As the gentle doe nursed her young fawn in the quiet of the forest, a sudden arrow, swift and forceful as a thunderbolt, pierced her side. She fell, her life ebbing away, and with her last breath, she addressed the king who had shot her. “I was blameless, having come to the forest and tending to my child, yet you killed me without cause. Therefore, you of evil mind, you too shall become a flesh-eater. In this thorny wilderness, assume the form of a tiger.” Hearing these words, the king was shaken to his core. His senses reeling, he stood before the dying doe with hands joined in supplication. “O gentle one,” he pleaded, “it was never my intention to kill a mother offering her breast to her child. I acted in ignorance. Please, be gracious and forgive me. Tell me, when will I be freed from this curse and regain my human form?” The doe, gathering her composure, spoke with a voice both gentle and solemn. “O king, at the end of a hundred years, when your time as a tiger has run its course, you will meet and converse with one named Nandā. Only after that meeting will your curse be lifted and your ordeal come to an end.” With the curse pronounced, the king was instantly transformed. He became a fierce tiger, armed with terrible claws and fangs, and began to dwell in the forest, hunting and devouring four-footed creatures. As the years passed, his hunger drove him to prey even upon the two-footed beings who lived nearby. Thus, a hundred long years of violence and isolation dragged on. During this time, the tiger would often reflect with sorrow and regret. While gnawing the flesh of deer, he would lament, “When will I again attain a human state? I will never commit such a vile act again, nor bring such suffering to others. My greed for flesh led me to this calamity, and now I am a terror to both animals and humans. The sight of deer and people together fills me with deep sorrow. Though born in a virtuous family, I have fallen so low—such is the turn of fate. I possess no merit; even a single act of violence brings suffering and no liberation. How will I ever be freed from this curse? When will the words of the doe come true?” As the hundred years neared their end, the tiger, drawn by thirst and hunger for barley and water, wandered to the outskirts of Gokula—a place filled with cow-pens and lively with the sounds of churning, shaded by trees, and bustling with intoxicated cowherds. There, in a grove of kharjūra palms, he took up his dwelling. Among the herd was a remarkable cow named Nandā, chief among all, swan-colored, graceful, and well-nourished. She had a long nose, well-shaped limbs, a slender body, a blue throat, and a beautiful neck adorned with a bell. Her voice was sweet, and she moved fearlessly at the head of the herd, grazing as she pleased and sometimes wandering alone in search of fresh grass. Nearby, on the riverbank, stood Mount Rohita, its caves and hollows teeming with wild animals. In its northeastern reaches, the forest grew thick and formidable, the terrain narrow and treacherous, echoing with the cries of deer, lions, and jackals. Here, in a dense thicket, dwelled a fierce and terrifying being of changing form—a leopard named Nanda, whose jaws were smeared with blood and whose fangs and claws were his weapons. Despite his fearsome appearance, Nanda was righteous and devoted to protecting the cowherd women and their herds, using long, unbroken blades of grass as his shield. One day, Nandā, separated from her herd by her desire for fresh grass, wandered near the tiger’s lair. As she grazed, the leopard Nanda, seeing her, sprang forward and cried, “Stay, stay! Today you have come to me of your own accord, destined as my food!” Hearing these harsh, chilling words, Nandā’s heart turned to her calf—a white, radiant little one, auspicious as the moon. Overwhelmed by sorrow and love for her child, she spoke in a choked voice and wept bitterly, hopeless of ever seeing her calf again. The leopard, seeing her grief, addressed her with terrible words. “O cow, why do you weep? By fate you have come to me, an easy meal. Whether you cry or laugh, your life will end by my claws. What is destined is eaten in this world—your death is ordained today, so why grieve in vain?” Yet the tiger was moved by her sorrow and asked again, “Why are you weeping? Tell me the reason for your tears, for it weighs upon me.” Hearing the tiger’s words, Nandā composed herself and replied, “Forgive me, lord, master of many forms. I bow to you. Having encountered you, there is no escape for anyone. I do not grieve for my own life, for death is certain for all who are born, just as birth is certain for those who have died. Even the gods cannot escape this fate. Therefore, I do not grieve for myself. But, O noble one, my sorrow is born of love and pain for my calf. This is the anguish in my heart, and I ask that you hear it.