After Arjuna had bound Aśvatthāmā, whose brilliance was dimmed by the grievous act of slaying a child and whose radiant jewel was lost, he led him out from the camp, his hands tied with a girdle. For one who is a brāhmaṇa in name only, the bodily punishment ordained is to shave the head, confiscate wealth, and banish from the community—there is no other prescribed. The Pāṇḍavas, their hearts weighed down with grief for their lost son, gathered with Kṛṣṇā to perform the final rites due to the departed, carrying out the bodies and fulfilling their duties. And so begins the seventh chapter. Śrī Bhagavān spoke: “What you have asked, O most fortunate one, is exactly what I wish to do. Indeed, Brahmā, Śiva, and the guardians of the worlds all yearn to dwell in my realm.” In the kingdom, the people flourished in happiness. The loving couple, attentive to their children, delighted in the sweet babble and cooing of their little ones. The gentle touch of the children's wings, their charming antics and affectionate sounds, brought pure joy to their parents, who now lived free from sorrow. Yet, bound by deep affection and bewildered by Viṣṇu’s māyā, the parents, though their minds were troubled, devoted themselves to nurturing both their children and the people around them. One day, these two householders ventured into the forest for the sake of their young, wandering long in search of food. It was then that a hunter, roaming by chance, spied the fledglings near their nest. He spread his net, and the young ones, moving close, were caught. The parent pigeons, always eager to provide, returned to their nest with food, only to find their children ensnared. The mother, seeing her beloved young trapped and crying out, rushed to them in great distress, her heart overwhelmed by sorrow. In her anguish and confusion, she too became caught in the net, losing all awareness as she beheld her children bound. The father, witnessing his precious children—dearer to him than life—and his wife, his very equal, all captured, was plunged into deep lamentation. “Alas, see my misery! Foolish and of little merit, my householder’s pursuit of the three aims of life is now ruined, unsatisfied and unfulfilled. My devoted and agreeable wife, my goddess, has left me in this empty house, gone to heaven with our virtuous sons. Left alone, bereft of wife and children, why should I wish to live, afflicted by such sorrow?” Surrounded by his own offspring, seized by the grip of death, the pitiable bird, though seeing the arrows before him, fell helplessly into ignorance. The hunter, satisfied with his prize, took the pigeon, his mate, and their young—householders all—back to his home. Thus, the householder whose mind is not at peace, who delights in the dualities of worldly life like a bird, and who clings to family out of attachment, sinks down, bound by these very ties. One who, having reached the rare human birth where liberation is possible, remains attached to household life like a bird is known as one who, having climbed up, has fallen down. In the aftermath, Sūta continued: Desiring to offer water for their departed relatives, the women, led by Kṛṣṇā, went to the sacred Gaṅgā. There, after offering water and pouring out their grief in loud lamentation, they bathed in the holy river, sanctified by the touch of Hari’s lotus feet and by Brahmā, the unborn. At that place, Mādhava beheld Dhṛtarāṣṭra, the king of the Kurus, seated with his younger brother, Gāndhārī—stricken with grief for her sons—along with Pṛthā and Kṛṣṇā. With the sages, he consoled those overwhelmed by the loss of their kin, revealing to them the inevitable course of time that none can resist. Having restored Ajātaśatru—Yudhiṣṭhira—to his kingdom, which had been lost to gamblers, and having slain the unrighteous kings whose lives were tainted by the touch of Kaca, Kṛṣṇa accomplished his purpose. He had Yudhiṣṭhira perform three splendid horse sacrifices, spreading his pure fame in all directions like Indra himself. Having taken leave of the Pāṇḍava brothers, and accompanied by Sātyaki and Uddhava, Kṛṣṇa honored Vyāsa and the other sages, and in turn received their honor. Resolving to depart, he mounted his chariot to return to Dvārakā. At that very moment, Uttarā came running toward him, overwhelmed by fear. “Protect me, protect me, O great yogin, God of gods, Lord of the universe!” she cried. “I see death threatening on all sides and no other refuge but you. 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 plea, the Lord, ever affectionate to his devotees, understood that the weapon of Droṇa’s son was meant to end the Pāṇḍava line. The five brothers, seeing the fiery arrows approaching, took up their own weapons to defend themselves. But the Lord, seeing the calamity that had befallen those devoted to him, shielded his people with the Sudarśana discus, his own divine weapon. Hari, the master of yoga, who dwells within all beings as their very self, by his own power covered and protected the embryo within Uttarā, the descendant of the Kurus. Even though the Brahmaśiras weapon is unfailing and cannot be counteracted, it was subdued by the Lord’s Vaiṣṇava power. Do not consider this astonishing, for in Acyuta, full of all wonders, the unborn one creates, maintains, and destroys the universe by his divine illusion. Freed from the power of Brahma’s weapon, along with her sons and with Kṛṣṇa, the virtuous Pṛthā addressed Kṛṣṇa, who was about to depart. Kuntī bowed and spoke: “I bow to you, the original Person, the Lord beyond material nature, invisible to all, yet present within and without. Covered by the veil of illusion, unknowable and imperishable, you are not seen by those whose vision is deluded, just as an actor is hidden by his costume. You manifest yourself to establish devotion among the pure-hearted renunciants and sages—how, then, can we women possibly perceive you?