As the season of autumn arrived, the mountains released their waters, but at times withheld what was auspicious—much like the wise, who impart the nectar of knowledge only at the proper moment, sometimes choosing to withhold it. Deep within the waters, the aquatic creatures remained unaware that their world was shrinking, just as householders lost in ignorance fail to notice their own lifespan diminishing day by day. Nor did those creatures feel the heat of the autumn sun, much like pitiable householders with uncontrolled senses, who do not perceive their own suffering. Gradually, the plants of the earth shed the mud and dryness clinging to them, just as those endowed with wisdom slowly abandon the ideas of “I” and “mine” regarding the body and other things that are not truly the self. The ocean, too, became still and silent at autumn’s arrival, mirroring the way a sage, when all movements of the mind cease, becomes wholly absorbed in the self. On the land, farmers drew water from their fields, strengthened by sturdy embankments, just as yogis, by restraining the flow of knowledge with their vital energies, are able to control it. The moon, gentle and radiant, removed the lingering heat from the autumn sun, soothing living beings, just as Mukunda dispelled the suffering born of bodily identification in the women of Vraja. The sky appeared spotless and filled with pure, shining stars, like the mind endowed with goodness perceiving the meaning of the sound of Brahman. The moon, surrounded by its stars, shone in the sky with its unbroken orb, just as Krishna, encircled by the Vṛṣṇi clan, shone resplendent upon the earth. Embracing the forest breeze—cool and warm, fragrant with flowers—the people shed their suffering, but the gopīs, whose hearts were captivated by Krishna, found no relief. All around, cows, deer, birds, women, and flowering plants flourished in the autumn, each sought by their own mates, just as fruits are produced by the actions of the Lord. Lotus flowers rejoiced at the rising of the sun, except for the night-blooming lilies, just as people are fearless under a righteous king, but not in the presence of robbers. Towns and villages shone with festivals and delighted senses, the earth rich with ripe harvests, especially due to the wondrous arts of Hari. Merchants, sages, and kings, having bathed, set out to pursue their purposes, just as perfected beings, when the time comes, seek their own bodies after being restrained by the rains. He, possessing the self, created his own city and people for them; seeing those who had been previously created, they praised the Lord of all creatures, exclaiming, “Ah, O creator of the world, how excellent is your deed! In whom all rituals are established, together let us partake of food.” Endowed with austerity, knowledge, and yoga in deep concentration, Hṛṣīkeśa, the sage of sages, created the desired beings. And to each, the unborn one gave a portion of his own body—bestowing the prosperity of meditation, yoga, austerity, knowledge, and detachment. In this way, as autumn graced the land with clear waters and the fragrance of blooming lotuses, Acyuta—Krishna—entered the breeze-cooled forest, accompanied by the cowherd boys and cows. The forests, alive with blossoming trees and the humming of bees, the lakes and rivers resounding with birdsong, welcomed the lord of the bees. Herding the cows with his companions, Krishna played his flute, its sweet notes drifting through the air. When the women of Vraja heard the enchanting song of Krishna’s flute—a melody that awakened love in the heart—some, though unseen by him, began to describe it to their friends. Yet, as they recalled Krishna’s deeds, their minds overwhelmed by the force of love, they found themselves unable to continue. Krishna, adorned with a peacock feather and the form of the best of dancers, wore karṇikāra flowers at his ears, garments yellow as gold, and a garland of forest flowers. Filling the holes of his flute with nectar from his lips, he entered the forest of Vṛndā, delighting it with his footprints and making it renowned by his song, surrounded by the joyful cowherd boys. The enchanting sound of the flute reached all the women of Vraja, who, absorbed in describing it, became captivated by its sweetness. The gopīs exclaimed among themselves, “O friends, we know no greater fruit for the eyes than this—seeing the two sons of the lord of Vraja, herding the cows with their companions, their faces adorned by the flute, and receiving their loving glances.” Adorned with mango shoots, tender leaves, peacock feathers, and garlands of lotuses and lilies, dressed in garments decorated with forest flowers, Krishna and Balarama shone brilliantly among the cowherd youths, like expert dancers on a stage, singing. The gopīs marveled at the good fortune of Krishna’s flute, which alone enjoyed the nectar of Dāmodara’s lips—a sweetness even the gopīs themselves desired. The rivers, tasting the leftover sweetness from the flute’s song, rejoiced, their waters trembling, and the trees shed tears like elders. They praised Vṛndāvana, saying, “O friend, this land is truly glorious, for the water from the feet of Devakī’s son has blessed it. When Govinda plays the flute, intoxicated peacocks dance, and all creatures on the slopes of the hills are stilled in wonder.” Even the simple-minded deer, they observed, were blessed. Seeing Nanda’s son in his wondrous attire and hearing his flute with their mates, the deer offered worship with loving glances. The goddesses in their celestial chariots, seeing Krishna’s beautiful form and hearing his sweet, secluded song, were so overwhelmed by love that their flower garlands slipped, their garments loosened, and they fainted. The cows, too, stood motionless, drinking in the nectar of Krishna’s flute song with ears raised, their calves pausing with milk in their mouths. Tears welled in their eyes as they gazed at Govinda, as if embracing him in their hearts. The gopīs spoke to their mothers, “Even the birds in this forest are blessed sages; perched on the branches of beautiful trees, they listen with closed eyes to Krishna’s flute song, forgetting all else.” The rivers, hearing the song of Mukunda, slowed their currents, embraced Murāri with their wave-arms, and offered lotuses at his feet. As Rama and Krishna led the cows through the sunlit pastures with the cowherd boys, Krishna playing the flute, the trees, filled with love, raised their blossoming branches and spread their bodies to shade their friend. The Pulinda women, their faces and breasts smeared with the vermilion from Krishna’s lotus feet—collected from the grass where it had adorned their beloveds’ breasts—applied it to themselves, soothing the pain of love awakened by seeing him. They praised Govardhana Hill, exclaiming, “Behold this best of Hari’s servants! Delighted by the touch of Rama and Krishna’s feet, it offers water, tender grass, and roots to them, their cows, and companions.” As Rama and Krishna wandered through the forest, the sweet notes of their flutes enchanted all living beings; even the moving creatures became still, the trees thrilled, and the marks of their bonds fell away in wonder. Thus, the gopīs, speaking among themselves and describing the Lord’s pastimes in Vrindavana, became wholly absorbed in his play. So ends the twenty-first chapter of the first half of the Tenth Canto in the Śrīmad Bhāgavata Mahāpurāṇa, the scripture revered by the paramahaṃsas. And it is said: a person absorbed only in sense objects does not know himself or anything higher; living for the sake of the body, like a bellows that merely breathes, his life is truly wasted.