When the women of Vraja heard the enchanting song of Krishna’s flute—a melody that awakens love in the heart—they gathered together, unseen by Krishna himself, and began to describe its sweetness to their friends. As they spoke, memories of Krishna’s wondrous deeds flooded their minds. Yet, O King, the overwhelming force of their love for him disturbed their thoughts so deeply that they could barely continue their descriptions. They recalled the vision of Krishna entering the forest of Vrindavan: adorned with a peacock feather in his hair, karṇikāra flowers at his ears, dressed in garments as yellow as gold, and wearing a garland of wild forest flowers. With the nectar of his lips filling the holes of his flute, surrounded by his cowherd companions, he walked into the forest, making it delightful with his footprints and famed by his song. The sound of Krishna’s flute, O King, enchanted all living beings. The women of Vraja, absorbed in its melody, continued to speak among themselves, lost in the sweetness of that music. The gopis exclaimed to each other, “O friends, what greater blessing could there be for the eyes than to see the two sons of the lord of Vraja—Krishna and Balarama—herding the cows with their companions? Their faces shine as they play the flute, and their loving glances fill our hearts.” They described how Krishna and Balarama, adorned with mango shoots, tender leaves, peacock feathers, and garlands of lotuses and lilies, dressed in garments decorated with forest flowers, shone brilliantly among the cowherd community. Like expert dancers on a stage, they sang and moved gracefully. The gopis wondered at the fortune of the flute itself: “What good fortune has this flute attained, O friends, that it alone enjoys the nectar of Damodara’s lips—a sweetness even we desire! The rivers, tasting its leftover sweetness, rejoice, their waters trembling and the trees shedding tears like elders.” They praised the glory of Vrindavan: “O friend, Vrindavan spreads its fame across the earth, for the water from the feet of Devaki’s son has graced it. When Govinda plays his flute, intoxicated peacocks dance, and all creatures on the mountain slopes become still in awe.” Even the simple deer, they observed, are blessed: “Blessed indeed are these gentle deer, who, seeing Nanda’s son in his wondrous attire and hearing his flute with their black-buck mates, offer worship with loving glances.” The goddesses in their celestial chariots, too, are overcome: “Seeing Krishna, whose form and conduct are a festival for the eyes, and hearing his flute’s sweet, secluded song, the goddesses become so disturbed by love that their flower garlands slip and their garments loosen as they faint.” The cows of Vraja, hearing Krishna’s flute, stand still, drinking in its nectar with ears raised. Their calves pause with milk in their mouths, tears welling in their eyes as they gaze at Govinda, as if embracing him in their hearts. The gopis remarked, “Mother, even the birds in this forest are blessed sages; climbing the branches of beautiful trees, they listen with closed eyes to Krishna’s flute, forgetting all else.” The rivers, hearing Mukunda’s song, their currents marked by circles and their passion subdued, embrace Murari with their wave-arms, offering lotuses at his feet. The trees, seeing the cows of Vraja grazing in the sun with Rama and the cowherd boys and Krishna playing the flute, are filled with love. They raise their blossoming branches and spread their bodies as umbrellas to shade their friend. The Pulinda women, their faces and breasts smeared with the vermilion from Krishna’s lotus feet—which had adorned their beloveds’ breasts and was left on the grass—apply it to themselves, relieving the pain of love awakened by seeing him. They pointed to the hill, saying, “Behold this hill, the best among the servants of Hari! Delighted by the touch of Rama and Krishna’s feet, it offers respect to Them and Their cows and companions with water, tender grass, and roots from its slopes.” As Rama and Krishna led the cows through the forest, accompanied by the cowherd boys, the sweet notes of their flutes enchanted all living beings. Even the moving creatures became still, the trees trembled with joy, and the marks of their bonds fell away in wonder. In this way, describing the pastimes of the Lord who wanders in Vrindavan, the gopis, speaking among themselves, became ever more absorbed in his 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. But, O dear one, those who are absorbed in sense objects do not know themselves or anything higher. Living for the sake of the body, like bellows that merely breathe, their lives are wasted. The fruitive results spoken of in scriptures are not the highest good for people; they are mentioned 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 are the very causes of their misfortune. Those who do not know their true interest wander lost on the path of suffering; how could a wise person again engage them in those same darkness-bound pursuits? Thus, some, lacking understanding and with misguided minds, do not speak of the flowery fruitive results, for those who know the Veda do not praise them. Those who are lustful, pitiable, and greedy, whose minds are fixed on the flowers rather than the fruit, are like moths drawn to fire; they do not know their own true world. O dear one, they do not know Me, who dwell in the heart and from whom this world arises; just as those unsatisfied by hymns and rituals are like people whose vision is blocked by fog. Without understanding My indirect intention, those devoted to sense objects, if they develop attachment to violence, then even sacrifice is not enjoined for them. Indeed, the cruel, desiring their own pleasure, perform sacrifices to the gods, ancestors, and spirits with animals obtained by violence. Like merchants abandoning real wealth for dreams, they imagine in their hearts blessings in that insubstantial world, which is as pleasing to hear about as a dream. Those established in passion, goodness, or ignorance, and those who cherish these qualities, worship Indra and other principal gods, but not Me as I truly am. Having worshipped the gods here with sacrifices, they think, “We shall enjoy in heaven,” and when that ends, they wish to be wealthy and of high birth again on earth. Thus, for those whose minds are distracted by flowery words, who are proud and excessively greedy, even My teachings do not appeal. These Vedas, with their threefold division, concern the topics of Brahman, the self, and the gods; the sages speak indirectly, and I too am fond of indirect speech. The sound-Brahman is exceedingly difficult to comprehend, composed of life-breath, senses, and mind; it is boundless, unfathomable, deep, and as hard to penetrate as the ocean. It is expanded by Me, the Infinite, by Brahman of endless power; among beings, it is perceived in the form of sound, like the thread within a lotus stalk. Just as a spider emits its web from its heart through its mouth, so too does the life-breath, endowed with sound, arise from space, taking the form of touch through the mind. He, the Lord, is made of meters and of immortality, possessing a thousand paths; from Om, adorned with consonants, vowels, sibilants, and resonant sounds, he is established within. He creates and withdraws, by himself, the great and endless speech, spread out in various languages, with meters increasing by four syllables each: Gāyatrī, Uṣṇik, Anuṣṭup, Bṛhatī, Paṅkti, Triṣṭubh, Jagatī, Aticchandas, Atyaṣṭi, Atijagat, and Virāṭ—these are the meters. What does it establish, what does it declare, what does it imply, or distinguish? In this world, no one but I knows its heart.