Even as illness weighed upon him and death drew near, a man without a son found himself restless and troubled, lying on the ground, his heart filled with anxious thoughts. He worried, “I have amassed great wealth in my house—so many kinds of vessels, this beautiful mansion—who will become its master when I am gone?” At the hour of his passing, his mind wandered in sorrow, confusion overwhelming him, and thus, his fate seemed miserable indeed. Witnessing such suffering, Vyāsa, the wise son of Satyavatī, reflected deeply on these matters. Again and again, he sighed in despondency, pondering the distress of those without sons. After much reflection, Vyāsa made a firm resolve within himself and journeyed to the sacred slopes near Mount Meru, seeking a way to overcome his sorrow. There, he began to contemplate: “Which deity should I worship, who is skilled in granting boons and bestows the objects of desire? Should I turn to Viṣṇu, Rudra the lord of gods, Brahmā, the Sun, Gaṇeśa, Kārtikeya, Agni, or Varuṇa?” As these thoughts filled his mind, the illustrious sage Nārada happened to arrive, his vīṇā in hand, his mind composed and serene. Seeing Nārada, Vyāsa was filled with joy. He welcomed the sage with water for washing and a comfortable seat, and inquired after his well-being. Nārada, the best of sages, responded warmly and then asked, “O Dvaipāyana, why do you appear so troubled? Tell me the cause of your care.” Vyāsa replied, “A man without a son has no future, nor any happiness in his heart. This thought brings me constant distress. Today, I wish to propitiate some deity by austerity, one who grants the desired boon. Troubled by this, I have come to you for refuge. You are all-knowing, O great sage—please, tell me quickly, to which god should I turn for refuge, so that I might be blessed with a son?” Sūta, the storyteller, relates that when Vyāsa asked this, the sage Nārada, master of the Vedas, spoke affectionately to him about Kṛṣṇa. Nārada said, “O fortunate son of Parāśara, the very question you ask me now was once asked by my father to Madhusūdana himself. My father, seeing Hari absorbed in meditation, was amazed and questioned Śrīnātha, the master of the world.” Nārada continued, “He beheld Hari, shining with the Kaustubha gem, holding conch, discus, and mace, clad in yellow garments, four-armed, and marked with the Śrīvatsa on his chest. He saw Vāsudeva, the lord of the universe and cause of all worlds, engaged in great austerity. Brahmā then asked, ‘O god of gods, lord of the universe, master of past, present, and future—why are you performing austerity, Janārdana? On whom are you meditating? This amazement of mine is very great: you are the lord of all worlds, yet you meditate—what could be more astonishing than this? I, the creator of all, was born from the lotus of your navel; is there anyone greater than you? Tell me, O lord, who is that deity? I know you are the origin and cause of all; you are creator, protector, destroyer, and capable of all tasks. By my will I create the universe, Hara destroys it at the proper time, and he, too, acts always according to your command. The sun moves in the sky, the wind blows, fire burns, and the rain-cloud pours—all by your order, O Lord. But you—on which god do you meditate? This is my great doubt, for I see none greater than you in the three worlds. Out of compassion, tell me, for I am your devotee. The great do not conceal anything from their own.’” Nārada recounted that, hearing Brahmā’s words, Hari spoke to him with kindness: “Listen attentively, O Brahmā, to what is in my mind. People—gods, asuras, and humans—know you, Shiva, and me as the causes of creation, preservation, and destruction. You are the creator, I am the sustainer, and Hara is the destroyer—so say the learned, attributing these acts to our powers. In the creation of the world, rajasik power abides in you, sattvik in me, and tamasik in Rudra. Yet, without her, you cannot create, nor can I preserve, nor can Shankara destroy. We all, at all times, are dependent on her, in both the manifest and the unmanifest. “For example, on Shesha I sleep, utterly dependent; by her will I rise at the proper time, subject to time. I constantly practice austerity, always dependent on her; sometimes, with Lakshmi, I roam as I please. Sometimes I wage fierce battles with the Daityas that shake the worlds. You have witnessed, O knower of dharma, how long ago, in the single ocean, I fought hand-to-hand for five thousand years. Those two wicked asuras, Madhu and Kaitabha, born from earwax and swollen with pride, were slain by the grace of the Goddess. At that time, did you not realize the ultimate cause? Why do you ask again and again about the form of Shakti? “Whenever I wish, I take human form and wander the great ocean—as a tortoise, a boar, a lion, or a dwarf, in every age. No one in the world desires birth among animals; nor did I, of my own will, take birth in the forms of boar or others.” Thus, through these words, Nārada revealed to Vyāsa the supreme truth of the Goddess’s power and the dependence of all, even the greatest gods, upon her.