As autumn arrived, the world seemed to settle into a profound peace. The vast ocean, usually restless and full of motion, became still and silent, just as a sage becomes absorbed in the self when all distractions cease. In the fields, farmers diligently drew water, their strong embankments guiding and restraining its flow—much like yogis, who, by controlling their vital energies, harness and direct the flow of knowledge within. The gentle rays of the autumn moon soothed the heat left behind by the sun, bringing relief to all living beings. In the same way, Mukunda dispelled the suffering born of bodily identification in the hearts of the women of Vraja. The night sky, now clear and full of pure, shining stars, resembled the mind of one endowed with goodness, capable of perceiving the meaning of the sound of Brahman. The full, unbroken orb of the moon, surrounded by countless stars, shone in the heavens as Krishna shone on earth, surrounded by the noble Vṛṣṇi clan. People embraced the forest breeze, cool and warm and fragrant with flowers, and it relieved their suffering. Yet, for the gopīs whose hearts had been stolen by Krishna, even this sweet breeze brought no solace. Throughout the land, cows, deer, birds, women, and flowering plants flourished, sought out by their mates, just as fruits manifest through the actions of the Lord. As the sun rose, lotuses rejoiced, their petals opening to its light, while the night-blooming lilies closed—just as people feel safe under the protection of a righteous king, but not when threatened by robbers. Towns and villages sparkled with festivals and joy, the earth rich with ripe harvests, all enhanced by the playful arts of Hari. Merchants, sages, and kings, having bathed and purified themselves, set out to pursue their purposes, just as perfected beings, when the time is right, seek their own bodies after the restraint of the rainy season. He, the self-possessed one, created his own city and its people. And when those previously created beheld them, they praised the Lord of creatures, exclaiming, “O creator of the world, how excellent is your deed! In you, all rituals are established—let us partake together of the food you have provided.” Endowed with austerity, knowledge, and yoga, Hṛṣīkeśa, the sage of sages, created the beings as they desired. To each, the unborn one gave a portion of his own body: the prosperity of meditation and yoga, austerity, knowledge, and detachment. In this way, as autumn unfolded, with clear water and the fragrance of blooming lotuses, Acyuta entered the forest cooled by gentle breezes, accompanied by the cowherd boys and cows. The forests were alive with blossoming trees, the hum of bees, and the calls of birds echoing across lakes and rivers. The lord of the bees, Krishna, herded the cows with his companions and played his flute, filling the air with enchanting music. When the women of Vraja heard the song of Krishna’s flute—a melody that awakened love—they described it to their friends, though Krishna himself was not present. As they tried to speak of his deeds, their hearts, overwhelmed by love, faltered, and their minds became lost in remembrance. Krishna, adorned with a peacock feather, dressed as the finest dancer, with karṇikāra flowers at his ears, garments yellow as gold, and a garland of forest flowers, filled his flute with nectar from his lips. Surrounded by the cowherd boys, he entered the forest of Vṛndā, making it delightful with his footprints and renowned by his song. The sound of Krishna’s flute, enchanting all beings, reached the women of Vraja, who, describing it to one another, became completely absorbed in its sweetness. They said, “O friends, what greater fortune could the eyes attain than to see the two sons of the lord of Vraja, herding 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 in the midst of the cowherd community, like expert dancers on a stage, singing joyfully. The gopīs marveled, “What good fortune this flute has, O friends, that it alone enjoys the nectar of Dāmodara’s lips, which even we gopīs desire! The rivers, tasting the sweetness left behind by the flute, rejoice, their waters trembling, and the trees shed tears like loving elders.” “O friend, Vṛndāvana spreads its fame throughout the earth, 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 mountain slopes become still.” “Even these simple-minded deer are blessed, for seeing Nanda’s son in his wondrous attire, and hearing his flute with their mates, they offer worship with loving glances.” The goddesses in their celestial chariots, upon seeing Krishna’s beautiful form and hearing his sweet, secluded flute song, became so overwhelmed by love that their garlands slipped and their garments loosened as they fainted. The cows, drinking the nectar of Krishna’s flute song with ears raised, stood motionless, 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 exclaimed, “Mother, even the birds in this forest are blessed sages! Sitting on the branches of beautiful trees, they listen with closed eyes to Krishna’s flute, forgetting all else.” The rivers, hearing Mukunda’s song, slowed their currents, their passion subdued. They embraced Murāri with their wave-arms, offering lotuses at his feet. As Krishna played the flute, leading the cows with Rama and the cowherd boys, the trees, filled with love, raised their blossoming branches and spread their bodies as umbrellas to shade their beloved friend. The Pulinda women, finding the vermilion from Krishna’s lotus feet—left on the grass and once adorning their beloveds’ breasts—smeared it on their own faces and chests, relieving the pain of love awakened by seeing him. “Look at this hill,” the gopīs said, “the best among the servants of Hari! 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 led the cows through the forest, accompanied by their friends, 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. In this way, as they described the Lord’s pastimes in Vrindavana, the gopīs, speaking among themselves, became ever more absorbed in his divine play. Thus ends the twenty-first chapter of the first half of the Tenth Canto in the Śrīmad Bhāgavata Mahāpurāṇa, the scripture for the paramahaṃsas. Know this, however: A person absorbed in sense objects, living only for the sake of the body, does not know himself or anything higher; his life is wasted, like a bellows that merely breathes. The fruitive results described are not the highest good for people—they are spoken of to attract them, just as medicine is made palatable to encourage its use. From birth, mortals are attached in mind to desires, to life, and to their own people, though these very attachments are the causes of their suffering. Those who do not know their true interest wander lost on the path of suffering; how could a wise person encourage them to pursue those same darkness-bound pursuits again? Therefore, some, lacking true understanding, do not speak of the flowery fruitive results; for those who know the Veda do not praise such things.