Burning with grief for her lost calf, the cow Nandā wept bitterly, her heart pierced with sorrow and all hope of seeing her beloved child extinguished. As she cried out in her anguish, the fierce leopard, drawn by her plaintive wails, approached and spoke in a terrible voice, “O cow, why do you weep?” With cold certainty, the leopard continued, “By fate you have come to me, an easy meal delivered by chance. Whether you laugh or cry, your life will be taken by me. In this world, all that is destined is consumed; 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, curious, pressed her, “Tell me, why are you weeping? I am eager to know the reason, for your sorrow seems great.” Hearing these words, Nandā gathered her composure and replied with humility, “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, for death is destined for me. For one who is born, death is certain, and 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, O tiger.” “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 only milk and does not even sniff at 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 spoke again, “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 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 wish to return? 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 as ‘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. If I do not return again, may I be stained by the sin of hunters, outcastes, or poisoners. If I do not return again, may I be stained by the sin of those who harm cows or beat those who are sleeping. If I do not return again, may I be stained by the sin of one who, having given a girl in marriage once, wishes to give her again to another, or if a man makes unfit bullocks pull a load, or causes an obstacle when a story is being told. If I do not return again, may I be stained by that sin; or if a guest comes to one’s house and departs disappointed. By these terrible sins, I swear, I will return again.” Hearing this solemn assurance, the tiger replied, “By these oaths, Dhenuka, our trust in you is established. If ever you think, ‘Having gone, this fool has deceived me,’ even then, some will say there is no sin in an oath. In matters of women, in marriages, in the release of cows, and likewise at the time of giving up life, you should not place your trust. In this world, there are some atheists, fools who consider themselves wise; they will confound your mind in an instant, as if mounting it on a wheel.” Thus, in the forest’s shadow, the cow’s grief, the tiger’s hunger, and the sacredness of truth and duty intertwined, bearing witness to the power of a mother’s love and the solemnity of her vow.