In the idyllic land of Vraja, the childhood days of Krishna and his companions were filled with playful adventures—hiding from one another, building little bridges, leaping about like monkeys, and delighting in many such innocent pastimes. Thus, their boyhood passed in joyful camaraderie. But time moved on, and Sūta recounted how Krishna’s beloved friend, Arjuna, found himself bereft, compelled by circumstances beyond his control, and by the will of his royal brother Yudhiṣṭhira, whose mind was clouded with doubts and who suffered deeply from separation from Krishna. Arjuna’s face and heart, once radiant, withered with grief; his luster faded, and his thoughts turned only to the Lord, leaving him unable to utter a word. With great effort, Arjuna restrained his sorrow, wiping away his tears with trembling hands, overwhelmed by longing for the absent Lord. Remembering their deep friendship, their intimate companionship, and Krishna’s affectionate service as his charioteer and more, Arjuna finally addressed his elder brother, his voice choked with emotion. “O great king,” Arjuna said, “I have been deceived by Hari, who appeared as my kinsman. It was by his power—power that astonished even the gods—that I once accomplished mighty deeds, but now that power has left me. Separated from him, even for a moment, the world seems empty and bleak; without his praise, I feel lifeless, as it is said. It was by taking shelter in him that I entered Drupada’s hall at the svayamvara, where proud kings had gathered. By his grace, I defeated them all, won the contest, and gained Krishna as my bride. In his presence, I offered the Khāṇḍava forest to Agni, conquered Indra and his hosts, and received the wondrous assembly hall from Maya. Kings from every direction brought tribute to your sacrifice. By your might, O king, Bhīma—your noble younger brother, whose strength equaled ten thousand elephants—subdued the lords of the earth for our sacrifice, and those kings, thus humbled, brought their offerings. At your great sacrifice, your queen, 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—how greatly those women suffered. He, the Lord, protected us in the forest from the hardships brought by Durvāsā, from attacks by our enemies, and when, subsisting only on roots and vegetables, we had exhausted all means. By his grace, even the three worlds were satisfied, and we were saved from dangers as if surrounded by water. By your favor, O Lord, even Śiva, armed with his trident and accompanied by his consort, was astonished in battle and relinquished his weapon to me. With this very body, I attained a seat of honor in Indra’s palace. There, while enjoying myself, my two strong arms—marked by the bow Gāṇḍīva and meant for destroying enemies—were admired by the gods and Indra, who sought refuge with me. But now, O Lord, with your departure, I am bereft of that power, reduced to a common man. By your grace, 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 jeweled crowns from their heads. As the foremost charioteer, you led me in battle, adorning the circle of the best chariots, facing Bhīṣma, Karṇa, our teacher, Śalya, and others. By your glance alone, you subdued the strength and minds of our enemies’ leaders. It was by your favor that the mighty weapons of Bhīṣma, Karṇa, Drona, Śalya, Saindhava, and other great warriors—though unfailing—could not touch me, just as demon’s weapons could not harm Nṛhari, the servant of Hari. At Prabhāsa, surrounded by those of evil intent, the Lord, whose lotus feet are worshipped by the virtuous for liberation, protected me. Even when my horses were exhausted and I stood alone, the enemy’s charioteers, bewildered by his influence, could not attack. How I cherish the Lord’s playful and noble words, adorned with a charming smile—‘O Pārtha! O Arjuna! Friend! Joy of the Kurus!’—words that touch my heart and, when remembered, melt even my heart of stone. Sharing the same bed, seat, walking, talking, and eating together, I sometimes mistook him as my equal, as a friend with a friend, or even 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 dear friend and beloved companion, my heart is empty. 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 would bow—are now, in an instant, rendered powerless and useless, like offerings cast into ashes by the magic of illusion. O King, by your will, the mighty Yadus—who were not true friends even to their own city—became deluded by the curse of the Brāhmaṇas and began to strike each other with their fists. Having drunk the liquor Vāruṇī, their minds agitated by intoxication, they no longer recognized one another, and fought among themselves, leaving only four or five survivors. This is the inscrutable way of the Lord: living beings destroy and foster each other by his arrangement. Just as in water, the larger aquatic creatures devour the smaller, so among men, the strong overcome the weak, and the powerful prevail over the less powerful. In this way, the Lord removed the burden of the earth by causing the mighty Yadus to destroy each other, just as the powerful destroy the less powerful. The words spoken by Govinda, so fitting for every time, place, and circumstance, soothe the heart’s distress and captivate the mind of one who remembers them.” As Arjuna thus contemplated Krishna’s lotus feet with deep affection, his mind became peaceful and pure. By constant devotion and meditation on the feet of Vāsudeva, all remaining impurities in Arjuna’s heart were washed away, and he became established in the highest consciousness. Remembering the knowledge sung by the Blessed Lord on the battlefield, Arjuna overcame the darkness of time, fate, and delusion. Freed from sorrow by attaining the state of Brahman, all doubts of duality vanished; he merged into a nature beyond the modes, beyond bodily identification, and transcended birth itself. Yudhiṣṭhira, his mind composed, having heard of the Lord’s departure and the end of the Yadu dynasty, resolved to follow the path to the higher realms. Pṛthā too, upon hearing from Arjuna of the destruction of the Yadus and Krishna’s departure, fixed her mind in exclusive devotion to the transcendent Lord and withdrew from the cycle of birth and death. He who had removed the burden of the earth, the unborn Lord, abandoned that body just as one uses a thorn to remove another thorn and then discards both. Just as an actor assumes and then abandons many forms—such as that of a fish—so did the Lord, having lightened the earth’s burden, relinquish his form. When Mukunda, the Blessed Lord, left this earth along with his auspicious form, at that very moment, Kali—the cause of unrighteousness—began to act upon those whose minds were not awakened. Yudhiṣṭhira, wise and discerning, saw the advance of Kali—in the city, the kingdom, his household, and even within himself—manifesting as greed, falsehood, and violence, and thus prepared to depart from this world. The sovereign, seeing his own grandson, equal in virtues and discipline, installed him as lord of the earth at Hastināpura, on the banks of the Ganges. In Mathurā, he installed Vajra as the chief of the Śūrasenas, and then, performing the proper rites, Yudhiṣṭhira, the lord, drank the sacrificial fire, ready to follow the path of the great souls.