He who bathes and purifies himself each day, then respectfully beholds the forefathers—whether in direct or reverse order, separately or together—follows a practice of great merit. It is said that one should bathe daily at Puṣkara, especially if one seeks to attain the world of Brahma. There, three pure peaks and three sacred springs are found, each renowned in their own right. Though the fame of these Puṣkaras is widespread, the reasons for their sanctity are not fully known; they are distinguished as the lesser, the middle, and the eldest Puṣkara. These places are known as auspicious peaks and springs, and one who visits them with intentions for dharma, wealth, pleasure, or liberation, surely gains the fruits of those desires. If a person abandons his body there, liberation is assured without doubt. Having bathed with purity and self-restraint, it is prescribed to offer auspicious gifts to a Brahmin. Even a single cow, gifted with proper mantras, grants the giver access to heavenly worlds—what need for more words? This holds true even for those who come at night, if their hearts are set on such rewards. The scriptures further praise the giving of wealth after bathing, declaring that such generosity brings endless happiness. Especially at Puṣkara, the sages extol the gift of sesame seeds. Bathing is always prescribed on the fourteenth day of the dark fortnight, and those who offer a ball made of flour or even jaggery for the ancestors there, after purifying themselves, attain the world of the forefathers. From the Puṣkara forest, one may journey onward to the sacred Sarasvatī. At one time, Sarasvatī herself, seeking concealment, traveled westward from Puṣkara. Not far from there, near that holy place, lies a very beautiful region. Arriving at a grove of palm trees adorned with fruits and flowers, the goddess lingered, then entered a delightful forest beloved by sages. That forest, ever blooming with flowers of all seasons and served by siddhas and celestial beings, was graced by the river Nandā, famed throughout the three worlds. Nandā, the best of rivers, teems with fish, crocodiles, and other aquatic creatures, and her waters are pure. At this point, Sūta narrated that Devavrata asked, “What is this excellent river, O Brahman? My curiosity is stirred about Nandā, called Sarasvatī—how did she come to be, and why is she regarded as the foremost of rivers?” In response, Pulastya began to recount to Bhīṣma the ancient story of how Nandā received her name. Long ago, there was a king named Prabhaṃjana, ever steadfast in his warrior’s vow. Mighty and resolute, he often hunted in that very forest. One day, he saw a doe standing within a thicket. He struck her, who was moving ahead, with a sharp arrow. The wounded doe looked about, saw the king with his bow, and spoke, “What have you done, fool? This deed is most difficult. I was only offering my lowered breast to my child, and you struck me swiftly, driven by greed for flesh. A king should not kill a nursing deer, or one engaged in secret mating—so I have heard. I was blameless, caring for my fawn in the forest, yet you killed me with an arrow like a thunderbolt.” She continued, “For this, you of evil mind, you too shall become a flesh-eater. In this thorny forest, you will take the form of a tiger.” Hearing her curse, the king stood before her, his senses disturbed. With joined palms, he pleaded, “It was not my intention to kill one feeding her child. I acted in ignorance, O gentle one. Be gracious and composed—when will I regain my human body after this curse?” The doe, moved, spoke auspicious words: “O king, after a hundred years, when the curse has run its course, you will meet and converse with Nandā. After that, your release will come.” With these words, the king was transformed into a tiger. Fierce and armed with claws and fangs, he dwelled there, hunting and devouring animals. In time, he even preyed upon the two-footed beings who lived in the forest. Thus, a hundred years passed in that state. While eating the flesh of deer, he lamented, “When will I again attain a human state? I will not commit such a vile act again, nor inflict such suffering. Driven by greed, I hunted, and now I suffer the consequences.” He reflected further, “I have brought calamity upon myself and terror to others. The sight of deer and humans together fills me with sorrow. Though born in a virtuous family, I have fallen to this state—such is the turn of fate. Therefore, I have no merit; even one act of violence is condemned, and brings suffering, not liberation. How will I be freed? How will the doe’s words come true?” When a hundred years had passed, his time as a tiger nearing its end, he came to Gokula, drawn by the need for barley and water, to the place of cow-pens and enclosures. The edge of the forest was filled with the sounds of churning, crowded with joyful cowherds, shaded by trees, and resonant with the calls of night birds. It was an auspicious place for the cowherd women, and there, in a grove of date palms, he dwelled. Among the herd was one named Nandā, joyful, content, and well-nourished, the chief among the cows—her body swan-white, her gait graceful and flowing, her nose long, limbs well-formed, slender-bodied, blue-throated, with a beautiful neck adorned with a bell, and a sweet voice. Thus, the story of Nandā, the river and the cow, her connection to the king’s deliverance, and the sanctity of Puṣkara, was recounted as it was handed down through the ages.