In the forest near Vacchabhumi lived a snake so deadly that no traveller, not even a deer, would set foot in its meadow. Its venom was said to scorch the very grass. Villagers called it Chandakaushik — "fierce-glance" — for a single look from its eyes could fell a man. When Mahavir, then a silent wandering monk, decided to take the path through that forest, the villagers begged him to turn back. He smiled gently and walked on. Reaching the burrow he stood quietly outside it, perfectly still, lost in meditation. The snake felt the warmth of a living being and rose in fury. It hissed and struck — once at the right foot, once at the left. Drops of blood — white, the colour of milk — appeared at Mahavir's toes. The snake stared in disbelief. Mahavir opened his eyes and looked at it with such friendliness that the serpent froze. "Bujjha, bujjha, Chandakaushik," Mahavir said softly. "Wake up, wake up." In that moment the snake remembered its past lives — a tapasvi, then a monk who had grown angry, then a furious creature born to harm. Its anger fell away like an old skin. It crawled into its hole, turned its face to the wall and ate nothing for the rest of its life. When children passed, it accepted the milk and sugar they offered without striking. When ants nibbled its body, it did not move. Mahavir walked on.