After the tragic events that had unfolded, the charioteer—dear to Govinda—returned to his own camp. There, he found his wife, Kṛpī, grieving over the loss of her sons. To her, he reported all that had happened, and she mourned deeply. When Kṛpī saw the son of her teacher, bound like an animal with ropes, his face cast downward in shame for his deed, stripped of his glory by Kṛṣṇa, her tender heart was moved with compassion. Unable to bear the sight of him led away in such a manner, she pleaded earnestly, “Release him, release him! He is a brāhmaṇa, truly a guru.” She reminded those present that the secret science of archery, its use and withdrawal, and the array of weapons—all had been learned from this man by his favor. The venerable Droṇa, she said, now existed in the form of his son; half of himself remained in Kṛpī, the mother who bore this heroic child. Appealing to their sense of righteousness, she spoke: “O knower of dharma, O great one, 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 have, with a face wet with tears, 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.” Hearing these words, the son of Dharma—the king—accepted the queen’s plea, recognizing her words as righteous, just, compassionate, honest, and impartial. All the Pāṇḍavas—Nakula, Sahadeva, Yuyudhāna, Dhanañjaya, the divine son of Devakī, and others, both men and women—were present. Yet Bhīma, enraged, declared that death was the proper fate for one who, without cause, killed sleeping children—not for his master, nor for himself. Hearing both Bhīma and Draupadī, the four-armed Lord looked kindly 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.” Arjuna, suddenly understanding the intention of Hari, 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, his brilliance dimmed by the sin of killing a child, now 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 brāhmin 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, including carrying out the bodies. At this point, the seventh chapter begins. Śrī Bhagavān said: “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. The gentle touch of their wings, their cooing, and their charming gestures brought joy to their parents, who were without sorrow. 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. By chance, a hunter roaming the forest saw them, spread his net, and captured the young ones as they moved near their nest. The male and female pigeons, eager to nourish their offspring, returned to their nest after obtaining food. The female pigeon, seeing her own children trapped in the net, rushed toward them, crying out in distress 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, captured the pigeon, his mate, and their young—householders all—and took them 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. Sūta continued: Then, 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. He, along with the sages, 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. Having restored to Ajātaśatru his own kingdom, which had been taken by gamblers, and having slain the unrighteous kings whose lives were stained by the touch of Kaca, he accomplished his purpose.