Seven months had now passed, and Yudhishthira noticed with growing concern that his younger brother, Bhīmasena, had not returned. The reason for this absence was unknown to him, and his heart grew heavy with worry. He wondered aloud whether the time foretold by the divine sage had now arrived—was this the moment when the Lord intended to end His divine play upon the earth? Yudhishthira reflected on all that had been bestowed upon them by the Lord’s grace: wealth, kingdom, wives, life itself, family, loyal subjects, victory over enemies, and even mastery of the worlds. But now, everywhere he looked, ominous signs abounded. He called his brother’s attention to these terrible portents—celestial, earthly, and bodily—that appeared close at hand, filling their hearts with fear and confusion. His own body betrayed his anxiety: his thighs, eyes, and arms trembled again and again, and his heart was unsteady. It seemed certain that something inauspicious was approaching. Strange and frightening omens appeared: a she-jackal, mouth aglow with fire, howled at the rising sun, and a dog cried out to him in fear. Animals circled him from both sides, and even his horses, usually so steadfast, seemed to weep. A pigeon, which he recognized as a messenger of death, and an owl, together with the screeching of a night-owl, unsettled his mind and suggested sleeplessness and emptiness to come. The quarters of the sky filled with smoke; the horizons and even the mountains trembled. Thunderclaps resounded, mingled with flashes of lightning. The wind blew harshly, scattering dust and darkness, while the clouds rained blood everywhere in a most dreadful manner. He pointed to the sun, its brilliance dimmed, and saw the planets colliding in the sky. The heavens themselves seemed ablaze and crowded with strange beings. Rivers and streams were agitated, the lakes restless, and even people’s minds were disturbed. Even when ghee was poured, the fire would not blaze. What could such times portend? Calves refused to drink from their mothers’ udders, and the cows yielded no milk. The cows themselves, faces streaked with tears, cried out, while the bulls in the herd no longer rejoiced. It seemed even the deities were weeping, sweating, and trembling. Towns, villages, gardens, lakes, and hermitages had lost their former splendor and joy. Yudhishthira wondered aloud: what misfortune was being revealed to them? He concluded, with sorrow, that by these great omens, the earth must have been deprived of the Lord’s very feet, and of those rare souls who were blessed with His fortune. The earth had lost its prosperity. While Yudhishthira was thus immersed in anxious reflection, his mind disturbed by these dire portents, Arjuna—the one whose banner bore the image of Hanuman—returned from the city of the Yadus. But this was not the Arjuna he knew. Arjuna fell at Yudhishthira’s feet, a gesture unlike his usual demeanor, his face lowered in distress, tears falling from his lotus-like eyes. Seeing his beloved brother so troubled and changed in appearance, Yudhishthira questioned him in the presence of their friends, his mind recalling the words once spoken by the sage Nārada. With deep concern, Yudhishthira asked after the well-being of their extended family and kin in the city of Anarta: the Madhus, Bhojas, Dasharhas, Ahukas, Sātvatas, Andhakas, and Vrishnis. Was their maternal grandfather Shura well, and his wife too? Was their uncle Anakadundubhi and his younger brothers safe? What of the seven sisters, their husbands, the other maternal uncles and their sons, and their daughters-in-law, led by Devaki herself—were they all well? He inquired after King Ahuka, his wicked son and younger brother, and after Hridika, his son, Akrura, Jayanta, Gada, and Sarana. Were they safe? And what of Shatrujit and the others? Was Balarama, the Lord of the Sātvatas, living happily? Was Pradyumna, the great chariot-warrior of the Vrishnis, well? Was Aniruddha, deep in his passions, growing and blessed? He asked after Sushena, Charudesha, Samba—the son of Jambavati—and others, the foremost among the Karsnis, along with their sons, like Rishabha. Yudhishthira continued, asking after the followers of Shauri: Shrutadeva, Uddhava, Sunanda, Nanda, Shirishanya, and other chief Sātvatas. Were all those who relied on the arms of Balarama and Krishna safe? Did their friends, bound by affection, remember the welfare of the Pandavas? Most of all, he asked after Govinda, the Lord Himself, devoted to the Brahmanas and affectionate to His devotees. Was He living happily in the city of Sudharma, surrounded by friends? For the welfare, safety, and prosperity of the worlds, did that primeval, infinite friend, the Supreme Person, remain in the ocean of the Yadu dynasty? He remembered how the Yadus were honored in their own city, protected by many strong arms, playing in supreme bliss like great heroes. Satyā and the other sixteen thousand women, who had conquered even the celestial goddesses in beauty, served at the Lord’s feet and received blessings befitting the beloveds of Indra himself. The foremost Yadus, fearless at all times, would enter the Sudharmā assembly hall, fit for the best of gods, with their feet, having brought it there by their power. Turning to Arjuna, Yudhishthira spoke gently: “My dear, are you well? You appear to me as if your radiance has faded. Have you been unable to obtain something, been disrespected, or stayed away too long? Have you experienced inauspicious things—sounds or disturbances? Have you failed to give or fulfill promises to those who sought your help out of desire? As a giver of refuge, have you ever rejected a Brahmin, a child, a cow, an elder, a sick person, a woman, or any being who approached you for shelter? Have you approached a woman who should not be approached, or failed to approach one who should? Have you been defeated by superior or inferior paths? Have you eaten food that should be shared with elders and children, or committed any act that is disgraceful or beyond your capacity?” He continued, “O dearest, do you always feel empty and deprived in your heart by your own kin? Or do you think otherwise? If not, then there is no cause for sorrow.” And then, recalling a happier time, Yudhishthira remembered how the friends had once welcomed Krishna, saying, “Welcome to you, who have come so swiftly! Not one has eaten a morsel; come, please eat well.” Smiling, Hrishikesha—Krishna—had eaten together with the children, showing them the python’s skin, and then turned back from the forest to the village. Thus, with a heart full of apprehension and love, Yudhishthira awaited Arjuna’s reply, hoping for news of their dear ones and the Lord Himself.