Because the self exists, so too do the fourteen worlds; thus, O best of the twice-born, you must protect your own self. If the self does not exist, then nothing exists here at all—indeed, this entire world is not equal to the self. Therefore, do what must be done by me, save yourself by your own means. Permit me, noble one, and protect my two sons. Those who know dharma declare, in their discernment of duty, that women are not to be slain; even among the Rakshasas, those who know righteousness say one should not kill women, and that includes me. The killing of men is certain, but the killing of women is doubtful; therefore, O knower of dharma, you should let me go. I have enjoyed pleasures, gained what is dear, and performed my duty. My unparalleled fame has arisen from serving you, and a beloved son has been born to me—my life leaves me with no regrets. Having borne a son, being advanced in years, and always desiring your welfare, seeing all this, I now make my resolve. Even if you abandon me, noble one, you may obtain another wife, and then your righteousness will again be established. Nor is the taking of many wives by men considered unrighteous or especially virtuous; but for women, violating the rights of a former husband is a great wrong. Considering all this, and knowing that self-destruction is condemned, quickly save yourself, your family, and these two children. Thus addressed, the husband embraced his wife, O descendant of Bharata, and, greatly distressed, he shed slow tears together with her. “Do not speak so, gentle lady. Stay here, slender-waisted one. A wise man should never abandon his wife or his children. Especially should a wise man protect his wife; though a man may live after abandoning her, he should never forsake these. He does not truly know desire, righteousness, wealth, or liberation who would do so.” Hearing the exceedingly sorrowful words of the two, the maiden, her body overwhelmed by grief, then spoke to them: “Why do you both, afflicted with such deep sorrow, weep as if you are without support? Hear my words also, and after listening, do what is proper. According to righteousness, I must be abandoned by you both—of this there is no doubt. Abandoning me, save everything with just one of us. The purpose of offspring is this: ‘He will save me.’ Now that this time has come, cross over this danger with me as your raft. Here, I may save you from this peril, or else after death, O descendant of Bharata; in every way, a son saves—therefore he is called ‘putra’ by the wise. My grandfathers always long for grandsons through me; therefore, I will myself strive to protect my father’s life. My brother is but a child; if you depart from this world, he will perish soon after—of this there is no doubt. If you go to heaven, father, and my younger brother is lost, the ancestral offerings will be interrupted, which would be displeasing to the ancestors. Abandoned by father, mother, and brother, I would surely, after suffering even greater sorrow, die an end unfit for me. If you are freed from this illness, my mother and my young brother, as well as the lineage and the ancestral offering, will surely be preserved. The son is the self, the friend, the wife; but the daughter, it is said, is for hardship. Free yourself from this distress, and appoint me to righteousness. Deprived of you, father, I shall always be pitiable—a helpless, wretched girl, wandering wherever fate leads. Or else, I myself shall bring deliverance to this family; I will take up the ascetic life, having performed a most difficult deed. Or, if you go there, abandoning me, O best of twice-born, I will be afflicted—consider me also in this matter. Therefore, for my sake, for the sake of righteousness, and for the sake of progeny, O noble one, protect yourself and abandon me, who must be forsaken. In what must necessarily be done, let not time overtake you; but what could be more painful for us than that, with you gone to heaven, we, begging for food from others, would have to wear the leavings like dogs, while you, free from disease and suffering, are released from this distress with your kin; I, like a widow, would remain in the world, deprived of happiness. It is heard among us that, in this offering, the gods and ancestors are satisfied; by the water you give, there will indeed be benefit. Thus, having heard both sides, dear one, do what is for your good; so decide what is beneficial for your mother, yourself, and your son. Sons will be born to mother and father, endowed with virtues; but parents will never again be born to a son.” Hearing her many lamentations in this way, the father, the mother, and the maiden herself—all three began to weep. Then, hearing all of them weeping, the little boy, his eyes wide with wonder, spoke indistinct words in a childish voice. “Do not weep, father; do not weep, mother; do not weep, sister,” he said, smiling as if in play, addressing each one in turn. Then, taking a blade of grass, delighted, he said again, “With this I will slay the man-eating rakshasa.” Yet, hearing the indistinct words of the boy, those overwhelmed by grief felt a great joy. Recognizing that this was the moment, Kunti approached them, and, as if reviving the lifeless with nectar, spoke these words: “From where does this suffering arise? I wish to know the truth; for, knowing it, I might remove it, if it is possible to remove.