva, Uddhava, Sunanda, Nanda, Shirishanya, and other chief Satvatas—well? Are all those who rely on the arms of Rama and Krishna safe? Do those bound by friendship remember our welfare?” He asked after Krishna: “Is Govinda, the Lord, devoted to Brahmanas and affectionate to his devotees, living happily in the city of Sudharma, surrounded by friends? For the welfare, safety, and prosperity of the worlds, does the primeval, infinite friend, the man, remain in the ocean of the Yadu dynasty? When the Yadus are honored in their own city, protected by many strong arms, they play in supreme bliss, like great heroes. Satyā and the other sixteen thousand women serve at Krishna’s feet, their chief duty, having conquered the celestial goddesses in beauty, receiving blessings fit for Indra’s beloveds.” He described the Yadus: “The foremost Yadus, fearless at all times, forcibly enter the Sudharmā assembly hall, fit for the best of gods, with their feet, having brought it there. My dear, do you remain free from illness? You appear as if your radiance has faded. Have you failed to obtain something, been disrespected, or stayed away for a long time? Have you been struck by inauspicious things—sounds or disturbances? Have you failed to give or fulfill what was promised to supplicants out of desire?” He continued, “Have you, as a giver of refuge, rejected anyone—a Brahmin, child, cow, elder, sick person, woman, or any being who approached you for shelter? Have you not approached a woman who should not be approached, or one who is to be approached, or one who has been made your companion? Or have you been defeated by superior or inferior paths? Have you eaten food that should be shared with elders and children? Have you committed any act that is disgraceful or beyond your capacity? Do you always feel empty and deprived in your heart by your own kin? Or do you think otherwise? If not, then there is no sorrow.” Meanwhile, the friends welcomed Krishna, saying, “Welcome to you, who have come so swiftly! Not one has eaten a morsel; come, please eat well.” Then Hṛṣīkeśa, smiling, ate together with the children, showing them the python’s skin, and turned back from the forest to the village. Adorned with peacock feathers, flowers, and fresh minerals, rich in the festival of flute and horn, praising the calves, singing holy fame, and with the gopīs’ eyes celebrating him, Krishna entered the cowherd settlement. The children sang in the village, “Today, by the son of Yaśodā and Nanda, the great serpent was slain and we are protected from it.” The king then asked, “O Brahmin, how did such great love arise for Krishna at his birth, even among those who had never felt it before, even in their own offspring? Please explain.