Nakula, Sahadeva, Yuyudhāna, Dhanañjaya, the divine son of Devakī—Kṛṣṇa himself—and many others, both men and women, were gathered together in the camp. In the midst of their grief, Bhīma, his anger blazing, declared that one who slays sleeping children without reason, neither for his own sake nor for his master's, deserves nothing less than death. Hearing Bhīma’s words, and those of Draupadī, the four-armed Lord Kṛṣṇa looked gently upon the face of his dear friend and, with a soft smile, spoke. He reminded them that, though an aggressor deserves death, a brāhmaṇa should not be slain, for he had instructed them on both sides of this dilemma, and now urged them to uphold his teaching. He asked Arjuna to fulfill the promise he had made to the Kuru line, a pledge given to comfort his beloved, and to do what was dear to Bhīma, to Draupadī, and to Kṛṣṇa himself. Suddenly understanding the Lord’s intention, Arjuna drew his sword and, with a swift stroke, cut off the lustrous jewel, along with the hair, from the head of the twice-born Aśvatthāmā. He released him, who was bound with a girdle and whose radiance was dimmed by the sin of killing a child. Now stripped of the jewel’s glory, Arjuna led him out from the camp. Such is the bodily punishment for those who are brāhmaṇa in name only: their heads are shaved, their wealth taken, and they are expelled—no other punishment is decreed. Overwhelmed by sorrow for their lost son, all the Pāṇḍavas, together with Kṛṣṇā (Draupadī), performed the necessary rites for the dead, such as carrying out the bodies. Then begins the seventh chapter. Śrī Bhagavān spoke: “What you have asked of me, O greatly fortunate one, is exactly what I wish to do. Brahmā, Śiva, and all the guardians of the worlds long to dwell in my realm.” In time, the people flourished in happiness, as the loving couple cared tenderly for their children, delighting in their cooing and babbling. The gentle touch of their wings, their sweet sounds, and their charming gestures brought joy to the hearts of their parents, who, free from sorrow, found their lives filled with affection. Yet, bound by this love and deluded by Viṣṇu’s māyā, the couple, their minds troubled, devoted themselves to nurturing their children and caring for their people. One day, these two householders ventured into the forest for the sake of their young ones. They wandered for a long time, seeking food. By chance, a hunter, roaming through the forest, saw the young birds near their nest and cast his net, capturing them. The male and female pigeons, ever eager to feed their young, returned to their nest with food. But when the mother saw her children caught in the net, she rushed toward them, crying out in distress as her children called to her. Overcome by affection and sorrow, bewildered by illusion, she too became ensnared in the net, losing all awareness as she saw her little ones bound. The father, seeing his beloved children—dearer to him than life itself—and his wife, his very equal, all trapped, was plunged into deep lamentation. “Alas, see my misery! Of little merit and foolish mind, unsatisfied and unfulfilled, my pursuit of the three aims of life as a householder is ruined. She who was my devoted and agreeable wife, my goddess, has left me in this empty house, going to heaven with our virtuous sons. Now, left alone, bereft of wife and children, what reason do I have to live, tormented by sorrow?” Thus, surrounded by his own offspring and seized by the grip of death, the pitiable bird, though seeing the hunter’s arrows, fell down in ignorance and helplessness. The cruel hunter, satisfied with his catch, gathered up the pigeon, his mate, and their young—all householders—and took them home. So it is with the householder whose mind is not at peace, who delights in the dualities of life like a bird, and who maintains his family with attachment—he sinks down, bound by those very ties. One who, having attained the human world where the door to liberation stands open, yet remains attached to household life like a bird, is known as one who, having climbed high, has fallen down. After these events, Sūta continued: The women, led by Kṛṣṇā (Draupadī), went to the Gaṅgā, desiring to offer water for their departed relatives. Having offered water and lamented deeply, they bathed in the sacred river, sanctified by the lotus feet of Hari and by Brahmā, the unborn. There, Madhava (Kṛṣṇa) saw the king of the Kurus, Dhṛtarāṣṭra, seated with his younger brother, along with Gāndhārī, grieving for her sons, Pṛthā, and Kṛṣṇā. With the sages, he consoled those overwhelmed with sorrow, teaching them about the inevitable course of time, which none can resist. Having restored to Ajātaśatru (Yudhiṣṭhira) his own kingdom, which had been lost to gamblers, and having slain the unrighteous kings whose lives were tainted, he fulfilled his purpose. He had Yudhiṣṭhira perform three great horse sacrifices with splendid arrangements, spreading his pure fame in all directions, like Indra. After taking leave of the sons of Pāṇḍu, accompanied by Sātyaki and Uddhava, and honored by Vyāsa and other sages, Kṛṣṇa honored them in return. Resolving to depart for Dvārakā, he mounted his chariot. Just then, Uttarā came running toward him, overwhelmed by fear. She cried, “Protect me, protect me, O great yogin, God of gods, Lord of the universe! I see no other refuge but you, as death threatens on all sides. O Lord, a blazing iron arrow is rushing toward me! Let it burn me if it must, but, O master, do not let my unborn child be destroyed.” Hearing her desperate plea, the Lord, ever affectionate to his devotees, understood that the weapon of Droṇa’s son was meant to destroy the Pāṇḍava line. The five Pāṇḍavas, seeing the blazing arrows coming toward them, took up their weapons to defend themselves. Seeing this calamity threaten those whose minds were fixed solely on him, the Lord protected his people with his Sudarśana discus, his own divine weapon. Hari, the master of yoga who dwells within all beings as their very self, by his own power shielded the embryo within Uttarā, the descendant of the Kurus.