One who has turned away from fleeting sense pleasures should worship the Supreme Lord with unwavering devotion, practicing the yoga of bhakti with a sincere heart, for in this way complete liberation is attained. Having received such instruction, the young prince reverently circumambulated his teacher and bowed low. With a heart full of purpose, he journeyed to the sacred Madhuvana, a forest sanctified by the very footprints of the Lord. Meanwhile, when the prince had departed to that forest of austerities, the great sage entered the inner chambers of the palace. There, the king welcomed him with due honor, offered him a comfortable seat, and waited to hear his words. Nārada, perceiving the king’s troubled heart, gently asked, “O King, why do you sit so long in deep thought, your face parched with sorrow? Is it that some desire or duty, perhaps mingled with the pursuit of wealth, remains unfulfilled?” With a heavy heart, the king replied, “O Brāhmaṇa, my son—though but a child of five—has been driven out to the forest with his mother by a cruel-hearted woman. Yet he is a great sage, wise beyond his years. O noble one, though he is helpless and alone in the wild, may the wolves not harm that little boy—tired, lying hungry, his lotus-like face withering. Alas, see my misery! Conquered by a woman’s will, I failed to welcome that innocent child who, out of love, simply wished to climb into my lap. How base I am!” Nārada spoke words of comfort: “O protector of the people, grieve not for your son. The gods themselves watch over him. Not knowing his greatness, you lament, but his fame will one day spread throughout the world. He will accomplish a feat difficult even for the guardians of the universe, and through him, your name will become renowned.” Hearing these divine words, the king, though lord of the earth, set aside thoughts of royal opulence and thought only of his son. He purified himself and spent the night in sacred observance, his mind wholly dedicated to serving the Supreme Person as instructed. The young prince, too, engaged in intense worship. Every three nights, he would sustain himself only on wood-apples and jujube fruits, spending a month offering devotion to Hari as best he could. During the second month, he ate fallen leaves and grasses only every sixth day, continuing his worship. In the third month, he subsisted on water alone, taking it only every ninth day, and remained absorbed in meditation on the Glorious Lord. In the fourth month, he lived on air, eating nothing, and on every twelfth day, he deepened his meditation, having conquered his breath. When the fifth month arrived, the boy, his breath completely mastered, stood steady on one leg, unmoving as a pillar, his mind withdrawn from all else and fixed in his heart—the seat of the senses and the elements—seeing nothing but the radiant form of the Lord. As he sustained the Supreme, the very source of all creation, the three worlds began to tremble. Such was the power of his meditation that when he stood on one foot, the earth itself bent beneath his toe, much as an elephant’s platform tilts under its weight. As he closed off all his senses and meditated on the Self of the universe with unwavering focus, the worlds and their guardians, feeling oppressed and breathless, sought refuge in Hari. The gods prayed, “O Lord, never have we seen such restraint of breath among all beings, moving or unmoving. You are the abode of all. Please release us from this distress; we have come to You, our ultimate refuge.” The Blessed Lord replied, “Do not fear. I shall cause the boy to desist from his arduous austerities. Return to your realms, O sons of Uttānapāda, for it is through his deep absorption in Me that your breath was restrained.” In another time, Sūta continued: Out of fear of bringing harm to his subjects and desiring to know the highest righteousness, the king went to the place where Devavrata—Bhīṣma—lay. At that time, all his brothers, their horses adorned with gold, followed him in chariots, as did the sages Vyāsa, Dhaumya, and others. The Blessed Lord Himself, accompanied by Dhanañjaya, rode in a chariot; among them, the king shone like Kubera among the Yakṣas. When the Pāṇḍavas, with their followers and Krishna, the wielder of the discus, arrived, they saw Bhīṣma lying on the ground like a god fallen from heaven. They bowed to him with reverence. There, too, had assembled all the great sages among the Brāhmaṇas, the foremost of divine sages, and royal sages—all eager to see the chief of the Bharatas. Parvata, Nārada, Dhaumya, the venerable Badarayana, Brihadasva, Bharadvaja with his disciples, and the son of Renuka were present. Vasishtha, Indrapramada, Trita, Gritsamada, Asita, Kakshivan, Gautama, Atri, Kaushika, Sudarshana, and many other pure-hearted sages arrived with their disciples—Kashyapa, Angiras, and the rest. Perceiving all these most fortunate souls gathered there, the best of the Vasus, Bhīṣma—well-versed in righteousness and the distinctions of place and time—honored them all. He also worshipped Krishna, who, though seated there as a friend, was truly the Lord of the universe, present in every heart, having assumed a form by His own divine power. Bhīṣma then addressed the sons of Pāṇḍu, who sat before him with humility and affection, their eyes blinded by tears of deep love. “Alas,” he said, “how grievous, how unjust it is that you, O sons of Dharma, who are afflicted though devoted to the Brāhmaṇas, to righteousness, and to Acyuta, should suffer and live in distress. With mighty Pāṇḍu gone, Kunti, widowed and left with young children, has endured countless hardships for your sake, time and again, like a mother with her only child. “All these misfortunes, I believe, are the workings of time; the world and its rulers are all subject to its sway, just as clouds are driven by the wind. Where the son of Dharma is king, Bhīma wields the mace, Arjuna holds the Gandiva bow, and Krishna is your friend—how can adversity prevail? O King, no one truly knows His intention; even those who inquire deeply are bewildered, as are the wise. “Therefore, O best of the Bharatas, know this to be the arrangement of destiny; being thus ordained, O protectorless one, you, as lord, must protect the people. This is indeed Bhagavan Himself, the original Nārāyaṇa, who, concealing His divinity among the Vrishnis, moves about, bewildering the world by His own māyā.