The cowherd women, their every movement graceful and their laughter enchanting, were so deeply absorbed in Kṛṣṇa’s very nature that they lost themselves in imitating His playful acts. Their sidelong glances, sometimes full of love and sometimes feigning anger, revealed the depth of their devotion, and in their loving madness, they mirrored His divine play. In the royal assembly at Yudhiṣṭhira’s Rājasūya sacrifice, amidst a gathering of sages and kings, it was Kṛṣṇa alone who stood out as the one worthy of worship. In that august court, He revealed Himself before my very eyes—the One who graciously makes Himself known to me. Now, I have come to realize that Unborn One, who dwells in the hearts of all living beings. Though each person conceives of Him differently, shaped by their own mind, He is truly one—just as the single sun appears in many reflections. My delusion of seeing difference has now been dispelled. Sūta continued: Thus, fixing his mind, speech, and vision upon Lord Kṛṣṇa, and absorbing his very self into the Supreme Self, Bhīṣma drew in his breath and became utterly still. Recognizing that Bhīṣma was merging into the indivisible Brahman, all those present fell silent, just as birds do at the close of day. At that moment, drums resounded, played by gods and mortals alike. The virtuous praised Bhīṣma, and from the sky, showers of flowers fell upon the king. After Bhīṣma’s passing, Yudhiṣṭhira, the son of Bhārgava, performed the proper rites for the departed; yet, for a time, he remained deeply sorrowful. The assembled sages, hearts overflowing with devotion, praised Kṛṣṇa with secret names. Then, their minds fixed upon Him, they returned to their own hermitages. Yudhiṣṭhira, accompanied by Kṛṣṇa, went to Gajāhvaya to comfort his father and the ascetic Gāndhārī. With his father’s blessing and Kṛṣṇa’s consent, the mighty king Yudhiṣṭhira ruled the kingdom righteously, as it had come to him from his father and grandfather. The mother of heroes, overflowing with love, repeatedly anointed her son, and from her breasts flowed milk while auspicious tears streamed from her eyes. The people joyfully said to the queen, “By good fortune, your son—the remover of distress—has returned after long absence, and will protect the circle of the earth.” “O queen,” they continued, “surely you have worshipped the Lord, the remover of the distressed. For those who meditate on Him with steady mind can even conquer death, that most difficult of foes.” Thus cherished by the people, Yudhiṣṭhira and his brothers, the joyful king mounted the elephant, and, praised by all, entered the city. At every entrance, splendid makara-archways stood, adorned with clusters of banana trunks and heaps of betel nuts, all beautifully arranged. Each gateway was decorated with pitchers of water topped with lamps, garlands of young mango leaves, and strings of pearls hanging down. The entire city was adorned with ramparts, gateways, and houses decorated with golden ornaments, and the shining spires of mansions gleamed in the sun. Courtyards, streets, and crossroads were all immaculately clean, sprinkled with sandal paste, and offerings of parched rice, unbroken grains, flowers, fruits, and rice were placed everywhere. As the steadfast king passed along the road, the city women at various places brought auspicious items—rice, unbroken grains, curd, water, sacred grass, flowers, and fruits—to greet him. Out of affection, the virtuous women offered their blessings as he entered his father’s palace, their sweet, playful songs filling the air. In that splendid palace, adorned with clusters of great jewels, the king was cherished exceedingly by his father and dwelled there like a god in heaven. The beds there were white as milk foam, adorned with golden ornaments; the seats were of the highest value, and all the furnishings were made of gold. On crystal walls and great emeralds, jeweled lamps shone, adorned with gems taken from women’s ornaments. Delightful gardens surrounded the palace, filled with wondrous celestial trees, where pairs of birds cooed and intoxicated bees sang sweetly. There were ponds with steps of lapis lazuli, filled with lotuses, water lilies, and kumuda flowers, frequented by swans, cranes, and chakravaka ducks. King Uttānapāda, the royal sage, upon hearing and seeing his son’s extraordinary glory, was filled with the highest wonder. Seeing his son grown and beloved by the people, and approved by the ministers, the king made Dhruva the lord of the earth. Realizing his own old age, the lord of men, now detached, set out for the forest, contemplating the path of his own soul. Śaunaka then inquired: “O best of the righteous, after Yudhiṣṭhira had vanquished those who coveted his kingdom and wealth, and sat secure with his brothers, what did he do next? How did he proceed?” Sūta replied: Hari, the creator of the world, restored the Kuru dynasty, which had been destroyed by the fire of its own descendants. Having established Yudhiṣṭhira in his rightful kingdom, Hari was pleased at heart. Having heard the words of Bhīṣma and Acyuta, and with his doubts dispelled by true knowledge, Yudhiṣṭhira ruled the earth, supported by the unconquered, like Indra himself, with his brothers following him. The clouds rained as desired, the earth yielded all that was wished for, and the cows joyfully drenched the villages with abundant milk. The rivers, oceans, mountains, forests, and all the herbs and plants produced their fruits as desired for the king. No ailments, diseases, or troubles—whether from fate, other beings, or oneself—ever afflicted the creatures during the reign of this king whose enemy was never born. Hari, having stayed for some months in Hastināpura, to bring joy to his friends and to please his beloved sister, finally prepared to depart. After taking leave and receiving permission, embracing and bowing to them, He ascended His chariot, honored and embraced by some. Subhadrā, Draupadī, Kuntī, the daughter of Virāṭa, Gāndhārī, Dhṛtarāṣṭra, Yuyutsu, Kripa, and the twins Nakula and Sahadeva were all present. Vṛkodara, Dhaumya, and the women such as the daughter of the King of Matsya, bewildered and distraught, could not bear the pain of separation from the wielder of Śārṅga. Freed from bad company by association with the virtuous, a wise person cannot abandon such company once they have heard the delightful fame of Him who is praised. How could the sons of Pṛthā, whose minds were fixed upon Him, endure the separation—after having seen, touched, conversed, reclined, sat, and eaten with Him?