Sūta continued his narration, describing how, upon hearing the words of Queen Kuntī, the Lord—ever affectionate to his devotees—immediately understood the true intent behind the weapon unleashed by Droṇa’s son: it was meant to annihilate the very lineage of the Pāṇḍavas. As the five brothers saw the blazing arrows rushing toward them, they quickly took up their own weapons to defend themselves. Yet, seeing the grave danger that had befallen his own devotees—those whose hearts were fixed solely upon him—the Lord, wielding his divine Sudarśana discus, shielded his people. Hari, the master of all yoga, who dwells within every being as their innermost self, by his own power covered and protected the embryo within Uttarā, the noble descendant of the Kurus. Although the Brahmaśiras weapon is unfailing and cannot be counteracted by any mortal means, it was subdued in the presence of the Lord’s Vaiṣṇava power. This, Sūta assured the sages, is not at all surprising, for in Acyuta—the infallible one—all wonders reside. He, the unborn, creates, maintains, and destroys the universe by his divine illusion. Freed at last from the power of the terrible weapon, Kuntī, together with her sons and in the presence of Kṛṣṇa, spoke to him as he prepared to depart. With deep reverence, Kuntī bowed to him, recognizing him as the original Person, the Lord who is beyond material nature, invisible to all yet present both within and without every being. She acknowledged that, covered by the veil of illusion, the imperishable Lord is hidden from those whose vision is clouded, just as an actor is concealed by his costume. If even the greatest sages and renunciants strive to perceive him through devotion, how could women like herself ever hope to truly see him? Still, Kuntī offered her repeated salutations to Kṛṣṇa, to Vāsudeva, the son of Devakī, the beloved boy of Nanda and the cowherds, to Govinda. Again and again, she bowed. She praised his lotus-navel, his garland of lotuses, his lotus-like eyes, and his feet, which are as beautiful as lotuses. She remembered how Hari had freed Devakī from her long years of suffering at the hands of the cruel Kaṃsa. In the same way, Kuntī recalled, he had repeatedly saved her and her sons from countless dangers: from deadly poison, from a great fire, from the man-eater, from the assembly of the wicked, from the hardships of the forest, from many fierce battles, and now, from the weapon of Drauṇa. Overwhelmed by gratitude, Kuntī prayed, “May such calamities always befall us, O Lord, so that we may see you again and again. For seeing you means we shall not see repeated birth.” She confessed that those made proud by birth, wealth, learning, or beauty cannot truly approach him; he is accessible only to those who possess nothing. She saluted him as the true wealth of the destitute, the one whose actions are beyond the modes of nature, who delights in the self, who is ever peaceful, and who is the Lord of liberation. She declared, “I see you as Time itself—beginningless and endless, the all-pervading ruler, moving equally among all beings, from whom all discord arises.” Kuntī acknowledged that no one truly knows the Lord’s intentions, for his actions in the world are beyond mortal understanding. He shows no preference or hatred, yet people imagine partiality. She marveled at his divine play: the birth and deeds of the soul of the universe, the unborn, non-acting self, among beasts, humans, and aquatic creatures—these are the highest mysteries. She was especially bewildered recalling how, when the gopī tried to bind the mischievous child Kṛṣṇa, his eyes, filled with tears and fear, were smeared with ointment, and he bowed his head in dread—even though the very source of all fear is he himself. Kuntī reflected on the many reasons given for his descent: some say the unborn Lord appeared in the Yadu line for the fame of the virtuous, just as sandalwood grows in the Malaya mountains; others say he came at the request of Vasudeva and Devakī to protect the world and destroy those who hate the gods; still others say he was summoned by Brahmā when the earth, burdened and sinking, needed relief; and some believe he came to perform deeds worthy of being heard and remembered by those suffering in the world from ignorance, desire, and action. She concluded that those who constantly hear, sing, praise, remember, and rejoice in his deeds will soon behold his lotus feet, which end the cycle of worldly existence. Yet, her heart was heavy—would he now abandon them, his devoted friends and dependents, for whom there is no refuge but his lotus feet, even though they are entangled in royal duties and their consequences? She humbly questioned, “What are we, the Pāṇḍavas and the Yadus, but mere names and forms? Without your presence, O Lord of the senses, we are as nothing.” She lamented that the earth would lose its radiance, no longer adorned by his feet, marked with their unique signs. All prosperity, the ripening of plants, the flourishing of forests, mountains, rivers, and oceans, she attributed to his gracious glances. Thus, Kuntī prayed, “O Lord of the universe, please sever this strong bond of affection in my heart for the Pāṇḍavas and the Vṛṣṇis. May my mind, with no other object, always flow toward you with love, just as the Ganges flows unbroken to the sea.” She offered her final, heartfelt salutations: “O Śrī Kṛṣṇa, friend of Kṛṣṇa, chief of the Vṛṣṇis, destroyer of the unrighteous, fire among royal lines, source of liberation, reliever of the distress of cows, brāhmaṇas, and gods, master of yoga, teacher of all—O Lord, I bow to you.” Hearing Kuntī’s sweet and profound words, the all-auspicious Lord Vaikuṇṭha smiled gently, as if to bewilder her with his divine māyā. After bidding her a loving farewell, he entered Hastināpura. But just as he was about to depart for his own city with the women, King Yudhiṣṭhira stopped him, unable to let him go out of deep affection. Despite being instructed by Vyāsa, by other sages, and by Kṛṣṇa himself—who performed wondrous deeds—and even after hearing many histories, the king could not understand, overwhelmed as he was by grief. Thinking constantly of the slaughter of his friends, Yudhiṣṭhira, son of Dharma, spoke with a mind clouded by attachment and delusion, like any ordinary man. He lamented, “Alas, see my ignorance, rooted so deeply in my wicked heart! For the sake of another’s body, I have caused the death of so many armies. Even if I were freed from hell for millions of years, I would not be released from the sin of harming children, brāhmaṇas, friends, kin, fathers, brothers, and teachers. Though the killing of enemies in a righteous war is not a sin for a king who protects his people, these words of reason bring no peace to my heart.” Thus, the story unfolded, with the Lord’s compassion, Kuntī’s devotion, and Yudhiṣṭhira’s sorrow woven together in the aftermath of the great battle.