Gāndhārī, Draupadī, Subhadrā, Uttara, Kṛpī, and the other wives of Pāṇḍu, together with their sons and female relatives, were gathered in the royal halls. When Vidura returned, they all rose at once, their faces alight with joy, as if life itself had returned to their bodies. With proper respect, they approached him, greeting him with embraces and heartfelt salutations. Overcome by the pain of long separation, tears of love streamed from their eyes. King Yudhiṣṭhira honored Vidura with deep affection, offering him a seat and welcoming him with all due hospitality. Only after Vidura had eaten, rested, and was comfortably seated did the king, with humility and reverence, bow before him and speak, as all assembled listened attentively. Yudhiṣṭhira said, “Do you remember us, who flourished under your protection and were saved, along with our mother, from so many dangers—poison, fire, and more? How have you sustained yourself as you wandered the earth? Have you visited the sacred places and holy fields that bless this land?” He continued, “O lord, devotees like you are themselves holy places, for you sanctify even the most sacred sites by carrying within your heart the Lord who wields the mace. Tell me, have you seen or heard of our friends and relatives, the worshippers of Krishna? Are the Yadavas living happily in their city?” Thus addressed by Dharmaraja, Vidura recounted his experiences, step by step, describing all he had seen and heard—except for the destruction of the Yadu dynasty. Though something terrible and unbearable had occurred, Vidura, out of compassion and unable to bear causing sorrow, kept this to himself. For some time, Vidura remained there, honored and happy like a god, bringing well-being to his elder brother and delight to all the household. Meanwhile, Aryama administered justice to wrongdoers as needed, since Yama, due to a curse, was living as a Shudra for a hundred years. Yudhiṣṭhira, having regained his kingdom and seeing his grandson as the heir of the dynasty, rejoiced with his brothers—guardians of the world—in great prosperity. Yet, as they busied themselves with the affairs of home and kingdom, absorbed and heedless, time—so difficult to overcome—passed unnoticed. Perceiving the subtle advance of time, Vidura spoke privately to Dhritarashtra: “O King, depart quickly, for danger has arrived. There is no remedy here, from anywhere or at any time. This is the Supreme Time, the Lord Himself, who comes for all of us.” He continued, “Even those most dear, bound to us by life itself, are overtaken by time; separations happen suddenly. What, then, of wealth and other possessions? Fathers, brothers, friends, sons—all have been slain; youth has departed; your own body is worn by old age, and you dwell in another’s house.” Vidura’s words grew sharper: “How powerful is the hope for life in a living being! By it, you, like a mere caretaker, accept food left aside by Bhima. Fire has been set, gifts given, poison administered, wives dishonored, land and wealth stolen—what remains for those who gave their lives for such things?” “Even your body, O pitiable one, will depart, worn out by old age, like threadbare clothes, though it still desires to live. One who, having lost all purpose for this body, becomes detached and free from all bonds, leaving it without concern for its destination, is called wise. He who, whether by his own realization or another’s guidance, becomes disillusioned and self-possessed, placing Hari in his heart, leaves home—such a man is supreme.” “Therefore, let your journey be toward the north, your path unknown to others, for time hereafter draws men away through the influence of the guṇas.” Awakened by his wise younger brother, King Dhritarashtra cut the strong bonds of affection for his family and departed along the path shown by Vidura. The virtuous Gāndhārī, daughter of Subala, devoted to her husband, followed him, laying aside her staff of authority, just as noble souls relinquish their attachments at the end. Meanwhile, Yudhiṣṭhira, having reconciled with all, performed fire sacrifices, honored the brahmins with gifts of sesame, cows, land, and gold, and returned home to pay respects to his elders. But he did not find his parents or Gāndhārī, the daughter of Subala. There, seeing Sanjaya seated, he anxiously asked, “O Gavalgana, where is our aged father, now deprived of sight? And where is mother, grieving for her slain sons? Where has my uncle, our friend, gone? Perhaps, thinking me lacking in wisdom and now bereft of kin, he has, with his wife, sought the Ganga, hoping for relief from sorrow,” he wondered, falling into distress. He lamented further, “After our father Pandu passed away, our uncles protected all our friends and children from calamity. Where have those protectors gone now, leaving us behind?” Suta said: Out of compassion and the pain of separation, Sanjaya, overwhelmed and unable to see the Lord within himself, could not reply, being deeply afflicted. Wiping his tears with his hands and steadying himself, Sanjaya answered Ajatashatru, remembering the feet of the Lord. But Sanjaya could only say, “O delight of your lineage, I do not know the decision of your parents or of Gāndhārī, O mighty-armed one; I have been deceived by these great souls.” At that moment, the venerable sage Nārada arrived with Tumburu. Yudhiṣṭhira and his brothers rose to honor and worship him. Yudhiṣṭhira said, “O revered one, I do not know where my parents have gone, nor where my mother, grieving for her slain sons and devoted to austerity, has departed.” Then, like a helmsman who shows the way across the sea, the illustrious sage Nārada, best among sages, spoke: “Just as cows, tied by their own ropes to a stake, are bound by a cord, so too are beings bound by names and words, carrying out their offerings for the Lord. Just as the coming together and separation of playthings depend on the will of the player, so too do the unions and separations of people occur by the will of the Lord.” “What you consider as permanent or impermanent in this world is neither truly so; in any case, these things are not to be grieved for, except due to attachment born of delusion. Therefore, O dear one, give up this weakness of heart, born of ignorance. How could those helpless and pitiable ones survive without me?