Listen, my child, and let me share with you a tale of wisdom and sorrow, drawn from the sacred pages of the Purāṇas. In a time of trial, a mother counseled her son with the gravity of her love and the clarity of hard-earned wisdom. She warned him never to reach for grass in a perilous place, for greed leads only to ruin, in this world and the next. Greed, she said, blinds people so that even the wise may plunge into oceans or wander lost in forests, committing terrible deeds they would otherwise shun. She continued, teaching that destruction comes not just from greed, but also from carelessness and overconfidence. Therefore, one must guard against these faults, remaining always vigilant and prudent. “Protect yourself, my son, with all your effort—from wild beasts, from strangers, from thieves, and from every lurking danger.” She reminded him that even among animals born together, minds can be contrary; trust is a rare and precious thing. “Do not place your trust in those with claws, or horns, or weapons. Beware also of rivers, of women, and of servants—for trust, once misplaced, can bring fear and cut to the very root of one’s security. Do not trust the untrustworthy, nor even trust too much those who are worthy, for trust itself can be a source of danger.” She spoke with great seriousness: “Do not even trust your own body when your mind is fearful. Secrets slip from the lips of those who are asleep, intoxicated, or careless.” She advised him to be attentive to scent, for cows discern by smell and kings by the eyes of their spies; vigilance is always required. “Never remain alone in a dreadful forest,” she told him. “Let your thoughts dwell on righteousness, and do not be disturbed—death comes to all. Just as a traveler rests in the shade and then moves on, so too are the meetings and partings of all living beings. Since the world is always thus, my son, why do you grieve alone? Abandon your sorrow and heed my words.” Overcome by grief, the mother drew close, smelling her son’s head and licking his crown, tears streaming from her eyes. Again and again she sighed, her breath long and hot like a serpent’s, seeing the world as empty without her child. She stood as if sunk in deep mud, weighed down by her lamentation, and spoke once more to her beloved son: “No affection compares to that for a son, no happiness or joy is greater, and no destiny is as precious as that of a son. For one without a son, the world is empty; there is no happiness at home. By a son, one attains the world; without one, a person falls into hell. People say sandalwood is cool, but the embrace of a son is cooler still.” Having praised her son’s virtues, she looked again and again at her mother, her friends, and the cowherd women, and then, hurriedly, she explained: “The lord of the beasts approached me as I led the herd. He released me by oath, and I must return to him. By the truth of my words, I have come to see my son, my mother, my friends, and the village—I must return again.” She turned to her mother: “Mother, forgive all my faults and misdeeds. This boy is your grandson—what more can I say?” Then, addressing the noble mothers—Vipula, Campaka, Mātarbhadrā, Surabhi, Mānini, Vasudhārā, Priyānandā, Mahānandā, and Ghaṭasravā—she pleaded: “If I have ever spoken harshly, knowingly or not, please forgive me, and whatever else I have done. All of you, virtuous mothers of the world, bestowers of all goodness, please protect my child. He is helpless, afflicted, and miserable, scorched by the sorrow of his mother. O sisters, care for him as your own.” She continued, “Because you will care for this powerless one as your son, forgive me, for I must depart, relying on truth. Let no great anxiety trouble my friends, for death stands before this firstborn.” Hearing Nandā’s words, her mother and friends were stricken with grief and amazement. They cried out, “Ah, what a wonder—that you, Nandā, ever truthful, are prepared to fulfill the dreadful command of the tiger! One should not, by any means, go to destruction, even if one has evaded danger through oaths or truthful words. Nandā, you must not go! You would be committing unrighteousness by abandoning your own child out of attachment to truth.” They recalled the wisdom of ancient sages: “When one’s life is at stake, there is no sin in breaking oaths. Where speaking untruth preserves life, there untruth becomes truth, and truth may become untruth. In matters of women, marriage, the release of cows, and the calamity of Brāhmaṇas, there is no sin in breaking oaths.” But Nandā replied, “For the sake of protecting others, I will indeed speak untruth; but for my own sake, even to save my life, I cannot. Alone one is joined in the womb, alone in death and in bearing burdens; alone one enjoys happiness and sorrow—therefore, I speak the truth. The worlds are established on truth; righteousness stands upon truth; the ocean, by the power of truth, does not overstep its bounds. Bali, having given the earth to Viṣṇu, dwells in the netherworld—even deceived, he did not abandon his word. The great Vindhya mountain, with a hundred peaks, stands firm by truth and does not overstep its limit.” Thus spoke Nandā, upholding truth above all, even as sorrow pulled at her heart and her loved ones wept for her fate.