It was I who loosed the calf,
When she went to drink her milk;
To the milking, too, she came along with me.

It was I who gave her water,
It was I who brought her grass,
And apart from me her mind was ill at ease.

When I went to draw the water,
That calf came lowing after,
As if I'd been a cow without a tail.

If that calf were once but free,
Then she had no wish to stay
Beside her mother cow, you may be sure.

By night upon my bed
She would quiver as she lay;
The Purana when she heard, she would sob.

When I went to hear the katha ,
She too would come along,
And stand listening to that katha tranquilly.

In the byre we'd leave the cow
And to the katha wend;
And when I went to bathe, then too she came with me.

Thus in many ways that calf
Refused to part from me,
And I too found my joy in being with her.

Were I grinding, were I pounding,
Or were I fetching water home,
I found the world but dull indeed without her:

While nightly at the katha
The love we bore each other
My parents saw, for she and I went with them.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Then that swami , Jayaram,
By the witness of his spirit,
Felt the presence of a soul within that calf;

Said, " Bring the calf in hither,
If its soul yearns for the katha .
Beast we may not deem it, for its spirit Hari knows. "

Then he had the calf brought in,
And he gave it there a place,
And felt satisfied to see it resting there.

Then through fate, that is the merit
Of my former life, me too
He called with kindly, gracious words.

His gaze fell full upon us,
His hand caressed us both,
With no heed to what the people might be saying.

Then light dawned on my soul.
Before his feet I fell,
And the calf likewise fell down there at his feet,
To the wonder of all people who were there.