With the truth of her words as her guide, Nandā returned to her beloved home, yearning to see her son, her mother, her friends, and the familiar cowherd village. Though her heart ached, she knew she would soon have to leave them again. Turning to her mother, Nandā spoke with deep humility, “Mother, forgive me for all the faults and wrongs I have committed. This boy here is your grandson—what more can I say?” Then, she addressed the noble mothers gathered there—Vipula, Campaka, Mātarbhadrā, Surabhi, Mānini, Vasudhārā, Priyānandā, Mahānandā, and Ghaṭasravā—her voice trembling with emotion. “If, knowingly or in ignorance, I have ever spoken harshly or done anything unpleasant, O greatly fortunate ones, please forgive me.” Her plea continued, “You, who are adorned with every virtue, mothers of the world, givers of all blessings, I beseech you—protect my child. Guard my son, who is helpless, suffering, and miserable, scorched by the sorrow of his mother’s absence. O sisters, care for him as your own.” She entreated them further, “Because you will treat this powerless one as your own son, please forgive me, for I am about to depart, holding fast to truth.” She turned to her friends, her voice unwavering, “Let no great anxiety trouble you on my account. Death now stands before this firstborn.” Hearing these words, Nandā’s mother and her friends were plunged into deep sorrow and astonishment, and they cried out, “Ah, what a wonder this is! You, Nandā, always truthful, are prepared to fulfill the dreadful words of the tiger.” They pleaded with her, “With oaths and truth, one should escape great danger, not rush toward destruction. Nandā, do not go! By abandoning your own child out of attachment to truth, you commit unrighteousness.” One among them recalled an ancient verse spoken by sages: “When one’s life is at stake, there is no sin in breaking an oath. Where speaking untruth preserves lives, there, untruth becomes truth, and truth may become untruth. In matters of women, in marriage, in releasing cows, or in the calamity of Brāhmaṇas, there is no sin in breaking vows.” But Nandā replied with gentle resolve, “For the sake of protecting others’ lives, I would indeed speak untruth. But for my own sake, even to save my life, I cannot. Alone one enters the womb, alone one dies, alone one bears burdens, alone one enjoys happiness and sorrow—therefore, I speak the truth.” She spoke of the greatness of truth: “The worlds are established on truth; righteousness stands upon it; the ocean, by truth’s power, does not overstep its bounds. When Bali gave the earth to Viṣṇu, he dwelt in the netherworld; even when deceived and bound, he did not abandon his word. The great Vindhya mountain, with its hundred peaks, remains firm by truth and does not cross its limit. Heaven, liberation, and hell all rest upon truthful speech; whoever destroys truth in speech destroys them all.” She warned, “Whoever, being one thing, presents himself as another—what sin has he not committed, that thief, that stealer of his own self? He destroys himself and will go to dreadful hell; for him, King Yama cuts away half his righteousness. But one who bathes in the deep, pure waters of truth, in the lake of forgiveness, is freed from sin and attains the highest state.” Nandā declared, “When truth and a thousand horse sacrifices are weighed on a scale, truth surpasses them all. Truth is the noble fruit; learning is supreme and free from affliction; among the good, it is their treasure, the fruit of all life’s stages. Having attained that, one goes to heaven—how could it be abandoned? In this assembly, speak truth always, without fail.” Her friends, moved by her steadfastness, said, “O Nandā, you are worthy of reverence by all, gods and demons alike. For with supreme truthfulness, you give up your life, which is so hard to surrender. What is there that you, upholder of righteousness, cannot attain in the three worlds by this renunciation? We see that, because of this sacrifice, you will not be separated from your son; for a noble-minded woman, there are no misfortunes.” Having seen all the cowherd folk and circumambulated Gokula, Nandā took leave of the gods and the trees, preparing herself for departure. She offered her respects to the earth, to Varuṇa, Agni, Vāyu, the moon, the guardians of the ten directions, the trees, the stars, and the planets. She bowed again and again, informing all the perfected beings dwelling in the forest, and all the forest deities, of her impending departure. She prayed, “May the grasses that roam the forest protect my son. O campaka, ashoka, punnāga, sarala, arjuna, and kiṃśuka trees—hear my anxious plea. My calf, alone and distressed, wanders the difficult forest. Protect this little calf, the child, with affection, as if he were your own son—motherless, fatherless, helpless, and sorrowful in mind. He wanders the earth, crying in deep sorrow, here in this great forest, as my son cries out.” Her heart broke as she continued, “Overwhelmed by grief, afflicted by hunger and thirst, alone and seeing the world as empty, my son wanders. For one who wanders, protection must be given with compassion.” Thus, overcome by motherly love, Nandā gave these instructions with deep affection. Torn by the fire of sorrow, severed from the sight of her beloved son, she was like a chakravaka bird parted from its mate, or a creeper fallen from a tree. Like one blind, deprived of sight, stumbling at every step, Nandā made her way once more to where the flesh-eater awaited her.