As Arjuna stood over the captive Aśvatthāmā, his mind was troubled by the weight of dharma. He recalled the ancient codes: one who truly knows righteousness does not slay an enemy who is intoxicated, distracted, insane, asleep, a child, a woman, helpless, surrendered, unarmed, or afraid. To kill such a person would be a violation of dharma. Indeed, a cruel man who sustains his own life by destroying the lives of others is better off dead, for by such sinful acts, he falls from grace. Yet Arjuna also remembered his promise to Draupadī, made in her presence: “I will bring you the head of that arrogant slayer of your sons.” The conflict in his heart grew—should not this sinful aggressor, this killer of kin who had committed a vile act displeasing to his master and bringing disgrace to his lineage, be slain? Was not his death justified? While Arjuna pondered these questions, urged by Kṛṣṇa, he hesitated to kill the son of his own teacher, though Aśvatthāmā had committed a grave offense. Arjuna returned to his camp and reported to his grieving wife, Draupadī, who mourned the loss of her sons. There, Kṛpī, the gentle-natured mother of Aśvatthāmā, saw her son brought forth like an animal, bound with ropes, his face cast down in shame for his deed, his glory stripped away by Kṛṣṇa. Overcome with compassion, she bowed her head. Unable to bear the sight of her son in such a state, Kṛpī pleaded earnestly, “Release him, release him! He is a brāhmaṇa, a true guru. The secret science of archery, the use and withdrawal of weapons, all the arts of war—you learned these by his father’s favor. Droṇa, your revered teacher, now lives on in his son; half of himself remains in me, the mother who bore this heroic child. Therefore, O knower of dharma, let not your noble family, so honored and revered, incur infamy by such an act. Let Gautamī, his mother, devoted to her husband, not weep as I have wept—my face wet with tears for my dead sons. If the brāhmaṇa lineage is angered by unruly kṣatriyas, that lineage quickly destroys them and their kin, even if they are pure.” Hearing these words, the son of Dharma, King Yudhiṣṭhira, accepted the queen’s counsel, for it was righteous, just, compassionate, honest, and impartial. All the Pāṇḍavas were present—Nakula, Sahadeva, Yuyudhāna, Dhanañjaya, the divine son of Devakī, and others, both men and women. Yet Bhīma, burning with anger, declared that death was the only fitting punishment for one who, without cause, slays sleeping children—not for the sake of his master or himself. As the debate continued, Kṛṣṇa, the four-armed Lord, looked gently upon Arjuna and spoke with a soft smile: “A brāhmaṇa, even if an aggressor, should not be killed; yet an aggressor deserves death. I have taught both sides—now uphold my instruction. Fulfill the promise you made to comfort Draupadī and do what is dear to Bhīmasena, to Draupadī, and to me as well.” Suddenly understanding the intention of Hari, Arjuna drew his sword and, instead of taking Aśvatthāmā’s life, cut off the jewel along with the hair from his head. He released Aśvatthāmā, who, bound with a girdle and dimmed in brilliance by the sin of killing a child, was now deprived of the jewel’s radiance and led out from the camp. This, said the tradition, was the bodily punishment for those who are brāhmaṇas in name only: shaving the head, taking away their wealth, and expelling them from their place—no other punishment was prescribed. The Pāṇḍavas, stricken with grief for their lost sons, together with Draupadī, performed the rites for the dead, carrying out the bodies as custom demanded. Then, a new chapter began. Śrī Bhagavān spoke: “What you have asked of me, O greatly fortunate one, is exactly what I wish to do. Brahmā, Śiva, and the guardians of the worlds all desire to dwell in my realm.” Meanwhile, the people flourished in happiness, as loving couples cared for their children, delighting in the sweet cooing and babbling of their little ones. By the gentle touch of their wings, their charming gestures, and their innocent sounds, the parents, free from sorrow, found joy in their offspring. Yet, bound by affection and deluded by Viṣṇu’s māyā, the parents, troubled in mind, nurtured their children and the people. Once, these two householders went out into the forest for the sake of their young, seeking food for a long time. By chance, a hunter roaming the woods saw their nest and spread his net, capturing the young ones as they moved near. The male and female pigeons, eager to feed their children, returned home with food, only to find their offspring trapped. The mother pigeon, seeing her beloved children ensnared, rushed toward them, crying out in distress as they wailed. Overcome by affection and sorrow, bewildered by illusion, she herself became caught in the net, losing all awareness as she beheld her young ones bound. The father pigeon, seeing his children—dearer to him than life—and his wife, his very equal, all captured, was plunged into deep lamentation. “Alas, see my misery! Of little merit and foolish mind, unsatisfied and unfulfilled, my householder’s pursuit of the three aims of life is ruined. She, my devoted and agreeable wife, my goddess, has left me in this empty house, going to heaven with our sons, the virtuous ones. Now, left alone, bereft of wife and children, why should I wish to live, afflicted by sorrow?” Surrounded by his own offspring, seized by death and writhing helplessly, the pitiable bird, though seeing the arrows, fell down in ignorance. The cruel hunter, satisfied in his aim, took the pigeon, his mate, and their young—householders all—back to his home. Thus, the scripture teaches, a householder whose mind is restless, who delights in the dualities of life like a bird, and who maintains his family with attachment, sinks down, bound by his own connections. He who, having attained the rare human birth where the door to liberation stands open, yet remains attached to household life like a bird—such a one is known as one who, having climbed up, has fallen down.