Kuntī, with wonder in her heart, remembered a scene from Kṛṣṇa’s childhood: how the gopī, his mother Yaśodā, once tried to bind him with a rope for his mischief. She recalled how the all-powerful Lord, whose very presence inspires fear in the fearful, stood before her with frightened eyes, their corners wet with tears and darkened by ointment, his face bowed in dread. This sight, so human and vulnerable, bewildered her, for she knew that even those who terrify the world tremble before him. Reflecting on Kṛṣṇa’s mysterious birth, Kuntī considered the many opinions spoken by sages and devotees. Some said that the unborn Lord had taken birth in the virtuous Yadu dynasty to bring glory to his beloved lineage, just as fragrant sandalwood grows only in the Malaya mountains. Others believed that, moved by the prayers of Vasudeva and Devakī, Kṛṣṇa appeared among mortals to protect the world and destroy the enemies of the gods. Some claimed that at Brahmā’s request, when the earth was sinking under the weight of unrighteous rulers, Kṛṣṇa descended to lighten her burden, just as one would save a boat from foundering in the ocean. Still others said that he came to perform wondrous deeds, so that those suffering in this world—caught in ignorance, desire, and the bonds of action—might have stories worth hearing and remembering, stories that would bring them solace. Kuntī knew that those who constantly listen to, sing, praise, and remember Kṛṣṇa’s deeds, and who rejoice in them, soon come to behold his lotus feet—the very feet that bring an end to the endless cycle of birth and death. Now, as Kṛṣṇa prepared to depart, she pleaded with him: “Will you abandon us, your devoted friends and dependents, for whom there is no other refuge but your lotus feet, even though we are entangled in the duties and faults of kingship? Without you, O Lord of the senses, what are we—the Pāṇḍavas and the Yadus—but mere names and forms? When you are not seen, we are as nothing.” She lamented that the earth would no longer shine as it did when adorned by his feet, marked with their unique signs. The lands, so prosperous, their herbs and plants flourishing, the forests, mountains, rivers, and oceans—all thrived by his mere glance. Therefore, she prayed, “O Lord of the universe, soul of all, please sever this strong bond of affection I have for the Pāṇḍavas and the Vṛṣṇis.” She begged that her mind, with no other attachment, might always flow in loving devotion toward him, as the Ganges flows unbroken to the sea. With deep reverence, she addressed him: “O Śrī Kṛṣṇa, friend of Kṛṣṇa, chief of the Vṛṣṇis, destroyer of the wicked, fire among kings, liberator by your power, Govinda, reliever of the distress of cows, brāhmaṇas, and gods, master of yoga, teacher of all, I bow to you.” Sūta continued the tale: Thus praised with sweet and heartfelt words by Pṛthā (Kuntī), the all-auspicious Lord Vaikuṇṭha smiled gently, as if, by his divine power of māyā, he was bewildering her. After bidding her a loving farewell, Kṛṣṇa entered Hastināpura. Yet, as he prepared to depart for his own city with the women of his family, King Yudhiṣṭhira stopped him, unable to let him go, for love still bound his heart. Despite being instructed by Vyāsa and other sages, and even by Kṛṣṇa himself, who performed wondrous deeds, Yudhiṣṭhira could not find peace. Though taught through histories and wise counsel, his mind, overwhelmed by grief, could not grasp their meaning. Remembering the slaughter of his friends and kin, he spoke, his words heavy with attachment and delusion, as if he were an ordinary man. “Alas,” he lamented, “see my ignorance, so deeply rooted in my sinful heart! For the sake of another’s body, I have caused the death of countless armies. Even if I were freed from hell for millions of years, I would never be released from the sin of harming children, brāhmaṇas, friends, kinsmen, fathers, brothers, and teachers. Though the killing of enemies in a righteous war is said to be no sin for a king who protects his people, these words bring me no relief. The enmity that now exists among women whose loved ones have been slain by householders’ actions—I cannot remove it. Just as mud cannot cleanse muddy water, nor liquor remove the stain of liquor, so too, one act of killing cannot be purified by sacrifices.” Then, turning to his brother, he said, “Now listen, O prince, to the supreme secret mantra. When recited for seven nights, it enables a person to see the beings who move in the sky: ‘Om, obeisance to the Blessed Lord Vāsudeva.’ With this mantra, the wise should worship the Lord with various offerings, knowing the proper place and time—using pure water, flowers, wild roots, fruits, tender sprouts, fresh garments, and especially the beloved tulasī leaves. Whether the image for worship is made of earth, water, or other elements, the sage—self-controlled, peaceful, restrained in speech, and moderate in food—should worship it, praising the Lord with sublime verses. The Lord, by his own inconceivable power and by his freely chosen deeds, will manifest; one should meditate on him as present in the heart. All former acts of service should now be offered to the Lord’s form established by mantra, with the heart absorbed in that mantra. When the Lord is served with body, mind, and speech, and with heartfelt devotion, he is truly worshipped. To those who are free from deceit and worship him properly, the Lord increases their devotion and grants their highest desire—a good not attained by ordinary duties. One who has become detached from sense pleasures should worship him with constant and sincere devotion through the yoga of devotion, for complete liberation.” Having received this instruction, the prince circumambulated and bowed, then departed to the sacred Madhuvana, sanctified by the Lord’s footprints. When he had gone to the forest of penance, the sage entered the king’s inner chambers. The king honored him properly, and when the sage was comfortably seated, he spoke: “O King, why do you sit so long in thought, your face dried with sorrow? Is it that some desire or duty, linked with wealth, is unfulfilled?” The king replied, “O brāhmaṇa, my son—a mere child of five—has been exiled with his mother by a cruel-hearted woman. He is a great sage. Though helpless in the forest, may the wolves not harm that child—tired, lying down, hungry, his lotus-face withered. Alas, see my wretchedness, conquered by a woman! I did not welcome that innocent one, who wished to climb into my lap out of love. How base I am!” Nārada consoled him: “O protector of the people, do not grieve for your son, who is guarded by the gods. Not knowing his greatness, you lament, though his fame will spread throughout the world. He has performed a deed difficult even for the guardians of the worlds, O King, and he will soon win for you a fame that will become immense.” Maitreya then said: Hearing these words spoken by the divine sage, the king, disregarding all royal opulence, thought only of his son.