May Lord Kṛṣṇa, so beloved by the sons of Pāṇḍu, be pleased with me. Out of deep affection for his own lineage, he has graciously accepted the relatives of his paternal aunt. How else, indeed, could we mortals—especially those standing on the threshold of death—be blessed with your presence? Your mind, ever fixed in the unmanifest, dwells in perfection and in the solitude of the forest. Therefore, O supreme teacher of yogis, I ask you: what is the highest perfection? What should a person do in every way when death is near? Tell me, O master: what should be heard, recited, done, remembered, or worshipped by people? Or is there anything else, perhaps contrary to these, that one should know? Certainly, O brāhmaṇa, the presence of the Lord is rarely perceived in the homes of householders—not even at the auspicious hour of milking the cows. Thus, when the king addressed him with gentle words and sincere questions, the wise and learned son of Bādarāyaṇa replied. He spoke of the qualities of Śrī—independence and the like—and explained that happiness is the true end of both pleasure and pain, for pain arises from the desire for pleasure. The wise understand the difference between bondage and liberation. The fool, he said, identifies with the body and its attachments, but my path is the Veda. Distraction of the mind is a deviation from the true way, while heaven is the ascent of sattva-guṇa, the quality of goodness. Hell, by contrast, is darkness and pride. Friend, teacher, and self are ultimately one; the home is this very body; humanity is wealth in virtues, and the truly wealthy are those rich in qualities. He is poor who lacks contentment, and pitiable is the one who cannot master his senses. One whose mind is unattached to the qualities of nature is a true lord, while attachment brings the opposite. O Uddhava, all your questions have been answered well. Why elaborate further on the characteristics of virtue and fault? To see faults in virtues is itself a fault, but true virtue is that which is free from both. Meanwhile, Śuka described how the cowherds recounted to the women of Vraja the wondrous deeds of Kṛṣṇa and Balarāma—how they extinguished the terrible forest fire and slew the demon Pralamba. Hearing these tales, the elder cowherds and the women were astonished. They began to regard Kṛṣṇa and Rāma, who had come to Vraja, as foremost among the gods. Then the rainy season began, bringing forth all living beings. The horizon was lit up, and the sky and earth resounded with thunder. The heavens, dense with dark clouds streaked by lightning and roaring with thunder, shone dimly, concealed—like Brahman veiled by qualities. When the time was ripe, the clouds released, by their own power, the water they had gathered from the earth over eight months. Great clouds, accompanied by lightning and shaken by fierce winds, poured down life-giving rain, as if compassion itself was showering upon the world. The earth, parched and scorched by the sun, was drenched by the rain, just as a body, worn thin by austerity, is restored upon attaining its desired goal. As night began, only fireflies shone in the darkness; the planets were hidden—just as, in the Kali age, the Vedas do not shine among heretics because of sin. Hearing the thunder, the frogs, long silent, began to croak—just as brāhmaṇas, after completing their vows, resume their recitations. The small rivers, dried up and wandering from their courses, began to flow again—just as the wealth and strength of one who is independent return to him. The earth became green with grass and red with indragopa insects, shaded by mushrooms—like fortune blossoming for men. The fields, rich with crops, brought joy to the farmers, but regret to the proud who did not understand that all depends on fate. All creatures, on land and water, refreshed by the new rains, took on a lovely appearance—just as by serving Hari. The rivers, joined by many streams, swelled and surged with waves driven by the wind—like the mind of an immature yogi, agitated by passion and the qualities of nature. The mountains, struck by torrents of rain, did not tremble—just as those whose minds are fixed on the Supreme remain unmoved by calamities. The paths became uncertain, overgrown with grass and unmarked—like the Vedas, neglected by brahmins and obscured by quarrel. Just as the bonds among people are as fleeting as lightning among clouds, so too the constancy of women did not remain toward men, even those endowed with virtues. The rainbow appeared in the sky, seemingly adorned with qualities, though in truth it was without them—just as a person without qualities appears to possess them when the qualities manifest. The moon, veiled by clouds radiant with its own light, did not shine forth; just as a person, blinded by ego, does not shine by his own true brilliance. The peacocks, delighted by the arrival of clouds, rejoiced; but in their homes, scorched and disheartened, they waited for the Lord’s coming, just as His devotees yearn for Him. The trees, having drunk water through their roots, regained their forms—previously withered and exhausted by austerity, just as one is by the pursuit of desires. The cranes settled in the tranquil waters of the lakes and reservoirs, just as people with vain hopes dwell in households filled with restless duties. The embankments were broken by torrents of water sent by the lord of rain, just as the paths of the Vedas are broken in the age of Kali by the false words of heretics. The clouds, driven by the winds, released water as nectar for all beings—just as the lords of wealth, urged by the twice-born, give blessings at the proper times. Thus, Hari, surrounded by his companions, cows, and cowherds, entered the forest, now rich with ripe dates and jambu trees, to enjoy its delights. The cows, moving slowly under the heavy weight of their udders, hastened to the Lord when he called, their udders moist with affection. The forest dwellers, full of joy, saw rows of trees dripping with honey, and the caves near the mountains resounded with the music of falling water. Sometimes, when rain fell in the hollows of trees or in caves, the Lord entered and delighted there, eating roots, tubers, and fruits. With Sankarṣaṇa and the cowherd boys, he sat on a stone near the water, sharing curds and rice brought from home, enjoying the simple meal in the company of his dear friends.