Just as a weary traveler finds shelter beneath the shade of a tree, pausing for rest before continuing on their journey, so too are the meetings and partings of beings in this world—transient and inevitable. “My son,” a wise voice counseled, “since the whole world is ever thus, why do you grieve alone? Cast aside your sorrow and heed my words.” Overwhelmed by immense grief, Nandini pressed her face to her son’s head, inhaling his scent and licking his crown, her eyes brimming with tears. She sighed again and again, her breath long and hot, like a serpent mourning its loss. In her despair, the world seemed empty, hollowed by the absence of her beloved child. It was as if she stood mired in deep mud, sinking under the weight of her sorrow. Lamenting, Nandini spoke to her son once more: “There is no love like a mother’s for her son, no happiness equal to that of having a son. No joy compares to a son’s presence, and no destiny is as blessed as that of having a son. Without a son, the world feels empty; without a son, there is no happiness in the home. Through a son, one attains the world, but the sonless are said to descend into darkness. People praise sandalwood for its coolness, but the embrace of a son is cooler still.” Having spoken thus of her son’s virtues, Nandini looked again and again at her mother, her friends, and the other cowherd women, then asked them hurriedly: “The lord of the beasts approached me as I led the herd. He released me on my oath, and I must return to him. By the truth of my word, I have come to see my son, my mother, my friends, and this cowherd village. But I will return again.” Turning to her mother, she pleaded, “Forgive all the faults and misdeeds I have committed. This boy is your grandson—what more need I say?” She addressed the noble mothers—Vipula, Campaka, Mātarbhadrā, Surabhi, Mānini, Vasudhārā, Priyānandā, Mahānandā, Ghaṭasravā—saying, “Whether through ignorance or knowingly, if I have ever spoken harshly, O greatly fortunate ones, please forgive me, and forgive anything else I have done. You, who are endowed with every virtue, mothers of the world and bestowers of all, protect my child. Care for my son, who is helpless and miserable, scorched by his mother’s sorrow. O sisters, you must care for him. You will look after this powerless one as your own son. O greatly fortunate ones, forgive me, for I am about to depart, relying on truth.” She added, “Let no great anxiety trouble my friends. For death stands before this firstborn.” Upon hearing Nanda’s words, her mother and friends were overcome with distress. They fell into deep sorrow and, astonished, spoke: “Ah, what a wonder it is that you, Nanda, so steadfast in truth, are prepared to fulfill the dreadful demand of the tiger. Through oaths and truthful words, one may escape great danger, but one should not, by any means, hasten towards destruction. Nanda, you must not go! By abandoning your own child out of attachment to truth, you commit unrighteousness.” They recalled a verse spoken by sages learned in Brahman: “When one is faced with the loss of life, there is no sin in breaking oaths. When untruth saves lives, there, untruth becomes truth, and truth itself may become untruth. In matters concerning women, marriage, the release of cows, and the calamity of Brāhmaṇas, there is no sin in breaking oaths.” But Nanda replied, “For the sake of protecting others’ lives, I will indeed speak untruth. But I cannot speak it for my own sake, even to save my life. Alone one enters the womb, alone one dies, alone one bears burdens, and alone one enjoys happiness and sorrow. Therefore, I speak the truth. The worlds are established on truth; righteousness is founded on truth; by the power of truth, even the ocean does not transgress its bounds. When Bali gave the earth to Viṣṇu, he was bound by deception, yet he did not abandon his truthful word. The great Vindhya mountain, with its hundred peaks, stands firm by truth and does not overstep its limits. Heaven, liberation, and hell are established in truthfulness of speech. Whoever destroys truth in speech destroys all these. Whoever, being one thing, presents themselves as something else—what sin has that thief, that stealer of their own self, not committed? One who destroys themselves by their own actions will fall into dreadful hell; for them, King Yama will cut away half of their righteousness. Bathing in the pure waters at the holy ford of truth, in the lake of forgiveness, one is freed from sin and attains the highest state. If a thousand horse sacrifices and truth were weighed on a scale, truth would surpass them all. Truth is the noble fruit, learning is supreme and free from affliction. For the virtuous, truth is their treasure, the fruit of all life’s stages. Having attained it, one goes to heaven—how could it be abandoned? In this gathering, always speak the truth, without fail.” Her friends replied, “O Nanda, you are worthy of reverence by all, gods and demons alike, for you give up your life—so difficult to relinquish—with supreme truthfulness. What is there in the three worlds that you, bearer of righteousness, cannot attain by this act of renunciation? Because of this, we see there will be no separation from your son; for a woman of noble mind, there are no misfortunes anywhere.” Having seen all the cowherd folk and circled around Gokula, Nanda, taking leave of the gods and the trees, set out once more, true to her word.