Tormented by remorse, the hunter lamented, “I will never again commit such a vile act, nor inflict such suffering. Driven by greed for flesh, I pursued the hunt and now have brought calamity upon myself, striking fear into the hearts of humans. The sight of deer mingling with people fills me with deep sorrow. Though born in a virtuous, blameless family, I have fallen into sin—see how fate turns even the lives of men. I have no merit, for even a single act of violence is condemned; it brings only suffering and denies liberation. How, then, will I ever attain release? And how shall the innocent doe be restored?” Thus, he resolved to dwell in the forest for a hundred years, seeking atonement. When that time had passed, he journeyed to Gokula, to the place of cow-pens and enclosures, drawn there by the promise of barley and water. At the forest’s edge, he found a land alive with the sounds of churning, bustling with joyful cowherds, shaded by trees, and echoing with the calls of night birds—a place especially auspicious for the cowherd women. There, amidst a grove of kharjūra trees, he made his dwelling. Among the herd was a cow named Nandā, radiant as a swan, chief among her kind—joyful, content, and well-nourished, with a graceful, flowing gait. Her long nose and well-formed limbs complemented her slender body and blue throat. Her beautiful neck was adorned with a bell, and her voice was sweet. Fearlessly, she led the herd, venturing to the grazing grounds as she pleased, sometimes wandering alone. As Surabhi herself grazed in secret, there stood nearby the mountain Rohita, rising by the riverbank, its caves and hollows home to many wild creatures. In the thick, northeastern part of this mountain, where the grass grew wild and dense, the land was narrow, uneven, and frightening—a haunt of deer and lions, teeming with beasts. Within a tangled thicket, echoing with the cries of jackals, dwelled a fierce and terrifying being of shifting form: a leopard named Nanda, his jaws smeared with blood, his fangs and claws formidable weapons. Yet this leopard was righteous, devoted to the welfare of the cowherd women, and protected the herd with long, unbroken blades of grass. One day, Nandā, separated from her herd by her desire for grass, wandered off. As she grazed near the tiger, the leopard rushed toward her and cried, “Stay, stay! Today you are destined as my food, O cow, and you have come of your own accord!” At his harsh and chilling words, Nandā remembered her calf—white as the moon, radiant and auspicious—and, filled with motherly affection, spoke in a choked voice. Burning with grief for her son, Nandā wept bitterly, despairing of ever seeing him again. Seeing her sorrow, the leopard asked, “O cow, why do you weep? Fate has brought you to me as an easy meal; whether you laugh or cry, your life will end by my will. What is destined is eaten in this world—you have come to me, little cow, and your death is ordained today. Why grieve in vain?” The tiger pressed her again, “Why do you weep? Tell me, for I am curious.” Hearing these words, Nandā replied, “Forgive me, lord—master of forms, I bow to you. Encountering you, there is no rescue for anyone. I do not grieve for my own life, for death is certain for all who are born, and birth is certain for all who die. Even the gods, though unwilling, must die. Therefore, O lord of beasts, I am not the only one who grieves for life. “But I weep out of love and sorrow for my child. When I came of age, O lord of beasts, I bore my firstborn son—a dear little calf. He still drinks only milk, never even sniffing the grass, and is tied up in the cowherds’ pen, hungry and searching for me. It is for him I grieve—how will my son survive? I long to feed him, overcome by motherly affection. Let me nurse my calf, lick his head, and entrust him to my companions, instructing them in what is good and bad. Then I will return, and you may eat me as you wish.” Hearing her words, the lord of beasts replied, “What will you do with your son? Do you not understand death? All creatures tremble and die at my sight, yet you, filled with compassion, speak only of your son. Neither sons, nor penance, nor charity, nor mother, nor father, nor teacher can save one afflicted by time. How will you, going to the settlement of the cowherds—crowded with women, resounding with bulls, divine and adorned with calves and children, an ornament of the world of the gods, ever joyful and purest among the pure—how will you return from there, when all must yield to fate?