Dearest one, is it that your heart feels empty and deprived by your own kin? Or do you have other thoughts? If not, then truly, there is no sorrow for you. Meanwhile, Krishna’s friends greeted him joyfully, saying, “Welcome, you have come so swiftly! Not one of us has eaten a morsel—please, come and eat well!” Smiling, Hṛṣīkeśa sat among the children and shared their meal, even showing them the python’s skin as proof of their adventure, before turning back with them from the forest to the village. Adorned with peacock feathers, flowers, and fresh minerals, Krishna entered the cowherd settlement, his presence a festival of flute and horn, his praises sung by the boys, the calves lauded, and the gopīs’ eyes drinking in his glory. The whole village resounded with the children’s song: “Today, by the son of Yaśodā and Nanda, the great serpent was slain and we are protected from it!” Hearing of this, the king inquired, “O Brahmin, how did such deep love for Krishna arise at his birth, even among those who had never felt such love, not even for their own children? Please explain this mystery to me.” Śuka replied, “O King, for all living beings, the self alone is most dear; others, like children and wealth, are cherished only because of their connection to the self. Among embodied beings, the attachment to one’s own self is strongest, not so for sons, wealth, homes, or other things that depend on possessiveness. Even those who identify with the body do not hold it as dear as the self, for when the body ages, the hope for life persists. Thus, the self is dearest to all, and for its sake, the entire world—moving and unmoving—exists. Know, O King, that Krishna is this very self, the innermost self of all beings. For the welfare of the world, he appears here, embodied by his own divine illusion. In truth, for those who know, Krishna alone is the abiding and moving reality; the entire form of the Lord is all there is—nothing else exists in this world. The essence of all things is rooted in being, and for Lord Krishna, how could anything not of that nature be considered real? Those who have taken shelter in the boat of Murari’s tender feet, whose fame is pure and great, for them the ocean of worldly existence becomes as small as a calf’s hoofprint—never touched by misfortune at any step, that supreme destination is theirs. All this, as you asked, I have told you: the wondrous deeds of Hari in his childhood, and the renowned stories from his boyhood. This conduct of Murari—destroying evil, playing in the meadows, his manifest and hidden forms, and his fulfillment of the earth’s desires—whoever hears and praises this attains all purposes. Thus, with such playful pastimes—hiding, building bridges, leaping like monkeys, and more—the boys passed their childhood in Vraja.” Then Sūta continued: “Thus, Krishna’s friend, Arjuna, was left without choice by his royal brother, whose mind was troubled by many doubts and who suffered deeply from separation from Krishna. His face and heart, like lotuses, had withered in grief, his radiance gone. Meditating only on that Lord, he was unable to speak. With great effort, restraining his sorrow and wiping his eyes, he was overwhelmed by longing for the Lord’s presence. Recalling their friendship, intimacy, and affection—his service as charioteer and so much more—Arjuna addressed his elder brother, the king, his voice choked with tears: ‘O great king, I have been deceived by Hari, who appeared as my kinsman; by whose grace my power, which astonished even the gods, has now been taken away. Separated from him, even for a moment, the world feels joyless; bereft of his praise, I am as if dead. By taking refuge in him, I entered Drupada’s house at the svayamvara, where proud kings had gathered; by his power, I overcame them, won the contest, and gained Draupadī. In his presence, I gave the Khāṇḍava forest to Agni, conquered Indra and his hosts, and obtained the wondrous assembly hall built by Maya. Kings from all directions brought tribute to your sacrifice. By your might, O king, Bhīma, your noble brother, whose strength equaled ten thousand elephants, subdued the lords of the earth for the great sacrifice; and those kings brought tribute to you. At your great sacrifice, your wife, adorned for the royal consecration, was insulted in the assembly by gamblers; her tears fell at your feet, her hair loosened in distress when her protectors were defeated—those women suffered greatly. He protected us in the forest, when we suffered the severe hardships brought by Durvāsā, when our enemies attacked, and when we, surviving only on vegetables, had exhausted all means. By his grace, the three worlds became satisfied, even as we faced dangers on every side. By your power, O Lord, even Śiva, armed with the trident and accompanied by his consort, was astonished in battle and surrendered his weapon to me; and with this very body, I was honored in the palace of Indra. There, while enjoying myself, my strong arms, marked by the bow Gāṇḍīva and meant for destroying enemies, were admired by the gods with Indra at their head, who sought refuge with me. But now, O Lord, by your departure, I am deprived of that power, like an ordinary man. By his favor, O kinsman, I alone crossed the boundless ocean of the Kuru army with a single chariot, displaying the valor of great heroes; I recovered treasures from the enemy and took the radiant jeweled crowns from their heads. He, the foremost of charioteers, moved ahead of me in battle, adorning the circle of the best chariots, facing Bhīṣma, Karṇa, Guru, Śalya, and others—by his glance, he subdued the strength and minds of my enemies. By his grace, the mighty weapons of Bhīṣma, Karṇa, Drona, Śalya, Saindhava, and other great warriors, though unfailing and powerful, could not touch me, just as the weapons of the demons could not touch Nṛhari, the servant of Hari. In the battle at Prabhāsa, surrounded by those of evil intent, the Lord, whose lotus feet are worshipped by the virtuous for liberation, protected me; though my horses were exhausted and I stood on the earth, the enemy charioteers, their minds bewildered by his influence, could not attack me. His playful and noble words, adorned with a charming smile—‘O Pārtha! O Arjuna! Friend! Joy of the Kurus!’—when I remember them, they touch my heart and make it melt, though it is like stone. Sharing the same bed, seat, walking, talking, and eating together, I was sometimes deceived by him, thinking him my equal, as a friend with a friend, or as a father with his son; yet, out of his great affection, he tolerated all my offenses born of ignorance. Now, O King, bereft of that Supreme Person, my beloved friend and companion, my heart is empty; on this path of life, though I have the protection of his great deeds, I am like a woman defeated by thieves, left helpless. That bow, those arrows, that chariot, those horses, and I as the charioteer—before whom even kings bowed—have all, in a moment, become powerless and useless, like offerings cast into ashes by the magic of illusion. O King, by your will, the Yadus, who were not true friends to their own city, became deluded by the curse of the Brāhmaṇas and began to strike each other with their fists.