At that time, O Bharata, Kunti heard a loud and terrible cry of distress coming from the house of a Brahmin. The sound rose intensely, filled with anguish. Drawn by compassion and the dictates of virtue, Kunti could not bear to see the Brahmin’s family weeping and lamenting. Her heart churned with sorrow, and she spoke words of pity to Bhima, her noble son. “Son,” she said, “we live happily here in the Brahmin’s house, unknown to the sons of Dhritarashtra, honored and free from anger. I often wonder what I might do for this Brahmin—when will I do something dear to him, something that brings happiness to those who dwell here? A man is called accomplished when nothing is lost in what he does, but if another does more, that is greater. This sorrow has surely come upon the Brahmin; if we do not help him, no good deed will be accomplished. Let us find out the cause of his suffering and from where it arises. Once I know, I will decide what to do, even if it is very difficult.” As they spoke, the sound of distress echoed again from the Brahmin and his wife. Then Kunti, swift and caring as a cow rushing to her calf, entered the inner chambers of the Brahmin’s house. There she saw the Brahmin, his wife, son, and daughter, all with faces distorted by grief. The Brahmin, overwhelmed, lamented: “Fie upon this life in the world, which is devoid of essence and useless, rooted in sorrow, dependent on others, and full of unpleasantness. In life there is the greatest sorrow, in life the greatest fever; for one who lives, the arrival of opposites is certain. The self alone pursues righteousness, wealth, and desire; separation from these brings endless and supreme suffering. Some say that liberation is supreme, but it is never attained; and in the pursuit of wealth, complete hell arises. Those who desire wealth suffer greatly, and even more so when they attain it; but for one who has become attached to possessions, separation brings the greatest pain. As many are a person’s attachments to desired objects, so many are the darts of sorrow that lodge in his heart. Having attained this life, which is brief and full of great fear, I have not yet achieved renunciation, even together with my wife. Indeed, I do not see any means by which I could escape this calamity, nor could I flee safely together with my son and wife. You know, O Brahmani, that I have previously made every effort to go wherever safety could be found, but you did not heed me. You have said, ‘Here I was born and raised; these are my father and mother,’ O foolish one, though I have often begged you. Even if your father and mother, now aged, have gone to heaven, and your former relatives as well, what pleasure is there in dwelling here? There is no conflict in food, nor is a woman’s place a binding tie; one should go even to a distant land, like Garuda or a swan. Now, because you, desiring kin, did not listen to my words, the destruction of our relatives has come, causing me great pain. Or, if I cannot bear my own destruction, I would be cruel to abandon a relative while I myself still live. My wife, ever devoted to duty, self-controlled, always like a mother to me, appointed by the gods as my companion and supreme goal—assigned by my father and mother to always share in household life, properly chosen and married with sacred rites. You, noble and blameless, of good family and character, fit to bear children, I have taken as my wife for the sake of life itself. I could never abandon my wife, ever faithful; how then could I, of my own will, abandon my daughter? A child, not yet come of age, her features not yet developed, entrusted to me by the great-souled Creator for the sake of her husband—through her, I hope for worlds to be gained by grandsons together with the ancestors; having begotten that child myself, how could I bear to abandon her? Some men think a father’s affection for a son is greater, others for a daughter; but for me, both are held equal in my heart. In whom the worlds, offspring, and constant happiness are established, how could I bear to abandon that innocent child? How could I, of my own will, abandon my son, for whom I would wish the highest joy and the rewards of heaven? His parents, upon seeing his face at birth, departed for heaven; I am freed from the debt to ancestors by the brilliance of the one who is born. How could I bear to abandon this beloved child here? He is my eldest son, the mighty one who will carry forward our lineage. How could I forsake my son, the repository of my offerings of food and water? This renunciation has come upon me—whether mine or my son’s. Whether for you or your daughter, the fruit of dwelling here belongs; you do not heed my words—enjoy that fruit, O beautiful one. Or else, I am unable to die myself, leaving my son; I cannot abandon either him or you, my daughter. Or, for the sake of protecting Madra, I am unable to forsake anyone; I cannot abandon a relative while living, acting cruelly.” Thus, Kunti listened with deep empathy to the Brahmin’s anguished words, witnessing the sorrow that had engulfed his family, and pondering how she might help them in their time of distress.