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A few weeks later, after a first audience in which he praised Viṣṇu and his father thundered at the teachers, Prahlāda again sits on Hiraṇyakaśipu’s knee in the grand throne room. The King of Demons, his father, smiles with a deceptive warmth at his young son. Courtiers and teachers stand in tense silence around the marble hall, their clawed fingers clasped. Prahlāda’s chin barely reaches his father’s chest as he sits obediently, yet his demeanor is unafraid. He gazes up at Hiraṇyakaśipu with wide, sincere eyes. The demon king strokes the boy’s dark hair and asks in a booming voice, “Tell me, my son, what is the best thing you have learned in school lately?”

Prahlāda glances over at his two instructors, Ṣaṇḍa and Amarka, who glare and shake their heads slightly, hoping he will echo the political lessons they drilled into him. But Prahlāda’s heart beats only for truth. Prahlāda breathes once, steady; his truth is devotion, and he will not distort it, even to spare himself or his teachers. What lives in him outruns any royal curriculum; it is simply the knowledge of his heart. The hall grows expectant at the delay. Finally, in a clear, guileless voice, Prahlāda answers, “Father, I have learned that there are nine paths of devotion that are the highest knowledge.”

Hiraṇyakaśipu’s smile falters, puzzled murmurs rustling through the assembly. Before the king can interject, the boy begins to enumerate what he holds sacred: “To hear about Lord Viṣṇu, to sing His praises, to remember Him at all times, to serve His lotus feet, to worship Him in the temple, to offer Him prayers, to become His servant, to consider Him one’s best friend, and to surrender everything to Him. These nine processes of bhakti are the greatest learning of all.”

As Prahlāda speaks each item, his thin voice echoes in the vast chamber. He speaks with such conviction that for a moment even the demons are stunned into silence.

When the meaning of Prahlāda’s words finally registers, Hiraṇyakaśipu’s face twists from surprise into rage. His golden crown trembles as his brow knits and fangs bare. “Viṣṇu?” he snarls, the name of his hated enemy ringing through the air.

Prahlāda breathes calmly, hands folded, as his father’s strong arms shove the boy off the royal lap. The child staggers but does not fall; he remains upright, eyes lowered modestly. Around them, the courtiers recoil in fear at the king’s growing wrath. Hiraṇyakaśipu rises from the throne, towering over his son. “Who has filled you with this poison again?!’ he roars, his glare sliding toward Ṣaṇḍa and Amarka.

“Who dares whisper the enemy’s name into the ear of my heir?!” he seethes in rage, knowing that admitting the boy chose it himself would make the scandal fatal to his image.

The demon king’s voice reverberates like thunder. Prahlāda opens his mouth to reply that it was Nārada’s teachings, but before he can utter a sound, his father’s clawed hand is raised high. Prahlāda braces himself with palms pressed together, heart steady in prayer. Hiraṇyakaśipu’s hand swings down toward the boy…