There was a woman of remarkable understanding, who could instantly and continuously grasp the language of those who spoke Sanskrit, as if every day were a festival of words and meaning. One morning, as vermilion dust rose from the courtyards of houses, the moon’s disk appeared everywhere tinged with a gentle reddish hue, casting an auspicious glow over the land. In this time, there lived a king named Shauryavarma, radiant like a blazing fire, who vanquished the armies of his enemies with a torrent of shining arrows. On the distant island of Simhala, another king ruled—Simhaparakrama, also called Vikramavetala, a sovereign who was a treasury of all the arts. Over time, these two kings forged a deep friendship, exchanging many rare and excellent gifts unique to their own realms. One day, moved by affection, Shauryavarma sent a splendid present to his friend Vikramavetala: two magnificent hunting dogs. In response, King Vikramavetala sent back a lavish gift—an abundance of elephants and horses, intoxicated with vigor, adorned with jewels and decorative fans. On one occasion, King Vikramavetala, seated regally in a palanquin, cooled by charming whisks, draped in golden chains, and accompanied by the resounding music of drums and kettledrums, decided to seek the pleasure of the hunt. Eager for sport, he took the pair of gifted dogs and, together with the royal princes, made his way to the outer gardens. There, a wager was set according to custom, and a hare was released. Excitement swept through the assembly of royal princes. The king, seeking amusement, made a large wager with a prince of equal age. Dismounting from his palanquin and proud of his anticipated victory, the king released his dog with a loud command, urging it after the fleeing hare. The royal prince, strong-armed and beloved by all, released his own dog, proclaiming his own victory with confidence. All the assembled kings watched as the two dogs, swift as the wind, raced after the hare with incredible speed. The hare, exhausted, stumbled and fell into a deep pit; yet, even as it lay vulnerable, the king’s dog did not seize it. The hare slowly rose and tried to escape, but, provoked, the royal dog finally caught the foaming creature. As the hare leapt away, stumbling in its flight, the prince’s dog seized it at the nape of the neck. Cries of triumph erupted—“We have certainly won!”—but, startled by the commotion, the dog released the hare from its jaws. Bleeding from rows of fresh wounds, the hare sought refuge, hiding somewhere in the earth, remaining concealed. The dog, still restless, sniffed the ground in search of its prey. When the hare was spotted, terrified, it moved only a hand’s length away. The place where this drama unfolded was wondrous: tracks of camphor, banana, wild boar, and tiger crossed the earth; cool breezes played through the folds of cloth and caressed cheeks adorned with ornaments. Eyes there were tinged with the pollen of blossoming ketaki buds, and shade was freely offered to all who sought it. Coconuts fell from the trees unbidden, and even the animals dwelling in the branches were satisfied by ripe mangoes. Lions played with elephants, and serpents entered peacock nests without fear. Within this tranquil forest stood an ashram, where a Brahmin named Vatsa, self-controlled and serene, sat in continuous recitation of the fourteenth chapter of the Gita. There, the wounded hare, barely alive and breathing with difficulty, was washed with water that had cleansed the feet of Vatsa’s disciple. The hare collapsed into the mud, and, by the mere touch of that sanctified earth, its cycle of rebirth came to an end. Mounting a divine chariot, the hare departed for heaven. The dog, too, her body anointed with drops of that holy mud, was freed from hunger and thirst and cast off her canine form. She also boarded a celestial chariot, beautiful and adorned with celestial maidens and Gandharvas, and ascended to heaven. Witnessing these wondrous events, the wise disciple Sva-kandhara laughed, reflecting in amazement on the mysterious causes of enmity carried over from previous births. The king, his eyes alight with wonder, approached Sva-kandhara with deep respect and humility, and asked, “Tell me, O Brahmin, how did this dog and hare, born in humble forms and ignorant of their past, attain heaven?” The disciple replied, “Vatsa, the twice-born and self-controlled, always recited the fourteenth chapter of the Gita here in this forest. I am his disciple, O king, skilled in knowledge of Brahman, and I too recite the fourteenth chapter daily. By rolling in the water used to wash my lotus feet, the hare attained heaven, together with the dog.” The king pressed further, “Tell me, O best of Brahmins, the reason for your laughter, and what secret you pondered with such respect.” The disciple answered, “There is a great city called Mahārāṣṭra, on the banks of a river. There lived a Brahmin named Keśava, foremost among gamblers. His wife, given to wanton conduct, became infatuated; in anger, he killed her, harboring enmity from a previous birth. As a result of the sin of killing a woman, Keśava was reborn as a hare, and she, due to her own misdeeds, was born as a female dog. Both were thus bound to each other by the consequences of their deceitful actions in previous lives. Enmity carried over from a previous birth is never forgotten, even as one passes through many different forms and wombs.” Thus, the king learned the mysterious workings of karma and the sanctifying power of the Gita, as well as the deep bonds and enmities that transcend lifetimes.