Once, seeking diversion, a king entered into a grand wager with a prince of his own age. Eager for sport, the king alighted from his palanquin, pride swelling within him as he donned a garland of victory. With a loud command, he released his dog to pursue a fleeing hare. The royal prince, beloved by all and mighty-armed, also set his own dog upon the chase, boldly proclaiming his own victory and then standing aside. Before the assembled kings, the two dogs, their speed so great as to be almost invisible, surged forward with tremendous force. The hare, soon exhausted, tumbled into a deep pit. Yet, though the hare was vulnerable, the king’s dog did not seize it. Slowly, the hare recovered and darted away, but now, stung by frustration, the royal dog caught the foaming hare in its jaws. As the hare leapt and stumbled, the prince’s dog grasped it by the nape of its neck. A tumult arose as onlookers cried, “We have certainly won!” Startled by the commotion, the dog released the hare from its mouth. Blood streaming from the wounds left by sharp fangs, the hare slipped away and hid itself deep within the earth, concealed from view. The dog, still seething with anger and longing for victory, sniffed the ground, searching for its prize, and upon glimpsing the hare, frightened it into moving only a hand’s length away. This chase led them to a wondrous place—a forest where camphor trees grew, bananas ripened, and the tracks of wild boar and tigers mingled. The breeze played gently through cloth and ornamented cheeks, while eyes shone with the pollen of blossoming ketaki buds. Beneath the generous shade, coconut fruits fell of their own accord, and even the animals dwelling in the branches were content with ripe mangoes. Here, lions and elephants played together, and serpents entered peacock nests without fear. Amid this harmony stood an ashram, where a Brahmin named Vatsa, self-controlled and serene, sat reciting the fourteenth chapter of the Gītā without ceasing. It was here that the hare, battered and barely breathing, was washed with water used to cleanse the disciple’s feet and collapsed into the mud. Remarkably, the mere touch of this mud ended the hare’s cycle of rebirth; it rose upon a divine chariot and ascended to heaven. The dog too, her body stained with drops of that sacred mud, was freed from hunger and thirst, casting off her canine form. She, too, boarded a radiant chariot, adorned with celestial maidens and Gandharvas, and journeyed to heaven. Witnessing this, the wise disciple Sva-kandhara laughed softly, contemplating the mysterious roots of enmity carried from past lives. The king, his eyes wide with wonder and reverence, bowed low and asked, “O Brahmin, tell me: how did the dog and the hare, born in humble forms and ignorant, attain heaven?” The disciple replied, “Vatsa, the twice-born, ever self-controlled, recited the fourteenth chapter of the Gītā here in this forest. I am his disciple, O king, and daily recite the same chapter, being versed in Brahma-knowledge. By rolling in the water that had bathed my feet, the hare—and even the dog—were lifted to heaven.” The king, still curious, inquired further, “O best of Brahmins, what was the cause of your laughter? Why did you reflect with secrecy and respect?” The disciple answered, “There is a great city called Mahārāṣṭra, on the banks of a river. There lived a brāhmaṇa named Keśava, foremost among gamblers. His wife, given to wanton ways, became infatuated; in anger, he killed her, carrying enmity from a past life. Because of this sin, the brāhmaṇa was reborn as a hare, and she, due to her own misdeeds, was born as a female dog—both as a result of deceitful actions in their previous lives. Enmity practiced in a former birth is never forgotten, no matter how many forms one assumes.” Having heard and understood all this, the king, filled with faith, devoted himself to studying the entire Gītā and in time attained the highest state. Thus concludes the one hundred and eighty-eighth chapter in the section on the greatness of the Gītā, in the Uttara-khaṇḍa of the glorious Padma Purāṇa. Then, Īśvara spoke: “O wide-eyed daughter of the snowy mountain, now listen as I tell you the greatness of the fifteenth chapter of the Gītā. There was a king among the Gauḍas named Kṛpālu, who, like Narasiṃha, was so mighty in battle that even hosts of gods fell before his sword. The streams of gifts from his intoxicated elephants could cool the burning summer sun, and those elephants, terrified in battle, sought his protection and moved like mountains. The mountains themselves, shielded by this compassionate king, seemed to echo with the cries of his elephants. The earth, pounded by his galloping horses, became broken and uneven. Once again, the lord of serpents composed a brilliant commentary. Among the king’s warriors was a wise and powerful soldier named Sarabhabheruṇḍa, skilled equally in arms and in the scriptures, whose strength was unmatched.