Surabhi, the sacred cow, moved confidently at the head of her herd, roaming freely to the grazing grounds as she pleased. Sometimes, she wandered alone, seeking out her own path. On one such day, Surabhi, intent on finding the choicest grass, slipped away from the herd and grazed quietly, hidden from view. Nearby stood the mountain Rohita, its slopes rising along the riverbank. Its caves and hollows were teeming with wild creatures, especially in the northeastern part, where the grass grew thick and the place was both dreadful and dense. The terrain there was narrow, uneven, and difficult to traverse, filled with deer and lions and frequented by many dangerous beasts. Within a tangled thicket of creepers and trees, the air echoed with the cries of hundreds of jackals. This wild stronghold was home to a fierce and terrifying being, whose form changed at will—a leopard named Nanda. His jaws were smeared with blood, his fangs and claws formidable weapons. Despite his fearsome appearance, Nanda was righteous and devoted to protecting the welfare of the cowherd women. He guarded his herd with long, unbroken blades of grass. Yet from his herd, a cow named Nandā, separated by her desire for fresh grass, wandered away. As she grazed near a tiger, Nandā drew close, and the leopard Nanda rushed at her, calling out, “Stay, stay!” He declared, “Today you are destined to be my food, O cow. You have come to me of your own accord!” Hearing the leopard’s harsh and chilling words, Nandā remembered her calf—a white, auspicious little one, radiant as the moon. Overcome with affection, she spoke in a choked voice, her heart burning with grief for her son. Fond of her calf, Nandā wept pitifully, despairing of ever seeing him again. Seeing her cry out in such sorrow, the leopard addressed her with terrible words: “O cow, why do you weep? By fate you have come to me, an easy meal by chance. Whether you cry or laugh, your life will be taken by me. What is destined must be eaten in this world; you have come to me of your own accord, little cow. Your death is ordained today—why do you grieve in vain?” Again, the tiger pressed her: “Why are you weeping? I am curious—tell me the reason, for it seems important to me.” Hearing these words, Nandā replied, “Forgive me, lord, master of forms at will—obeisance to you. Having encountered you, there is no rescue for anyone; I do not grieve for my life—death is destined for me. For one who is born, death is certain; for one who has died, birth is certain. Therefore, for what cannot be avoided, I do not grieve, O lord of beasts. Even all the gods, though unwilling, must surely die; I am not the only one who grieves for life.” “But, O noble one,” she continued, “I have wept out of affection and sorrow. There is pain in my heart, and you ought to hear it. When I reached my first youth, O lord of beasts, I gave birth; my firstborn son is dear to me, a little calf. My calf still drinks milk and does not even sniff grass; he is tied up in the cowherds’ pen, hungry, searching for me. It is for him that I grieve—how will my son live? I wish to give him my milk, overcome by motherly affection. After feeding my calf at my breast and licking his head, entrusting him to my companions and instructing them in what is good and bad, I will return again, and you may eat me as you wish.” Hearing Nandā’s words, the lord of beasts responded, “What will you do with your son? Do you not understand death? All creatures tremble and die when they see me. Yet you, filled with compassion, keep speaking of your son. Neither sons, nor penance, nor charity, nor mother, nor father, nor teacher—none can save a man afflicted by time. How will you, going to the cowherds’ settlement, crowded with cowherd women, resounding with bulls, divine, adorned with calves and children, an ornament of the world of the gods, doubtless equal to heaven, ever joyful, divine, worshipped by all the gods, purest of the pure, and most auspicious among the auspicious?” “That holy place, the most blessed among all sacred sites, endowed with every virtue, is a great abode of the Lord. It is renowned among all holy places as the highest on earth and in heaven, known by the name ‘Gopīmaṇthana’ and also as ‘Bālavatsaraveṇa.’ By the sound of the cows’ lowing, misfortune is driven away; there, the calves cry out with longing for their mothers, making a plaintive sound. It is protected by valiant cowherds, weary from wrestling with their arms, filled with singing, dancing, conversation, and the joyful clapping of hands. With calves standing here and there, lowing all around, the cow-pen shines like a lake adorned with moving lotuses. Having seen that gentle abode of Śrī, crowded with joyful and healthy people, resembling Goloka itself, how could you wish to return?” “Let the five elements, O blessed one, drink your blood; I do not cause the elements to be dissatisfied merely by words.” Nandā replied, “Thus, O lord of beasts, listen to my words: Having seen my friends, my young son, and the cowherds who are his guardians, having taken leave of the cowherd women, and especially my mother, I will return, swearing oaths—if you believe me, release me. If I do not return again, may I be stained by the sin incurred in killing a Brahmin or in slaying mother or father.” Thus, Nandā pleaded for mercy, seeking only to fulfill her duty as a mother before surrendering herself to fate, while the lord of beasts listened, weighing her words and the depth of her devotion.