O King, the enchanting sound of Krishna’s flute echoed through the forests of Vrindavan, captivating the hearts of all living beings. The women of Vraja, upon hearing this divine melody, became utterly absorbed, their minds and conversations filled with its sweetness. The gopīs, gathered together, spoke among themselves: “O friends, what greater blessing could there be for our eyes than to behold the two sons of the lord of Vraja—Krishna and Balarama—herding the cows with their companions? Their faces shine, adorned by the flute, and they bestow loving glances upon us.” The two brothers, Krishna and Balarama, were resplendent. Their hair was decorated with tender mango shoots, peacock feathers, and garlands of lotuses and lilies. They wore garments woven with forest flowers, and among the cowherd community, they shone like expert dancers upon a stage, singing with joy. The gopīs marveled at the fortune of the flute, saying, “What great merit has this flute attained, O friends, that it alone enjoys the nectar of Damodara’s lips—nectar we ourselves long for? Even the rivers, tasting the sweetness left by the flute, rejoice. Their waters tremble, and the trees, like elders overwhelmed with emotion, shed tears.” They continued, “O friend, Vrindavan’s fame spreads across the earth, for the water from the feet of Devaki’s son has sanctified it. When Govinda plays the flute, intoxicated peacocks dance, and all creatures on the mountain slopes become motionless, enthralled.” “Even these simple-minded deer are blessed,” they observed. “Seeing Nanda’s son in his wondrous attire, hearing the flute’s song with their black-buck mates, they offer worship to him with loving glances.” The gopīs spoke of how Krishna’s form and conduct were a festival for the eyes. When the goddesses in their celestial chariots saw him and heard his secluded, sweet flute song, their minds became disturbed by love. Their flower garlands slipped from their hands, they fainted, and their garments loosened. The cows, too, were enchanted. As they drank the nectar of Krishna’s flute song with ears raised, they stood still. Their calves paused, milk in their mouths, tears welling in their eyes as they gazed at Govinda, as if embracing him in their hearts. “Mother,” the gopīs exclaimed, “even the birds in this forest are blessed sages. Climbing the branches of beautiful trees, they listen with closed eyes to Krishna’s flute song, forgetting all else.” The rivers, hearing Mukunda’s song, subdued their passionate currents and embraced Murari with their wave-arms, offering lotuses at his feet. As the cows of Vraja grazed in the sunlight with Rama and the cowherd boys, Krishna played the flute. The trees, filled with love, raised 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—left behind on the grass and adorning their beloveds—applied it to themselves, soothing the pain of love awakened by seeing him. They pointed out Govardhana hill, the best among Hari’s servants, which, delighted by the touch of Rama and Krishna’s feet, offered respect to them, 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 thrilled, and the marks of their bonds fell away in wonder. In this way, the gopīs described the pastimes of the Lord who wanders in Vrindavan, speaking among themselves and becoming ever more absorbed in his play. Thus concludes the twenty-first chapter of the first half of the Tenth Canto in the Śrīmad Bhāgavata Mahāpurāṇa, the scripture for the paramahaṃsas. The narrative then turns to deeper reflections. One absorbed in sense objects does not know himself or anything higher; living for the sake of the body, he is like a bellows that merely breathes, his life wasted. Such fruitive results are not the highest good for people, but 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 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,” the Lord says, “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. It establishes Me, denotes Me, distinguishes and negates Me; thus, the entire meaning of the Vedas, relying on sound, differentiates Me, and, having recited only illusion, finally negates it and becomes gracious. In the same way, it is surrounded by deer, boars, wild dogs, oxen, buffalo, elephants, cow-tails, monkeys, mongooses, and snakes. Entering that foremost holy place, the chief of kings, along with his sons, saw the sage seated there, with the sacrificial fire burning. Thus, the story flows from the enchanting pastimes of Krishna in Vrindavan, witnessed and celebrated by all living beings, to the profound teachings on the nature of true knowledge, the limitations of fruitive pursuits, and the ultimate mystery of the Vedic sound, known only to the Lord Himself.