Sūta continued his narration. While Arjuna stood pondering the demands of dharma, he was urged by Kṛṣṇa to act, yet his heart resisted. He could not bring himself to kill the son of his own teacher, even though that son had committed a grievous offense. Returning to his camp, the charioteer dear to Govinda went to report to his wife, who was overwhelmed with grief, mourning the loss of her slain sons. When Kṛpī, the gentle-natured mother, saw her son brought in like an animal, bound with ropes, his face turned downward in shame for his deed, and his glory dimmed by Kṛṣṇa, she bowed low, filled with compassion. Unable to bear the sight of her son bound and led away, Kṛpī pleaded, “Release him, release him! He is a brāhmaṇa, truly a guru.” She reminded Arjuna that the secret knowledge of archery, its use and withdrawal, and the array of weapons—all had been learned from this very teacher, thanks to his favor. She spoke of Droṇa, whose essence now lived on in his son, and half of himself remained in Kṛpī, the mother who bore this heroic child. “Therefore, O knower of dharma, O great one,” she implored, “your noble family, honored and revered, should not incur infamy through such an act. Let his mother Gautamī, devoted to her husband, not weep as I, with my face wet with tears, have wept again and again 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.” The king, son of Dharma, accepted the queen’s words, recognizing their righteousness, justice, compassion, honesty, and impartiality. Nakula, Sahadeva, Yuyudhāna, Dhanañjaya, the divine son of Devakī, and others, both men and women, were present at that moment. Bhīma, however, was enraged, declaring that death was the proper fate for one who, without cause, kills sleeping children—not for the sake of his master or himself. Hearing both Bhīma’s words and Draupadī’s plea, the four-armed Lord Kṛṣṇa looked at his friend’s face and spoke with a gentle smile. “A brāhmaṇa, even if an aggressor, should not be killed; yet an aggressor deserves death. I have taught both sides—uphold my instruction. Fulfill the promise you made to Kuru, which you gave to comfort your beloved; and what is dear to Bhīmasena, to Draupadī, and to me as well.” Suddenly understanding Hari’s intention, Arjuna took his sword and cut off the jewel along with the hair from the head of the twice-born one. Releasing him, still bound with a girdle and his brilliance dimmed by the sin of killing a child, deprived of the jewel’s radiance, Arjuna led him out from the camp. Shaving the head, taking away wealth, and expelling from one’s place—this is the bodily punishment for those who are brāhmaṇa in name only; there is no other. All the Pāṇḍavas, afflicted with grief for their son, together with Kṛṣṇā, performed the necessary rites for their dead, such as carrying out the bodies. At this moment, the seventh chapter began. Śrī Bhagavān spoke: “What you have asked of me, O greatly fortunate one, is exactly what I wish to do. Brahmā, Śiva, the guardians of the worlds, all desire to dwell in my realm.” Meanwhile, the people flourished in happiness, as the loving couple cared for their children, listening with delight to their cooing and babbling speech. By the gentle touch of their wings, their cooing, and their charming gestures, as the little ones approached, their parents, who were without sorrow, felt joy. Their hearts bound by affection, deluded by Viṣṇu’s māyā, the two, with troubled minds, nurtured their children and the people. Once, those two householders went out for the sake of their young ones; in the forest, seeking food, they wandered for a long time. A hunter, roaming the forest by chance, saw them and spread his net, capturing the young ones as they moved near their nest. The male and female pigeons, always eager to nourish their offspring, having obtained food, returned to their own nest. The female pigeon, seeing her own children trapped in the net, rushed toward them, crying out, greatly distressed as they cried. Filled with affection and a sorrowful heart, bewildered by illusion, she herself became ensnared in the net, seeing her young ones bound, losing awareness. The male pigeon, seeing his beloved children bound—dearer to him than life—and his wife, equal to himself, lamented in great sorrow. “Alas, see my misery—of little merit and foolish mind! Unsatisfied, unfulfilled, my householder’s pursuit of the three aims of life is ruined. She who was my devoted and agreeable wife, my goddess, has left me in this empty house, going to heaven with our sons, the virtuous ones. So I, left in this empty house, bereft of wife and children, miserable, why should I wish to live, afflicted by a life of sorrow?” Surrounded in this way by his own offspring, seized by the grip of 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, a householder whose mind is not at peace, who delights in dualities like a bird, and who maintains his family with attachment, sinks down, bound by his connections. He who, having attained the human world where the door to liberation stands open, remains attached to household life like a bird—they know him as one who, having climbed up, has fallen down. Afterward, Sūta said: Desiring to offer water for their departed relatives, the women, led by Kṛṣṇā, went to the Gaṅgā. Having offered water and lamented intensely again, they bathed in the river sanctified by the lotus feet of Hari and by Brahmā, the unborn. There, Madhava saw the king of the Kurus, Dhṛtarāṣṭra, seated with his younger brother, along with Gāndhārī, stricken with grief for her sons, Pṛthā, and Kṛṣṇā. Along with the sages, he consoled those who had lost their relatives and were overwhelmed with sorrow, showing them the inevitable course of time among all beings, which cannot be countered.