The gopīs gathered together, their hearts overflowing with love and longing, and spoke among themselves: “O friends, what greater blessing could there be for our eyes than beholding the two sons of the lord of Vraja, Balarāma and Kṛṣṇa, as they wander the pastures herding the cows with their companions? Their faces are radiant, adorned by the flute resting at Kṛṣṇa’s lips, and with every glance they bestow, our hearts are filled with sweetness.” The two brothers appeared resplendent, decorated with mango shoots, tender leaves, peacock feathers, and garlands woven from lotuses and lilies. Their garments were bright and fragrant, ornamented with the blossoms of the forest. Amidst the community of cowherds, they shone like masterful dancers upon a stage, their voices mingling in song. The gopīs marveled: “O friends, what unimaginable fortune has come to this flute! It alone is allowed to taste the nectar of Dāmodara’s lips, a sweetness even we desire. The rivers, too, are blessed when they receive the remnants of that nectar carried on the flute’s song; their waters tremble in joy and the trees on their banks shed tears like affectionate elders.” They continued, “See how Vṛndāvana’s glory spreads throughout the world! The dust of its earth has been sanctified by the water that washed the feet of Devakī’s son. When Govinda plays his flute, the peacocks, overcome with ecstasy, begin to dance, while every creature upon the mountain slopes stands motionless, spellbound.” “Even these simple deer are supremely blessed,” the gopīs said, “for when they see Nanda’s son, adorned in his wondrous forest attire, and hear the sound of his flute, they worship him with loving glances, together with their black-buck mates.” The gopīs spoke in awe: “Kṛṣṇa, whose every movement and form is a festival for the eyes, enchants not only us but even the goddesses in their celestial chariots. Hearing the sweet, secret melody of his flute, they are overcome by love, their flower garlands slipping from their necks as they faint, their garments loosening in their swoon.” The cows, too, were enraptured. With ears raised, they drank in the nectar of Kṛṣṇa’s flute-song, standing still as their calves paused, milk still in their mouths. Tears welled in their eyes as they gazed at Govinda, embracing him in their hearts. “Mother,” the gopīs exclaimed, “even the birds of the forest are like sages! Perched upon the branches of beautiful trees, they close their eyes and listen to Kṛṣṇa’s flute, forgetting everything else.” The rivers, upon hearing Mukunda’s song, slowed their currents and formed swirling eddies. Their passion subdued, they stretched out their wave-arms to embrace Murāri, offering lotuses at his feet. The trees, too, responded with love. As the cows of Vraja grazed in the sun with Rāma, Kṛṣṇa played his flute, and the trees, overwhelmed with affection, raised their blossoming branches and spread their leafy canopies to shade their beloved friend. Even the Pulinda women of the forest, their faces and breasts smeared with the vermilion dust from Kṛṣṇa’s lotus feet—left behind on the grass and picked up by their beloveds—applied it to themselves, soothing the pain of love awakened by the sight of him. “Behold this hill,” the gopīs said, “the greatest among the servants of Hari! Delighted by the touch of Rāma and Kṛṣṇa’s feet, it honors them and their cows and companions by offering water, tender grass, and roots from its slopes.” As Rāma and Kṛṣṇa led the cows through the forest, surrounded by the cowherd boys, the melodious notes of their flutes enchanted all living beings. Even the restless creatures became still, the trees thrilled with joy, and the marks of their bonds fell away in wonder. In this way, the gopīs, absorbed in the remembrance and discussion of the Lord’s wondrous pastimes in Vṛndāvana, lost themselves 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. Yet, a person who is absorbed only in sense objects, who lives merely for the sake of the body, is like a bellows that simply breathes—he neither knows himself nor anything higher, and his life is wasted. Such fruitive results are not the true good for people; they are spoken of only to attract them, just as medicine is sweetened to encourage its use. From birth, mortals are attached in mind to desires, to life itself, and to their own kin, though these attachments are the very sources of their misfortune. Those who do not know their true interest wander lost on the path of suffering. How could a wise person encourage them to return to those same pursuits, bound in darkness? Therefore, some, lacking understanding and with misguided minds, do not speak of the flowery fruits of action, for those who truly 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 a flame; they do not know their own true home. O dear one, they do not know Me, who dwell in the heart and from whom this world arises. Those unsatisfied by hymns and rituals are like people whose vision is obscured by fog. Without understanding My indirect intention, those devoted to sense objects may even become attached to violence, and then sacrifice is not enjoined for them. Indeed, the cruel, desiring only their own pleasure, perform sacrifices to gods, ancestors, and spirits, using animals obtained by violence. Like merchants who abandon real wealth for dreams, they imagine 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 with sacrifices, they hope to 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. These meters are: Gāyatrī, Uṣṇik, Anuṣṭup, Bṛhatī, Paṅkti, Triṣṭubh, Jagatī, Aticchandas, Atyaṣṭi, Atijagat, and Virāṭ. 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, accompanied by his sons, beheld the sage seated there, the sacrificial fire burning before him. The sage shone with a radiance born of long and severe austerity, though he was not emaciated, for the Lord’s affectionate glances and the nectar-like words he had heard had sustained him.