For the protection, welfare, and prosperity of all the worlds, does the eternal, limitless friend—the Supreme Person—still remain among the Yadus, like an unfathomable ocean supporting their dynasty? Within their own splendid city, the Yadus, honored and shielded by their own mighty arms, rejoice in supreme happiness, behaving as great heroes at the height of their power. Satyā and the other sixteen thousand wives, surpassing even the celestial goddesses in beauty, are devoted to serving at the Lord’s feet—their highest duty. In doing so, they receive blessings that would befit even the beloveds of Indra, king of the gods. The foremost among the Yadus, fearless and powerful, stride boldly into the Sudharmā assembly hall—a hall worthy of the gods themselves, which they have brought to their city—confident in their strength and protected by their unity. Turning to his beloved, the speaker asks with concern, “Are you well? You seem to have lost your radiance. Is there something you have not obtained, or have you suffered disrespect, or perhaps been separated from loved ones for too long? Have you been troubled by inauspicious omens or disturbances, or failed to fulfill promises made to those who sought your help? Have you, as a giver of refuge, ever turned away a Brahmin, child, cow, elder, sick person, woman, or anyone who sought your shelter? Have you acted wrongly in matters of relationships, or been bested on your path by others? Have you eaten food meant to be shared with elders or children, or done something shameful or beyond your strength? Do you feel empty or neglected by your own kin? If not, then there is no reason for sorrow.” Meanwhile, Krishna’s friends greet him joyfully, saying, “Welcome! You have come so swiftly—none of us has eaten yet. Please, come and share a meal with us.” Smiling, Krishna sits and eats with the children, showing them the skin of the python he has just defeated. Afterward, he leads them back from the forest to their village. Adorned with peacock feathers, flowers, and fresh minerals, Krishna enters the cowherd settlement. The air is alive with music from flutes and horns, the praise of the calves, and the singing of his glories, while the gopīs gaze at him with loving eyes. The children in the village sing, “Today, by the son of Yaśodā and Nanda, the great serpent has been slain and we are safe from its threat.” The king then asks, “O Brahmin, how did such deep love for Krishna arise at his birth, even among those who had never known such affection before, not even for their own children? Please explain this mystery.” Śuka replies, “O king, for every being, the self is most dear; others—children, wealth, possessions—are cherished only because they are connected to the self. Among embodied beings, attachment to one’s own self is always strongest; sons, wealth, and home are loved only as extensions of that possessiveness. Even those who identify with the body do not love it as much as the self within; for even as the body ages, the desire to live remains undiminished. Thus, for all living beings, the self is dearest, and for its sake the whole world, moving and unmoving, exists. Know, O king, that Krishna is this very self—the self of every self. For the welfare of the world, he appears in an embodied form, by his own divine power. Truly, for those who understand, Krishna alone is the abiding and moving reality in this world; all forms are his, and nothing else exists apart from him. The true essence of all things is rooted in existence itself, and for Lord Krishna, nothing unreal can be considered true. Those who take shelter of the tender feet of Murari, whose fame is pure and vast, find that the ocean of worldly existence shrinks to the size of a calf’s hoofprint—a journey to the supreme destination, untouched by misfortune. Thus, I have told you, as you asked, of Hari’s deeds in his childhood and his renowned boyhood pastimes. Whoever hears and praises these acts—how Murari played with his friends, destroyed evil, sported in the meadows, and fulfilled the earth’s desires—will attain all their goals. In Vraja, Krishna and his companions spent their boyhood hiding, building bridges, leaping like monkeys, and playing in countless ways.” At this point, Sūta continues the narration. He describes how Arjuna, Krishna’s beloved friend, was left helpless by his elder brother, King Yudhishthira, who was tormented by doubts and the pain of separation from Krishna. Yudhishthira’s face and heart, once radiant, had withered with grief; he could think of nothing but Krishna and could not even speak. Arjuna, restraining his sorrow with great effort, wiped his eyes, overwhelmed by longing for Krishna. Remembering their deep friendship, their intimacy, and all the times Krishna had served as his charioteer and companion, Arjuna addressed his elder brother, his voice choked with emotion. He said, “O great king, I have been deceived by Hari, who appeared as my kinsman. By his power, I once astonished even the gods, but now that power has left me. Separated from him, even for a moment, the world seems empty and joyless. Deprived of his praise, I feel as if I am dead. It was by taking refuge in him that I entered Drupada’s house at the svayamvara, where proud kings had gathered. By his might, I defeated them, won the contest, and gained Draupadī. In his presence, I gave the Khāṇḍava forest to Agni, conquered Indra and the gods, and obtained the wondrous assembly hall built by Maya. Kings from all directions brought tribute for your great sacrifice. By your power, Bhīma, your noble younger brother, whose strength equals ten thousand elephants, subdued the lords of the earth for your sacrifice, and those kings brought tribute to you. Yet at that sacrifice, your wife, adorned for the royal consecration, was insulted in the assembly by gamblers; her tears fell at your feet, her hair loosened in distress when her protectors were defeated—those women suffered greatly. It was Krishna who protected us in the forest, when we endured the hardships caused by Durvāsā, when enemies attacked, and when we, living only on roots and vegetables, had exhausted all means. By his grace, even the three worlds were satisfied when we were surrounded by dangers. By your power, O Lord, even the mighty Śiva, armed with his trident and accompanied by his consort, was astonished in battle and surrendered his weapon to me. With this very body, I attained great honor in Indra’s palace. There, as I enjoyed myself, my two strong arms, marked by the bow Gāṇḍīva and meant for destroying enemies, were admired by the gods with Indra at their head, who sought refuge with me. But now, O Lord, with your departure, I have been deprived of that power and am like an ordinary man.” Thus, the story unfolds, revealing the profound love and dependence the Pandavas—and indeed all beings—had for Krishna, whose presence alone brought strength, joy, and fulfillment to their lives.