In the quiet aftermath of tragedy, a house once filled with love now stood empty. The devoted wife, cherished as a goddess, had departed this world with their virtuous sons, ascending to heaven and leaving her husband alone in desolation. Surrounded by silence, bereft of all he held dear, the grieving man wondered why he should wish to continue living, so afflicted was he by sorrow. Just as a helpless bird, surrounded by its offspring and seized by the grip of death, writhes in agony and, blinded by ignorance, falls even as it sees the arrows approaching, so too did he succumb to fate. The cruel hunter, having achieved his aim, took the pigeon, its mate, and their young—all the householders—back to his home, their attachments leading to their downfall. Thus, one who clings to household life, whose mind is unsettled and who delights in the dualities of worldly existence, becomes bound by affection and sinks down, much like the bird caught by the hunter. Even for one who has attained the rare human birth, where the door to liberation stands open, remaining attached to worldly ties leads to a fall from the heights one could have reached. In the wake of the great war, Sūta continued, the women, led by Kṛṣṇā, went to the sacred Gaṅgā, desiring to offer water for their departed relatives. There, after making offerings and pouring out their grief, they bathed in the river, sanctified by the lotus feet of Hari and by the presence of Brahmā, the unborn. At that place, Mādhava beheld the king of the Kurus, Dhṛtarāṣṭra, seated with his younger brother, along with Gāndhārī, stricken with grief for her sons, Pṛthā, and Kṛṣṇā. Together with the gathered sages, he consoled those overwhelmed by loss, teaching them of the inevitable course of time, which none can resist. Having restored Ajātaśatru—Yudhiṣṭhira—to his rightful kingdom, which had been lost to deceitful gamblers, and having vanquished the unrighteous kings tainted by the touch of Kaca, Kṛṣṇa fulfilled his mission. He arranged for Yudhiṣṭhira to perform three splendid horse sacrifices, spreading the king’s pure fame in all directions, like Indra himself. Then, having honored the sons of Pāṇḍu, and being honored in turn by Vyāsa and the other sages, Kṛṣṇa, accompanied by Sātyaki and Uddhava, prepared to depart for Dvārakā. As he was about to leave, Uttarā came running toward him, her heart seized by terror. “Protect me! Protect me, O great yogin, Lord of lords, master of the universe!” she cried. “I see no other refuge but you, for death surrounds me on all sides. A blazing iron arrow rushes toward me! Let it burn me if it must, but, O master, do not let my unborn child be destroyed.” Hearing her desperate plea, Kṛṣṇa, ever affectionate to his devotees, recognized that the weapon unleashed by Droṇa’s son was meant to destroy the Pāṇḍava lineage. At that moment, the five Pāṇḍavas, seeing the fiery arrows descending upon them, took up their weapons to defend themselves. But seeing the calamity threatening those who had fixed their minds on him alone, the Lord shielded his own with his Sudarśana discus. The master of yoga, dwelling within all beings as their very self, by his divine power protected the embryo in Uttarā, descendant of the Kurus. Though the Brahmaśiras weapon is unfailing and cannot be counteracted, it was subdued by the Lord’s Vaiṣṇava power. This was not surprising, for in Acyuta, the source of all wonders, the unborn one creates, sustains, and destroys the universe through his divine illusion. Freed from the threat of Brahma’s weapon, along with her sons and with Kṛṣṇa present, the virtuous Pṛthā—Kuntī—spoke to Kṛṣṇa as he prepared to depart. With deep reverence, Kuntī said, “I bow to you, the original Person, the Lord beyond material nature, invisible to all, yet present within and without. Covered by the veil of illusion, unknowable and imperishable, you remain unseen by those whose vision is clouded, just as an actor is hidden by his costume. For the sake of devotion, you reveal yourself to the pure-hearted renunciants and sages—how can we women possibly perceive you? Still, salutations to Kṛṣṇa, to Vāsudeva, to the son of Devakī, to the boy of Nanda and the cowherds, to Govinda—again and again, I bow. Salutations to you, lotus-naveled, lotus-garlanded, lotus-eyed, whose feet are like lotuses. Just as Hṛṣīkeśa freed Devakī, long imprisoned by the wicked Kaṃsa, so too, O Lord, you have again and again delivered me and my sons from many dangers. From deadly poison, from the great fire, from the man-eater’s gaze, from the wicked assembly, from hardships in the forest, from battle after battle with mighty warriors, and from the weapon of Drauṇa, O Hari, you have protected us. May those calamities always befall us, O Guru of the world, so that we may see you again and again, for seeing you means we shall not see repeated birth. One who grows proud from birth, wealth, learning, and beauty cannot truly approach you, for you are accessible only to those who possess nothing. Salutations to you, the treasure of the destitute, whose activity is beyond the modes, who delights in the self, who is peaceful and the Lord of liberation. I see you as Time itself, the beginningless and endless ruler, moving equally among all beings, from whom their mutual discord arises. No one knows your intention, O Lord. Your actions in this world confound men; you have no one you favor or hate, yet people imagine partiality. The birth and deeds of the soul of the universe, the unborn, actionless self, among beasts, humans, and aquatic creatures—these are the highest mystery. When the gopī sought to bind you for your childhood mischief, and your eyes, full of fear, brimmed with tears and ointment, your face bowed in dread—this bewilders me, for even the fearful fear you. Some say the unborn was born for the glory of the virtuous, in the line of Yadu, his beloved, just as sandalwood grows in the Malaya mountains. Others say that, being requested by Vasudeva and Devakī, you, the unborn one, appeared to protect the world and destroy those who hate the gods. Some say you were born at Brahmā’s request, when the earth, burdened and sinking like a boat in the ocean, needed relief.” Thus, in devotion and wonder, Kuntī praised Kṛṣṇa, who had protected her family through countless perils, recognizing in him the mysterious, all-pervading Lord of all.