Vyāsa, the revered sage, was deeply troubled. “A man without a son has neither future nor happiness in his heart,” he confided, “and this sorrow weighs heavily on my mind, returning to me again and again.” Seeking a solution, Vyāsa resolved, “Today I wish to propitiate, through austerity, some deity who might grant me the boon I desire. Tormented by these thoughts, I have come to you for refuge.” Turning to the great sage Nārada, he pleaded, “You are all-knowing, an ocean of compassion. Please, tell me quickly: to which god should I turn for refuge, who will grant me a son?” Hearing Vyāsa’s earnest plea, Sūta recounted, the sage Nārada, who knew the Vedas in their entirety, responded with great affection and spoke to Vyāsa about Kṛṣṇa. Nārada said, “O fortunate son of Parāśara, the very question you ask me now was once asked by my own father to Madhusūdana, Kṛṣṇa himself. My father, seeing Hari absorbed in deep meditation, was astonished and approached Śrīnātha, the Lord of the world, with his query. He beheld the Lord shining resplendently, adorned with the Kaustubha gem, holding conch, discus, and mace, clad in yellow garments, four-armed, and marked with the Śrīvatsa on his chest. There stood Vāsudeva, the lord and cause of all worlds, the teacher of the universe, engaged in great austerity. With wonder, Brahmā addressed him: ‘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 immense: you are the lord of all worlds, yet you are engaged in meditation—what could be more astonishing? 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, O lord of the universe, that you are the origin and cause of all; you are the creator, protector, destroyer, and capable of accomplishing all tasks. By my will, I create this universe; Hara destroys it at the proper time, and he too always acts 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; I do not see any god beyond you in the three worlds. Out of compassion, tell me, for I am your devotee; it is said the great do not conceal anything.’ Hearing these words, Hari replied to Prajapati, ‘Listen attentively, O Brahmā, and I will tell you my heart’s truth. Although 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 the learned say, attributing these acts to our powers. In the world’s creation, 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 are all, O Lord, always dependent on her—both in the manifest and unmanifest. Listen to an example: I sleep upon Shesha’s couch, entirely dependent, and by her will I rise at the proper time, subject to time’s flow. I constantly practice austerity, always dependent on her; sometimes, with Lakshmi, I roam as I please. Sometimes I wage fierce battles with the Daityas, terrifying all the worlds. You yourself, knower of dharma, have seen that 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 know the ultimate cause? O greatly fortunate one, 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. Who, abandoning union with the target, chooses inferior births such as fish? Leaving my bed, seated upon the Garuda throne, I wage great battle, independent. O unborn one, once, my head fell forward when the bowstring slipped; at that time, you took the horse’s head and, with the best artisan, joined it again. I am called Hayānana, the horse-faced one, and you know this, creator of the worlds. People mock this—how could it be if I were truly independent? Therefore, I am not independent; I am always subject to Śakti. I constantly and ceaselessly meditate upon her alone. O lotus-born, I know nothing higher than this.’ Nārada continued, “Thus Viṣṇu spoke in the presence of Brahmā. And thus I too was instructed, O foremost sage. Therefore, you also, for attaining the highest goals of life, should, without doubt, worship the lotus feet of the Goddess within your heart’s lotus. That Goddess will grant you whatever you desire.” Sūta then said: Thus instructed by Nārada, Vyāsa, the son of Satyavatī, immersed himself in devotion to the Goddess and departed to the mountain to undertake austerities. The sages, hearing this account, were filled with wonder and said to Sūta, “O Sūta, our minds are awash with doubt; this tale you have told is truly astonishing.” Sūta explained further: The head of Mādhava (Viṣṇu) once departed from his body and attained the supreme state; from that, Hayagrīva was born, the creator of all, Janārdana himself.