Yudhishthira, the noble king, sat with a heart weighed down by concern and longing. He turned to his brother and asked gently, “Are our relatives living happily in the city of Anarta? How are the Madhus, Bhojas, Dasharhas, Ahukas, Satvatas, Andhakas, and Vrishnis? Is our revered maternal grandfather, Shura, well, and is his wife in good health? And what of our uncle Anakadundubhi—Kamsa’s father—and his younger brothers, are they safe?” His voice grew softer as he continued, “Are the seven sisters, their husbands, our other maternal uncles with their sons and daughters-in-law, all led by Devaki herself—are they well? Is King Ahuka still alive, and what of his wayward son and younger brother? Are Hridika and his son, Akrura, as well as Jayanta, Gada, and Sarana, in good health? Are Shatrujit and the others safe? And is Rama, the mighty Lord of the Satvatas, living happily?” Yudhishthira’s mind wandered to the younger generation: “Is Pradyumna, the great chariot-warrior of the Vrishnis, well? Is Aniruddha, so passionate and blessed, flourishing? Are Sushena, Charudesha, and Samba—the son of Jambavati—and the other foremost Karsnis, with their sons like Rishabha, all well? And what of the followers of Shauri—Shrutadeva, Uddhava, Sunanda, Nanda, Shirishanya, and the other chief Satvatas—are they well?” His concern extended to all who found shelter in the Yadava clan: “Are those who rely on the strong arms of Rama and Krishna safe? Do those bound to us by friendship still remember our welfare? Is Govinda, the Lord, ever devoted to the Brahmanas and affectionate to his devotees, living happily in the city of Sudharma, surrounded by friends?” Yudhishthira’s devotion was clear as he pondered, “For the welfare and prosperity of all worlds, does the primeval, infinite friend—the Lord—remain amidst the ocean of the Yadu dynasty? When the Yadus are honored in their own city, protected by their many strong arms, do they not play in supreme bliss, like great heroes?” He recalled with reverence, “By serving at his feet, which is their highest duty, Satyā and the other sixteen thousand women—whose beauty surpasses even the celestial goddesses—receive blessings fit for the beloveds of Indra. The foremost Yadus, fearless and mighty, stride boldly into the Sudharmā assembly hall, fit for the gods, bringing it there with their own feet.” Turning his gaze to Arjuna, Yudhishthira asked with concern, “My dear, are you well? You seem to have lost your radiance. Have you failed to obtain something, been dishonored, or stayed away too long? Have you been troubled by inauspicious omens, or failed to fulfill a promise to a supplicant? Have you, as a giver of refuge, ever turned away a Brahmin, a child, a cow, an elder, the sick, a woman, or any being who sought your protection?” He continued, “Have you approached a woman you should not, or failed to approach one who is your companion? Have you been defeated by superior or inferior paths? Have you eaten food meant to be shared with elders and children, or done anything disgraceful or beyond your capacity? O dearest, do you feel empty and deprived because of your own kin? Or do you think otherwise? If not, then there is no sorrow.” Yudhishthira’s mind drifted to the joyful pastimes of Krishna among his friends. He recalled how, when Krishna would return from the forest, his friends would joyfully call out to him, “Welcome! You have come so swiftly! Not one of us has eaten; please, come and eat well.” Krishna, smiling, would join the children in their meal, showing them the python’s skin, and then lead them back from the forest to the village. He could see Krishna in his mind’s eye, adorned with peacock feathers, wildflowers, and fresh minerals, his presence vibrant with the music of flute and horn. The calves were praised, Krishna’s holy fame was sung, and the eyes of the gopīs celebrated him as he entered the cowherd settlement. The children would sing through the village, “Today, by the son of Yaśodā and Nanda, the great serpent was slain, and we are protected!” King Parikshit, listening to these stories, asked the sage, “O Brahmin, how did such deep love for Krishna arise at his birth, even among those who had never felt it before—not even for their own children? Please explain.” Śuka replied, “O king, for all beings, the self alone is most dear; others, such as children and wealth, are dear only because of that self. Just as attachment to one’s own self is strongest among embodied beings, it is not so for sons, wealth, or homes, which are loved only as possessions. Even for those who identify the body as the self, the body is not as dear as the self. For even as the body ages, the hope for life remains strong.” He continued, “Thus, the dearest is always one’s own self for all embodied beings; for its sake, the whole world, moving and unmoving, exists. Know Krishna to be this very self—the self of all selves—who appears here in a body by his own divine illusion, for the welfare of the world. In truth, for those who know, Krishna alone is the abiding and moving reality; the entire form of the Lord—there is nothing else. The essential meaning of all things is established in being; for Lord Krishna, how could anything not of that nature be considered real?” Śuka concluded, “Those who take shelter of the tender feet of Murari, whose fame is pure and great, find that the ocean of worldly existence becomes as small as a calf’s hoofprint; that supreme destination is never touched by misfortune. All this I have told you, as you asked, about what Hari did in his childhood and what is renowned from his boyhood. The conduct of Murari with his friends—destroying evil, playing in the meadows, his manifest and hidden forms, and his fulfillment of the earth’s desires—hearing and praising this, a person attains all purposes. Thus, with such childhood pastimes—hiding, building bridges, leaping like monkeys, and the like—they passed their boyhood in Vraja.” As Sūta continued the narration, he spoke of Arjuna, Krishna’s dear friend. Krishna had departed, and his royal brother, tormented by doubts and the pain of separation from Krishna, left Arjuna without choice. Arjuna’s face and heart, once radiant like a lotus, withered with grief; he could think only of the Lord and was unable to speak. With great effort, he restrained his sorrow, wiping his eyes with his hand, overwhelmed by longing at the Lord’s absence.