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Chapter 12 · Verse 7
🪈 Krishna speaks
Pichwai-style painting of Draupadi at the Kaurava court as her sari miraculously extends without end, illustrating Krishna's promise to swiftly rescue those whose hearts are set on him from the ocean of suffering.

तेषामहं समुद्धर्ता मृत्युसंसारसागरात्। भवामि नचिरात्पार्थ मय्यावेशितचेतसाम्॥

teṣāmahaṁ samuddhartā mṛtyusaṁsārasāgarāt | bhavāmi nacirātpārtha mayyāveśitacetasām ||

Word by Word 8 words
तेषाम्
tad them

for them

अहम्
aham I

I

समुद्धर्ता
sam completely ud up dhṛ to hold, to lift

the one who lifts up, the deliverer

मृत्युसंसारसागरात्
mṛtyu death saṁsāra cycle of rebirth sāgara ocean

from the ocean of the cycle of death and rebirth

भवामि
bhū to become, to be

I become

नचिरात्
na not cirāt after a long time

soon, without delay

पार्थ
pṛthā Kunti a son of

O son of Kunti, Arjuna

मय्यावेशितचेतसाम्
mayi in Me āveśita absorbed cetas mind, heart

of those whose minds are absorbed in Me

For those whose hearts are set on Me, I swiftly become the one who lifts them out of the ocean of birth and death. promises that when someone surrenders completely, he does not wait — he reaches out immediately, like a hand pulling you from deep water. You don't have to be perfect. You just have to call.

कथा

The Sari That Had No End

An original story

The dice had been thrown. The game had been lost. And now Draupadi stood in the middle of the great court of , her heart hammering against her ribs.

The marble hall was enormous — a hundred pillars holding up a painted ceiling, oil lamps burning in every niche, the throne of the kings gleaming at the far end. It was the grandest room in the kingdom. And today it was the cruelest.

sat on his throne, smiling. Beside him, his brother Dushasana had his fist wrapped around the end of Draupadi's sari. "Pull it off," Duryodhana said, his voice echoing off the pillars. "She was won in a fair game."

Draupadi looked around the court. , the great-grandfather who had once bounced her children on his knee — he sat silent, staring at the floor. , the teacher who taught her husbands to fight — he looked away. Even , the blind king on his cold throne, said nothing.

She turned to her five husbands, the Pandavas, the greatest warriors alive. They sat with their heads bowed, bound by the rules of the gambling game. They could not help her.

Draupadi gripped her sari with both hands. She pulled against Dushasana with every bit of strength in her arms. But he was bigger, stronger. The silk slipped through her fingers. She could feel it going.

And then — in the moment when her grip failed — she did something no one expected.

She let go.

She raised both hands above her head, palms open, and called out one word: "!"

Not a prayer. Not a ritual verse. Just a name, spoken from the bottom of her heart, the way a drowning person calls for help without thinking about the proper way to ask.

And the sari had no end.

Dushasana pulled and pulled. Yards of silk poured from the cloth like water from a spring that cannot be emptied. Red, gold, blue, green — colours Draupadi had never even worn — cascaded onto the marble floor in great shining heaps. The pile grew to Dushasana's knees, then his waist. His arms ached. Sweat ran down his face. Still the cloth came.

He finally collapsed, gasping, on a mountain of silk. Draupadi stood untouched, her sari intact, her hands still raised.

She had not been saved because she was strong. She had been saved because she stopped trying to hold on alone and let someone greater carry her. The one who surrenders, says, is the one who is lifted from the ocean. Not someday. Not after a long wait. Now. Swiftly. The moment you truly let go.

चिन्तनम्

Have you ever tried to solve a problem all by yourself and felt stuck — but the moment you asked for help, everything changed? What made you finally ask?