As Dhruva sat in deep meditation, his unwavering focus shook the very fabric of nature. Rivers, streams, and oceans became wildly agitated, and such was the disturbance that even the gods themselves grew troubled and anxious. In their distress, the gods, accompanied by the Yāmās and Indra, gathered for counsel, seeking some way to break Dhruva’s intense meditation. At the urging of Indra, the Kūṣmāṇḍas—beings skilled in illusion—took on many forms and urgently set about trying to disturb Dhruva’s penance. Amid these efforts, his mother, Sunīti, appeared before him. With words overflowing with motherly compassion, though spoken through illusion, she called out to her son. “My child,” she pleaded, “turn back from this harsh destruction of your body. You were born to me after much hardship and many prayers. Do not abandon me, your helpless and lonely mother, because of the words of a co-wife. You are my only refuge. How can you, a mere five-year-old, undertake such severe austerity? Let your mind turn away from these harsh and fruitless efforts. There is a time for play, and then a time for study. Only after enjoying the pleasures of youth should you take up austerity. This is the time for play, my boy. Why do you wish to destroy yourself with penance now?” With tears streaming down her face, she continued, “My love for you is the highest virtue. Follow the proper order of duties according to your age. Do not, out of delusion, forsake this path and act unrighteously. If you give up these austerities, I will not abandon my life before your very eyes.” But Dhruva, his mind unwavering and fixed upon Viṣṇu, did not look at her, though he saw her standing there, weeping and speaking incoherently, her eyes brimming with tears. Sunīti tried once more: “My child, my child, look! Terrible and fearsome demons, armed with weapons, are approaching in the forest. Leave this place at once!” Having said this, she departed. At that moment, the night-wandering demons appeared, brandishing fierce, flaming weapons, their faces wreathed in blazing fire. Right before the young prince, these demons whirled their weapons and released them with dreadful roars. Hundreds of jackals howled, their mouths spitting flames, all to terrify the boy absorbed in yoga. The demons shrieked, “Strike him! Cut him! Eat him!”—their voices echoing through the forest. They took on terrifying forms, with faces like lions, camels, and crocodiles, making fearsome noises to frighten Dhruva. Yet none of this—the demons, their howls, the jackals, or their weapons—entered the awareness of the boy whose mind was fixed upon Govinda. With his mind one-pointed, seeing Viṣṇu alone as his refuge, Dhruva saw nothing else at all. When all these illusions vanished, the gods grew even more disturbed, fearing the power of Dhruva’s austerities. In their anxiety, they gathered together and approached Hari—the eternal, beginningless and endless refuge of all beings—distressed by the boy’s penance. The gods prayed: “O God of gods, Lord of the universe, Supreme Lord, Best of Men! Afflicted by Dhruva’s austerities, we have come to you for refuge. Just as the moon waxes day by day, so too does Dhruva’s power grow through his penance. O Janārdana, we are fearful of what may come from the son of Uttānapāda’s austerities. We do not know whether he seeks the position of Indra, the Sun, or the realms of the gods of wealth, water, or the moon. O Lord, be gracious to us; remove this thorn from our hearts and turn Dhruva away from his penance.” The Blessed Lord replied, “He does not seek the position of Indra, nor of Sūrya, nor lordship over the waters. Whatever desire he holds, O gods, I shall fulfill it entirely. Go as you wish to your abodes, free from worry; I myself shall turn the boy away from his austerities.” Thus reassured by the Lord, the gods, led by Indra, bowed and returned to their realms. Then the Lord, the soul of all beings, pleased by Dhruva’s devotion, went to the boy. Appearing in his resplendent four-armed form, Hari spoke: “O son of Uttānapāda, blessings upon you. You have pleased me with your austerity. I have come as the giver of boons; choose a boon, O steadfast one. Because your mind is fixed in me, indifferent to worldly aims, I am pleased with you. Therefore, ask for the highest boon.” Hearing these words from the Lord of gods, Dhruva slowly opened his eyes and saw Hari, whom he had beheld in his heart, now standing before him. Seeing Acyuta, adorned with conch, discus, mace, bow, and sword, crowned and glorious, Dhruva bowed his head to the earth. His body thrilled with awe, and, seized by deep reverence, Dhruva composed a hymn in his mind to the Lord. But confusion arose within him: “What words can I speak in praise? How can I, a mere child, offer a hymn to the Supreme Lord?” In his uncertainty, he sought refuge in Hari himself. Dhruva prayed, “O Lord, if you are truly pleased with my austerity, grant me this boon: let me have the ability to praise you. You are known to Brahmā and others through the Vedas, yet your path remains unknown. How can I, a boy, praise you? My mind is devoted to you, O Supreme Lord, and wishes to sing of your feet; please grant me wisdom for this purpose.” Moved by this pure devotion, Govinda touched Dhruva, who stood before him with folded palms, with the tip of his conch. Then, with a joyful heart, the prince bowed and began to praise Acyuta, the sustainer of all beings.