The Compassionate One called out to everyone: 'Come under the mountain, all of you. Let no one remain outside.' The people, terrified of the rain, emerged and saw the mountain lifted. The cowherds were stationed all around the rim. Some laughed, some cried, some trembled with fear. All of them came beneath the mountain: the people, the cows, the calves, the birds, all living creatures. All who called themselves Hari's own, of whatever kind. Says Tuka, God recognizes no caste or clan. He embraces whatever is surrendered. He protects His own with all His might. He does not let even Death look their way. The rain did not reach them; instead hail and boulders began to fall. Stones rained down upon the mountain for seven days without end. The cowherds held up the mountain for that time, believing themselves truly strong. Then God sensed their growing pride and said, 'You may let go now.' The cowherds laughed at the absurdity. 'Show us your blistered knees and elbows from carrying the load,' they said. 'You put the burden on us and stood aside, out of sight.' 'You barely touched it with a fingertip. Let us see how you hold this mountain.' They had been straining under an imaginary weight, believing the illusion to be real. They bragged in their pride, unable to see the truth. When they finally shook out their arms and legs, they found the mountain resting on a single finger. 'We labored for nothing, O God.' Then, at last, everyone understood. Says Tuka, they understood through direct experience, and their pride was laid aside.