Kuntī, the noble mother of the Pāṇḍavas, offered her heart in prayer to the Lord of Madhu. With unwavering devotion, she pleaded, “May my mind, with no other object, always flow in love toward You alone, O Lord, just as the sacred Ganges moves unbroken toward the sea.” Turning her gaze to Śrī Kṛṣṇa, she praised Him with deep reverence: “O Kṛṣṇa, friend of Kṛṣṇa, chief of the Vṛṣṇis, destroyer of the wicked, blazing fire among royal lines, You whose power brings liberation, Govinda, who relieves the suffering of cows, brāhmaṇas, and the gods, master of yoga, teacher of all, I bow before You, O Lord.” Hearing these sweet, heartfelt words from Pṛthā, Sūta narrates that the all-auspicious Lord Vaikuṇṭha smiled gently, His expression touched by the play of His own divine māyā, as if to bewilder her with His compassion. Affectionately bidding her farewell, Kṛṣṇa entered Hastināpura. Yet, as He prepared to depart for His own city, accompanied by the women of the family, King Yudhiṣṭhira stopped Him, unable to let Him go out of love. Despite the teachings and wise counsel of Vyāsa and other sages, and even the direct instructions of Kṛṣṇa Himself—He who performs wondrous deeds—Yudhiṣṭhira could not find peace. Overwhelmed by grief, he remained unconsoled, his mind clouded by sorrow. Haunted by the memory of his friends slain in battle, the king, son of Dharma, spoke to the assembled brāhmaṇas, his heart heavy with attachment and delusion, his mind troubled like that of ordinary men. “Alas, witness my ignorance, so deeply rooted in my sinful heart! For the sake of another’s kingdom, I have caused the deaths of countless warriors.” He lamented further, “Even if I were freed from hell for ten thousand times ten thousand years, I would not be absolved of the sin of harming children, brāhmaṇas, friends, kin, fathers, brothers, and teachers. Though the killing of enemies in a righteous war is not considered sinful for a king protecting his people, these words of duty bring me no peace or understanding.” He confessed his inability to dispel the enmity that had arisen, especially among the women whose relatives had perished because of householders’ actions. “Just as mud cannot cleanse muddy water, nor liquor remove the stain of liquor, so too a single act of killing cannot be purified by sacrifices.” At this moment, a sage addressed the prince: “Now listen to the supreme secret mantra, which, when recited for seven nights, enables one to perceive the beings who move in the sky. ‘Om, obeisance to the Blessed Lord Vāsudeva.’ With this mantra, the wise should worship the Lord, offering various substances, knowing the proper place and time.” The sage instructed, “Worship the Lord with pure water, flowers, wild roots, fruits, tender sprouts, fresh garments, and especially with the beloved leaves of tulasī. With a material image—of earth, water, or other elements—the sage, self-controlled and peaceful, restrained in speech and moderate in food, should perform the worship.” He continued, “The Lord, praised in sublime verses, manifests by His own inconceivable power and free will. One should meditate on Him as present in the heart. All forms of service previously rendered 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 the highest good, which cannot be attained by ordinary duties. One who is detached from sense pleasures should worship Him constantly and sincerely through the yoga of devotion, to attain complete liberation.” Having received these instructions, the prince circumambulated and bowed, then journeyed to the sacred Madhuvana, sanctified by the Lord’s own footprints. When he reached the forest of penance, the sage entered the inner chambers, where he was respectfully welcomed by the king. Seated comfortably, the sage addressed the king, “O King, why do you sit so long in thought, your face dried with sorrow? Is it that desire or duty, joined with wealth, remains unfulfilled?” The king replied, “O brāhmaṇa, my son, a mere child of five, has been exiled with his mother by a cruel-hearted woman, though he is a great sage. O brāhmaṇa, though he is 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, the divine sage, 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. Having performed a deed difficult even for the guardians of the worlds, O King, he will soon gain for you a fame that will become immense.” Maitreya continued the tale: Hearing these words from the divine sage, the king, lord of the earth, set aside royal opulence and thought only of his son. There, after being consecrated and purified, he spent the night in observance, and with focused mind, served the Supreme Person as he had been instructed. At the end of every three nights, subsisting on wood-apple and jujube fruits, he spent a month worshipping Hari according to his ability. In the second month, on every sixth day, the boy prepared food from fallen leaves, grass, and similar things, and worshipped the Lord. In the third month, on every ninth day, he subsisted on water alone and, absorbed in meditation, approached the Glorious Lord. In the fourth month, on every twelfth day, he lived only on air, having mastered his breath, and maintained his meditation on the Lord. When the fifth month arrived, the prince, having conquered his breath, stood on one leg, meditating on the Absolute, unmoving like a pillar. Withdrawing his mind from everywhere and fixing it in his heart—the seat of the elements and senses—he meditated on the form of the Lord, seeing nothing else. As he thus sustained the Supreme, the Lord of primordial matter and the great elements, the support of all, the three worlds began to tremble. When that royal boy stood on one foot, the earth, pressed by his big toe, bent wherever he stood, much like an elephant’s platform tilts under its weight. Absorbed in meditation on the Self of the universe, closing the doors of his senses with unwavering concentration, the worlds and their guardians, oppressed and breathless, sought refuge in Hari. The gods prayed, “O Lord, never have we seen such restraint of life-breath in all beings, moving and unmoving, whose abode is You. Please grant us release from this distress; we have come to You, our ultimate refuge.