O dear one, let me recount the wondrous glories that the gopīs of Vraja spoke among themselves, as their hearts overflowed with love for Kṛṣṇa. They marveled at Vṛndāvana, whose fame spread across the earth, for it was sanctified by the touch of the water that had washed the feet of Devakī’s son. In this sacred land, Govinda, the cowherd boy, played his flute, and the peacocks, intoxicated by the melody, danced with abandon, while all the creatures on the mountain slopes became utterly still, enchanted by his music. Even the simple-minded deer, they said, were truly blessed. Seeing Nanda’s son in his wondrous attire, and hearing the sound of his flute, the does, together with their black-buck mates, gazed at him with loving eyes, as if offering worship with their gentle glances. The goddesses themselves, traveling in their celestial chariots, were not untouched by Kṛṣṇa’s beauty and song. When they beheld Kṛṣṇa—whose very form and actions were a festival for the eyes—and heard the sweet, private notes of his flute, their minds became disturbed by love. Their flower garlands slipped from their hair, their garments loosened, and they fainted, overwhelmed by longing. The cows of Vraja, too, stood transfixed, drinking in the nectar of Kṛṣṇa’s flute-song with ears raised, all senses absorbed in that bliss. Their calves, pausing mid-drink, stood with milk still in their mouths. Tears welled in their eyes as they gazed at Govinda, as if embracing him with their hearts. “Surely, mother,” they said, “even the birds of this forest are blessed sages. Perched upon the branches of beautiful trees, they listen with closed eyes to Kṛṣṇa’s flute, forgetting everything else, absorbed in that divine sound.” The rivers, upon hearing Mukunda’s song, stilled their currents, forming circles upon their surface. Their passion subdued, they embraced Murāri with their wave-like arms, offering lotuses at his feet as tokens of their devotion. When the trees saw the cows of Vraja grazing under the sun, accompanied by Rāma, Kṛṣṇa, and the cowherd boys, and Kṛṣṇa playing his flute, they were filled with love. They raised their blossoming branches high and spread out their bodies, as if to form umbrellas to shade their dear friend. The Pulinda women, wild forest-dwellers, saw the vermilion from the lotus feet of the great singer—Kṛṣṇa—which had stained the breasts of his beloveds and was left behind on the grass. They smeared this sacred dust on their faces and breasts, soothing the pain of love awakened in their hearts by the sight of him. “Behold this hill,” they exclaimed, “the best among the servants of Hari! Delighted by the touch of Rāma and Kṛṣṇa’s feet, it offers respect to them, their cows, and companions with pure water, tender grass, and roots from its slopes.” As Rāma and Kṛṣṇa led the cows through the forest, surrounded by their friends, the sweet notes of their flutes enchanted all living beings. Even the moving creatures became still, the trees thrilled with joy, and the marks of their bonds fell away in wonder. Thus, as the gopīs described the Lord’s pastimes—he who wanders the groves of Vṛndāvana—they became completely absorbed in his play, their hearts and minds lost in love. Here ends the twenty-first chapter of the first half of the Tenth Canto of the Śrīmad Bhāgavata Mahāpurāṇa, the scripture for those who seek the highest truth. Yet, dear one, those who are absorbed in sense objects do not know themselves or anything higher. Living only for the sake of the body, like bellows that merely breathe, their lives are wasted. The fruitive results promised in scripture are not the highest good for people, but are spoken of 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 very things cause them suffering. Those who do not know their true interest wander lost on the path of misery; how could a wise person encourage them to pursue again those same darkness-bound pursuits? Therefore, those who lack understanding and whose minds are misguided do not praise the flowery promises of fruitive action, for those who truly know the Veda do not praise them. Those who are lustful, pitiable, and greedy, who fix their minds 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 who are unsatisfied by hymns and rituals are like people whose vision is blocked by fog, so too are those who do not see Me. 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 only their own pleasure, perform sacrifices to the gods, ancestors, and spirits using animals obtained by violence. Like merchants who abandon real wealth for dreams, they imagine blessings in that insubstantial world—a world as pleasing to hear about as a dream, but not real. 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—it is composed of life-breath, senses, and mind, 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 immortality, possessing a thousand paths; from Oṁ, 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, that sacred place is surrounded by deer, boars, wild dogs, oxen, buffalo, elephants, cow-tails, monkeys, mongooses, and snakes. When the chief of kings, accompanied by his sons, entered that foremost holy place, he saw the sage seated there, with the sacrificial fire burning. The sage shone with the radiance of one who had long practiced severe austerity; yet he was not too emaciated, for the Lord’s affectionate glances and the nectar-like words he had heard sustained him. He was tall, with eyes like lotus petals, matted hair, clad in garments of bark, appearing unclean as was fitting for an ascetic, and without adornment. As the king approached the hermitage and bowed before the sage, the sage welcomed him with all proper hospitality and greetings. Having received the appropriate offerings and seated the self-restrained king, the sage, remembering the Lord’s command, spoke to him with gentle and pleasing words.