In the sacred narrative, the power and sanctity of truth are revealed as the foundation of heaven, liberation, and even hell itself. It is said that when truthfulness in speech is destroyed, all these realms are destroyed as well. One who, being of a certain nature, presents himself as something else—such a person, a thief of his own self, has committed every imaginable sin. By destroying his own integrity, he condemns himself to dreadful hell, where King Yama, the lord of justice, strips away half of his righteousness. Yet, there is hope: bathing in the deep, pure waters at the holy ford of truth, and in the lake of forgiveness, a person freed from sin attains the highest state. When a thousand horse sacrifices are weighed against the merit of truth, truth surpasses them all. Truth is the noble fruit, and learning is supreme, untouched by affliction. Among the virtuous, truth is their treasure, the fruit of all stages of life; by attaining it, one reaches heaven and is never abandoned. Thus, in every assembly, one should always speak the truth, without fail. The friends then spoke to Nanda, saying, “O Nanda, you are worthy of reverence by all—gods and demons alike—for you, with supreme truthfulness, are giving up your life, a sacrifice so difficult to make. Is there anything in the three worlds that you, bearer of righteousness, cannot attain by this act of renunciation?” They saw that because of this sacrifice, there would be no separation from her son, for a noble-minded woman knows no misfortune. Having seen all the cowherd folk and circumambulated Gokula, Nanda took leave of the gods and the trees and set out once more. She offered her farewells to the earth, to Varuṇa, Agni, Vāyu, the moon, the guardian deities of the ten directions, the trees, the stars, and the planets. Bowing again and again, she informed all the perfected beings dwelling in the forest, and all the forest deities. With maternal affection, she prayed: “May the grasses that roam the forest protect my son; O campaka, ashoka, punnāga, sarala, arjuna, and kiṃśuka trees, let all the trees hear my anxious plea. My calf, alone and distressed, wanders in the difficult forest. Protect the little calf, the child, out of affection, as if he were your own son. He is motherless and fatherless, helpless and sorrowful in mind, wandering this earth, crying out in deep sorrow, here in this great forest. Overwhelmed by grief, afflicted by hunger and thirst, alone and seeing the world as empty—he needs your compassionate protection.” Nanda, overcome by motherly love, gave these instructions with deep affection. Inflamed by the fire of sorrow, severed from seeing her son, she was parted like a chakravaka bird, fallen like a creeper from a tree. Like one blind, deprived of sight, stumbling at every step, she returned to the place where the flesh-eating tiger waited. There sat the tiger, mouth wide open, sharp-fanged and terrifying. Meanwhile, her son, swift as one with tail raised, arrived before his mother, standing before the king of beasts. Seeing her son arrive, Nanda saw death looming before her. Facing the tiger, the cow spoke: “O king of beasts, I have come, steadfast in truth and righteousness. Fulfill your desire now, satisfy yourself with my flesh; nourish your own kind, drink my blood. When I am dead, O sir, then eat this calf.” The tiger replied, “Welcome, O virtuous cow, speaker of truth. Nothing inauspicious befalls those devoted to truth. What you said before was truth, and you have returned again. This is why I am curious how you could return; for the sake of testing your truthfulness, I sent you away. Otherwise, having met me, how could you have departed alive? My curiosity arose from the search for truth.” He continued, “Therefore, by this truth, you are now released by me; you are my sister, and your son is my nephew. O auspicious one, you have given instruction to me, though I am sinful in deed. Worlds are established in truth, and righteousness is established in truth. By truth, the cow releases a stream of milk, the beloved offering; truly blessed is the cowherd who lives by your milk. Blessed are those lands where your grass grows; blessed and fulfilled are those who have done good by them. By them, the essence of birth is attained—those who drink your milk. Having gained conviction, I am filled with wonder.” The tiger declared, “This command is ours, truth shown by the gods; seeing the truth of cows, I have no desire to live. Therefore, I shall perform an act by which I may be freed from sin; by me, thousands and hundreds of lives have been eaten. Desiring the path, I depart, having seen such truth in the cow; I am sinful, ill-behaved, cruel, a destroyer of life. To which worlds shall I go, having performed such terrible deeds? I will visit holy pilgrimage sites and undertake purification from sin. I will climb a mountain and throw myself down, or enter fire. O cow, what austerity should I perform to cleanse myself of sin? Please instruct me briefly, for there is no time for lengthy explanation.” The cow replied: “In the Krita age, austerity is praised; in the Treta, knowledge alone. In the Dvapara, sacrifice is declared; in the Kali age, charity alone. Of all forms of charity, this one is the highest.” Thus, the story unfolds, revealing the transformative power of truth and righteousness, the compassion of the mother, the awakening of the tiger, and the enduring merit of charity in the Kali age.