Deeply troubled, the husband, moved by his wife's words, embraced her tenderly. Overcome by distress, he wept slowly, his tears mingling with hers, both hearts heavy with sorrow. Yet, he gently pleaded, “Do not say such things, gentle lady. Remain here, slender-waisted one. A wise man should never abandon his wife or children. Above all, a wise man must protect his wife; though one may survive after leaving her, such abandonment is never right. One who forsakes his wife, children, or parents truly knows neither desire, righteousness, wealth, nor liberation.” Hearing the sorrowful exchange between her parents, their daughter, herself overwhelmed by grief, spoke up. “Why do you both weep in such despair, as if utterly alone in the world? Listen to my words, and then do what is right. According to righteousness, I must be abandoned—there is no doubt. Leave me behind, and save yourselves. The purpose of a child is to save the family in times of peril. Now that the time has come, let me be the raft that carries you across this danger. “Whether in this life or after death, a son saves his family; that is why the wise call him ‘putra.’ My grandfathers always hoped for grandsons through me, so I will strive to protect my father’s life. My brother is but a child; if you, father, leave this world, he too will soon perish—there is no doubt. If you die and my little brother follows, the ancestral offerings will cease, and the ancestors will be displeased. “Abandoned by father, mother, and brother, I would be left alone, suffering even greater sorrow and dying an end unfit for me. But if you recover from this illness, mother, brother, our lineage, and the ancestral rites will be preserved. The son is said to be 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. “Bereft of you, father, I would always be pitiable—a helpless girl, wandering wherever fate leads. Or, if it is my destiny, I shall bring deliverance to our family by taking up the ascetic life, performing a most difficult deed. But if you go, leaving me behind, I too will be afflicted—consider me in your decision. Therefore, for my sake, for righteousness, and for the sake of progeny, noble one, save yourself and abandon me, who must be forsaken. “Let not time overtake you in what must be done. Yet, what could be more painful than, with you gone to heaven, we, your family, would have to beg for food and wear cast-off clothes, while you, free from suffering, are released from this distress? I would remain in the world like a widow, deprived of happiness. “We have heard that the gods and ancestors are satisfied by such offerings as these; by the water you give, there will indeed be benefit. Having heard both sides, dear father, do what is truly for your good—decide what will benefit mother, yourself, and your son. Sons may be born again to parents, but parents will never again be born to a son.” As the maiden poured out her lamentations, the father, mother, and she herself—all three—began to weep together, their sorrow overflowing. At that moment, the little boy, his eyes wide with innocent wonder, heard their cries. In a childish, indistinct voice, he spoke, “Do not weep, father; do not weep, mother; do not weep, sister,” smiling as if in play, addressing each one in turn. Then, picking up a blade of grass and delighted, he declared, “With this, I will slay the man-eating rakshasa!” The sound of his innocent words, though indistinct, brought a sudden joy to his grief-stricken family. Sensing that the time was right, Kunti approached the family. Her presence was like nectar to the dying, reviving their spirits. She spoke gently, “From where does this suffering arise? Tell me the truth, for perhaps I can remove it, if it is possible to do so.” The ascetic replied, “What you say, O virtuous lady, is fitting. But this suffering cannot be dispelled by any human means. Still, I will tell you the truth of our plight, whether it can be remedied or not. Listen carefully. “Near this city dwells a rakshasa named Vaka. At a distance of a cow’s walk from here, in a cave by the Yamuna, he lives. This terrible, man-eating rakshasa, Baka, is wicked in soul, the lowest of his kind. He is the lord of this land and city, mighty in strength, nourished by human flesh, evil-minded, a true man-eater. “For thirteen years, this powerful rakshasa, able to assume any form at will, has beset the city. Because of him, we fear neither foreign armies nor spirits—it is he, the cruel man-eater, who devours us. The city, bereft of a protector, finds no savior, and he, dwelling in his cave, torments the people constantly. “This evil one seizes women, children, the old, and the young. Here, with rituals, offerings, and food, he is invoked and worshipped even by the foremost brahmins. Yet, whenever he desires, the rakshasa slaughters them all.” Thus, the family’s suffering and the terror that haunted their city were revealed, their plight laid bare before Kunti.