The sorrowful tale of the pigeon’s family unfolded with deep poignancy. The mother pigeon, filled with love for her children, was overtaken by grief and confusion when she saw her young ones ensnared and bound. Bewildered by illusion, she herself became entangled in the hunter’s net, losing all awareness in her distress. Witnessing this tragedy, the male pigeon saw his beloved children—dearer to him than his own life—captured, and his wife, his very equal, caught as well. Overwhelmed by sorrow, he lamented, “Alas, see my misery! Foolish and of little merit, I am unsatisfied and unfulfilled, and now my householder’s pursuit of righteousness, wealth, and pleasure is ruined. My devoted, gentle wife, my goddess, has left me alone in this empty house, ascending to heaven with our virtuous sons. Bereft of wife and children, why should I wish to continue this life of misery?” Surrounded by the loss of his family and seized by the grip of death, the pitiable bird, though he saw the arrows, could do nothing—he fell, ignorant and helpless. The cruel hunter, now satisfied with his success, gathered the pigeon, his mate, and their young—all householder birds—and took them home. Thus, it is said, a householder whose mind is unsettled, who delights in the dualities of worldly life and maintains his family with attachment, sinks down, bound by his own ties. One who, having attained the rare human birth—where the gateway to liberation stands open—remains attached to household life like a bird is known as one who, having climbed up, has fallen down. In the aftermath of the great war, Sūta described how the women, led by Kṛṣṇā, went to the Gaṅgā, wishing to offer water for their departed relatives. They poured out their grief, lamenting deeply, and then bathed in the sacred river, hallowed by the touch of Hari’s lotus feet and by Brahmā himself. There, Mādhava beheld the king of the Kurus, Dhṛtarāṣṭra, seated with his younger brother, along with Gāndhārī, stricken with grief for her sons, Pṛthā, and Kṛṣṇā. Kṛṣṇa, joined by the sages, consoled those who had lost their loved ones and were overwhelmed by sorrow, teaching them about the inevitable and unstoppable power of time that affects all beings. Having restored to Ajātaśatru—Yudhiṣṭhira—his own kingdom, lost through gambling, and having slain the unrighteous kings tainted by the touch of Kaca, Kṛṣṇa fulfilled his purpose. He had Yudhiṣṭhira perform three great horse sacrifices with splendid arrangements, spreading his pure fame in all directions, like Indra himself. Afterwards, Kṛṣṇa took leave of the sons of Pāṇḍu, accompanied by Sātyaki and Uddhava, and honored by Vyāsa and other sages, he honored them in return. Resolved to depart, he mounted his chariot to return to Dvārakā, but at that moment Uttarā came running toward him, overwhelmed by terror. She cried, “Protect me, protect me, O great yogin, God of gods, Lord of the universe! I see no other refuge but you, for death threatens me 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 plea, the Lord—ever affectionate to his devotees—understood that the weapon of Droṇa’s son, Aśvatthāmā, was meant to destroy the Pāṇḍava line. The five Pāṇḍavas, seeing the fiery arrows approaching, took up their own weapons to defend themselves. But seeing the calamity that had befallen his devotees, Kṛṣṇa protected his own people with his Sudarśana discus, his 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. Though the Brahmaśiras weapon is unfailing and cannot be counteracted, it was subdued when it encountered the Vaiṣṇava power of the Lord. This, Sūta explained, is not to be considered astonishing, for in Acyuta, the infallible one, who is full of all wonders, the unborn Lord creates, maintains, and destroys the world by his divine illusion. Freed from the threat of the Brahma weapon, along with her sons and Kṛṣṇa, the virtuous Pṛthā (Kuntī) then spoke to Kṛṣṇa, who was about to depart. Kuntī, with folded hands, offered her heartfelt prayers: “I bow to you, the original Person, the Lord, who is beyond material nature, invisible to all beings, yet present within and without. Covered by the veil of illusion, unknowable and imperishable, you are hidden from those whose vision is deluded, just as an actor is concealed by his costume. For the sake of establishing devotion among the supreme renunciants, the pure-hearted sages, how can we women possibly perceive you? Salutations to Kṛṣṇa, to Vāsudeva, to the son of Devakī, to the boy of Nanda and the cowherds, to Govinda—again and again, I bow. Salutations to the lotus-naveled, salutations to the lotus-garlanded, to the lotus-eyed, and to you whose feet are like lotuses. Just as Hṛṣīkeśa freed Devakī, who had long suffered grief, imprisoned by the wicked Kaṃsa, so too, O Lord, you have repeatedly delivered me and my sons from many dangers: from deadly poison, from the great fire, from the man-eater’s gaze, from the wicked assembly, from hardships in the forest, from battles with mighty warriors, and from the weapon of Drauṇa. O Hari, you have always protected us. May those calamities always befall us, O Guru of the world, so that we may see you again and again, for seeing you means we shall not see repeated birth. One who grows proud from birth, wealth, learning, and beauty cannot truly approach you; you are accessible only to those who possess nothing. Salutations to you, the wealth of those who have nothing, whose activity is beyond the modes, who delights in the self, who is peaceful, and who is the Lord of liberation. I consider you to be Time itself, the ruler, beginningless and endless, all-pervading, moving equally among all beings, from whom their mutual discord arises. No one knows your intention, O Lord; your actions in this world are a mockery of men. You have no one whom you favor or hate, yet people imagine partiality in you. Your birth and deeds, O soul of the universe, O unborn, non-acting self, among beasts, humans, and aquatics, are the highest mystery. When the gopī tried to bind you for your mischief, and your eyes, filled with tears and ointment, looked up in fear, you bowed your face in dread—this bewilders me, for even those who cause fear are afraid of you.” Thus, Kuntī offered her love and wisdom to the Lord, whose ways are both wondrous and mysterious.