King Hiranyakashipu had a son unlike himself in every way, small Prahlada, whose heart was so full of love for the Divine that it spilled out as kindness to everyone he met.

The boy was gentle with servants. He shared his food with stray creatures. When other children quarrelled, Prahlada was the one who made peace. And all day, quietly, he remembered the Lord who lives in every heart, and his face shone with a calm the whole palace could feel.

You might think a father would be proud. But Hiranyakashipu's heart was crowded — packed tight with ego, with the love of force, with arrogance, with greedy wanting, and with a quick, hot anger. There was no room left in it for tenderness. And so, strangely, the gentleness of his own little boy *annoyed* him.

"Why do you praise this Lord?" he would roar. "*I* am your lord! Praise me!" The more peaceful Prahlada grew, the angrier his father became — for the boy's quiet goodness was a light, and Hiranyakashipu had wrapped himself in so many heavy feelings that the light hurt his eyes.

Here is the deep thing the storytellers point to. The same gentle Divine that glowed in Prahlada also lived, unnoticed, inside Hiranyakashipu himself. By resenting the goodness in his son, the king was really fighting the very best part of his own heart, the soft, bright part buried under all that ego and anger.

Prahlada understood this, even as a child. He never hated his father back. "He carries something heavy," the boy thought, "and one day he may set it down." He kept loving him, the way you keep a lamp burning in a window for someone still out in the dark.

Krishna tells Arjuna that this is what those five heavy feelings do: they make a person resent the goodness in others and in themselves. And the way out is not anger in return, but the steady, patient kindness of a Prahlada — a light left burning, in case the lost one turns toward home.