As the serpent threatened the two spouses, they spoke to him with wisdom and compassion. “Abandon ignorance, O serpent,” they pleaded, “for it brings the torment of hell. If you devour us, what little happiness will come to you?” They reminded the serpent that Vishnu dwells in their hearts—and in his as well. “What enmity can there be between you and us, O serpent?” they asked, appealing to the unity of all beings through Hari. They continued, teaching that the wise should never commit violence against living beings; even when violence occurs, it is fate that brings about the act. Those who commit violence lose their lifespan, children, wives, wealth, and fame—all taken away by fate. What use are recitations, austerities, gifts, or sacrifices to one whose heart is always filled with thoughts of harm? They declared: “That mortal who harms living beings harms Hari himself, for the Lord, consort of Lakshmi, abides in the bodies of all beings.” They spoke of the Lord, creator of all, who manifests himself in many forms and plays in the world like a child, by his own will. The body of every being is the dwelling of the Supreme Self; and the Supreme Self is Vishnu. Therefore, violence should be avoided. Yet, they acknowledged, by the destruction of another’s life, one may gain satisfaction—but only for a moment. Such conduct among people is astonishing, for they seek their own satisfaction by killing others, but the wise never attain true knowledge of self or others. They urged the serpent to contemplate: “I am Vishnu, that one is Vishnu.” The one who feels distress at another’s suffering and joy at another’s prosperity should be recognized as Hari himself, manifest in this world. But shame upon the happiness of those whose minds are deluded by ignorance. The happiness gained through harming others, or the pleasures and pains given to living beings, are attained quickly on earth—therefore, abandon violence and become happy, O serpent. They pleaded, “When you are pleased, we shall cross the vast ocean of suffering.” The serpent then asked, “If violence against others is not a great sin for me, then how did the Creator make the eater and the eaten?” He acknowledged the truth in their words: violence should not be done. Yet, among all things to be eaten, violence is not always found; Nārāyaṇa is of universal form, and there is no doubt about this. The serpent explained: “He himself created the eater and the eaten together; he creates himself and protects himself. He himself consumes himself; such is the creation of Hari. I am able—what can I do to slay you? Fate itself is the form of time. Now Hari himself has sent me for this task; the god who created you both also always protects you. That same one, now in the form of time, kills, appointing me as the cause.” Vyāsa then narrated: By the serpent’s action, those two spouses were eaten. Crying “Gaṅgā! Gaṅgā!” they wandered, afflicted by great hunger, along the path. In their pilgrimage to the banks of Jāhnavī, these two people attained the great fruit of the sacrifice called Aśvamedha. Thus, these two great souls performed many Aśvamedha sacrifices. None were equal to them, for Vyāsa revealed, “I am Indra; Indra himself, by his own authority, relied on another.” With hands offering arghya, walking on foot, and surrounded by the gods, Indra arrived. Then Rambhā, Urvaśī, and other beautiful, joyful women began to speak among themselves, proud of their youth. “This one is the best among the virtuous, a connoisseur of pleasure, exceedingly handsome,” they said. “He has come; I will make him mine with my own arts and attendants,” one claimed. Another boasted, “I know every skill completely. Therefore, I shall become the beloved of this king; let him choose—this one or that one—even Indra is under my control. What is remarkable, that the king will become subject to my will?” Each woman declared, “This is my husband, my lord, my master, my protector.” All the women, knowing the highest virtues, spoke with great joy. Hearing their varied words, one virtuous and discerning woman said, “The king himself favors Saudāsyā, so why should the women quarrel?” Then, abandoning quarrel, all those beautiful women came with uplifted hearts, adorned with their ornaments. They worshipped the best of kings, free from sin and with his wives, offering water and other honors. Then Purandara, Indra, spoke. He seated the king, accompanied by women, in the celestial chariot Puṣpaka, with the sweet sounds of drums, kettledrums, and ḍiṇḍimas resounding. The heavens filled with the clanging of cymbals, hand-clapping, and victorious cries of the gods. Fanned by the lovely hands of divine women with white chowries, the king, mounted on the chariot with his wives, went to heaven. Indra himself, fearing for his own position, gave half of his own seat to the king who was true to righteousness. Dwelling always on the same seat with Indra in heaven, the king attained the status of Indra by the compassion of Keśava. Having enjoyed all pleasures in heaven for thousands of millions of ages, he ascended the chariot and went to Vaikuṇṭha by the command of the Lord.