The age was dark—not because the sun had ceased to shine, but because the light of dharma had grown dim. Beneath the surface of prosperity and ritual, corruption festered. Thrones were no longer seats of justice but of tyranny. Kings had become conquerors of the weak, not protectors of the righteous. They ruled with iron fists, smiling faces, and hearts darker than night.
These kings were not protectors of the people.
They were demons cloaked in royal dignity.
For generations, they had risen—one after another—spreading across Bhūmi like a plague. Blinded by their greed and empowered by their arrogance, they trampled the Earth under the guise of order. Temples turned to fortresses, sacrifices to political theatre. Dharma was suffocating, and the cries of the pious were drowned beneath the weight of oppression.
And Bhūmi, the Earth goddess, could bear no more.
Though unseen by most, she is not mere dust and stone. She is the very foundation of all life—a conscious and compassionate entity who nurtures and shelters all beings. And when her children suffer, her heart bleeds.
Taking the humble form of a cow—sacred, patient, and symbolic of her nurturing essence—Bhūmi Devī ascended through the cosmic layers to reach Lord Brahmā, the four-faced creator and knower of the Vedas, seated on his celestial lotus which blooms from the navel of Lord Viṣṇu.
As she approached his court, her hooves left trails of sorrow in the sky, and her tears fell like drops of molten compassion.
Her voice trembled as she spoke:
"O Prajāpati, Lord of Progeny and Creation... I have come not as a goddess, but as a mother who can no longer carry the sins laid upon her.
The Earth is overburdened with rulers who wear crowns forged in deception and bathe in the blood of innocents.
They are demons, yet the people bow to them as kings.
I am breaking.
My rivers are poisoned with pride, my mountains echo with the screams of the helpless, and my soil is soaked in cruelty.
If divine aid does not come... all shall be lost."
Brahmā, though beyond emotion, was moved. For even he, the engineer of the universe, knew the limit of his role. He could create and assign duties, but it was the Supreme Lord who alone could restore balance when creation cried for help.
Without hesitation, Brahmā summoned the guardians of the cosmic order.
From Kailāśa came Lord Śiva, whose matted hair held the Ganges and whose eyes saw through time. From Svargaloka came Indra, the king of the heavens. Yamarāja, the lord of justice, Varuṇa, the god of waters, and many others—celestial protectors of the universe—all gathered.
And together they journeyed, along with the tearful Bhūmi, to the edge of the transcendental sea:
The Kṣīra-sāgara—the Ocean of Milk.
Here, at the threshold of the spiritual and material worlds, lies Śvetadvīpa, the island abode of Lord Viṣṇu, the Supreme Personality of Godhead. It is not reachable by spacecraft nor by yogic flight. Only those summoned by His will can approach its sacred shores.
There, the demigods stood, humbled and silent. They did not call out. Instead, they performed the sacred rite that had been passed down since the beginning: the recitation of the Puruṣa-sūkta.
"Sahasra-śīrṣā puruṣaḥ..."
"The Supreme Person has a thousand heads, a thousand eyes, and a thousand feet..."
Their voices rose in solemn unison—hymns not of demand, but of surrender. They did not pray for personal gain, nor for victory in battle. They prayed for the world. For the return of balance. For the restoration of righteousness.
And yet... no answer came.
Not a ripple in the ocean. Not a sound in the air.
But Brahmā knew the way. He closed his four eyes, entered deep meditation, and fixed his consciousness upon the Supreme Lord. He did not speak. He did not think. He simply listened—with the heart.
And then—without sound, without vision, without motion—the answer came.
It entered not through ears, but through revelation—the divine voice from within, untainted by illusion.
"I shall descend—not in a body of matter, not limited by time, not bound by illusion. I shall appear in My original form—eternal, full of knowledge, and full of bliss.*
sac-cid-ānanda-vigrahaḥ.
I shall come as Kṛṣṇa, the source of all incarnations, the shelter of all living beings, and the master of all energies.
Let the demigods take birth in the Earth, among the Yadu dynasty. Let Ananta Śeṣa, My eternal servant, descend as Balarāma before Me. Let Māyā, My external energy, prepare the field.
For I shall not come as a symbol...
I shall come as the Supreme Reality Himself."*
Brahmā opened his eyes. His four faces were lit with wonder and certainty.
He turned to the waiting gods.
"The time has come.
The Lord of all worlds shall descend—not as a man, but as the Supreme Personality of Godhead Himself.
Not created, not born—but manifest, by His own will, in His spiritual form, untouched by matter.
Let us now take birth among the pious families. Let us assist in His divine mission.
For He is coming—to protect the righteous, to destroy the wicked, and to establish dharma once again upon this Earth."
And Bhūmi, who had wept in despair, now bowed in gratitude. Her tears continued to fall—but now, they were sacred.
For she knew: her burden would be lifted.
Not by another king.
Not by another god.
But by the Supreme Lord Himself.
The world would soon behold a child with lotus eyes, holding the universe in His tiny palms.
The unborn, who appears to be born.
The eternal, who walks among the temporary.
Kṛṣṇa, the all-attractive One, who descends not out of obligation, but out of love.
The age of darkness had not ended yet.
But now, light was coming.