In the sacred groves of Vraja, the cows, enchanted by the nectar-like music flowing from Krishna’s flute, stood transfixed. Their ears perked up to catch every note, they drank in the melody as if it were the sweetest ambrosia. Even their calves, pausing with milk still in their mouths, gazed at Govinda with eyes brimming with tears of love, as if they embraced him within their hearts. The gopis, observing these wonders, spoke among themselves, marveling, “Mother, even the birds in this forest are blessed sages! Perched high on the branches of beautiful trees, they close their eyes and listen intently to Krishna’s song, forgetting all else in the world.” The rivers, too, responded to Mukunda’s divine music. Their currents slowed, swirling in circles as their passionate flow was subdued. With their wave-arms, they seemed to embrace Murari, offering lotuses at his feet in loving devotion. As Krishna wandered with Rama and the cowherd boys, the cows grazed under the sun. Krishna, ever playful, filled the air with his flute. The trees, overwhelmed with love, raised their blossoming branches and spread themselves wide, casting cool shade over Krishna and his friends, as if offering themselves as umbrellas to their beloved companion. Even the Pulinda women, forest-dwellers with faces and breasts smeared with the vermilion from Krishna’s lotus feet—left behind on the grass after adorning their beloveds—would apply this sacred dust to themselves. In doing so, they found relief from the pangs of love that arose upon seeing him. The gopis pointed out Govardhana Hill, exclaiming, “Behold this hill, the best among the servants of Hari! Delighted by the touch of Rama and Krishna’s feet, it honors them and their cows and companions with fresh water, tender grass, and nourishing roots from its slopes.” As Rama and Krishna led the cows through the forest, the sweet notes of their flutes enchanted all living beings. Even the creatures that usually moved became still, the trees shivered with delight, and the marks of bondage fell away in wonder at the divine music. In this way, the gopis, absorbed in describing the enchanting pastimes of Krishna, who wanders in Vrindavana, became completely immersed 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. Turning to teachings, it is said that a person absorbed in sense objects understands neither himself nor anything higher. Living merely for the body, like a bellows that only breathes, he wastes his life. Such fruitive results are not the highest 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, and to their own people—yet these very things are the causes of their misfortune. Those unaware of their true interest wander lost upon the path of suffering; how could a wise person again direct them toward those same pursuits bound in darkness? Thus, some, lacking true understanding, do not speak of flowery fruitive results, for the learned, who 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 a flame—they do not know their own true world. “O dear one,” Krishna teaches, “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, so too are these souls. 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 gods, ancestors, and spirits with animals obtained by violence. Like merchants abandoning real wealth for dreams, they imagine in their hearts that blessings exist 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 desire wealth and 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 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. The sage shone with his form, long engaged in severe austerity; yet he was not emaciated, for the Lord’s affectionate glances and the nectar-like words he had heard had sustained him. He was tall, with eyes like lotus petals, matted hair, clad in bark garments, and bore the appearance of an ascetic, unadorned and seeming unclean as was fitting for one devoted to austerity. As the king approached the hermitage and bowed before the sage, the sage welcomed him with appropriate hospitality and greetings. After receiving the proper offerings and seating the self-restrained king, the sage, remembering the Lord’s command, pleased him with gentle words. “O lord,” the sage said, “your wandering is for the protection of the virtuous and the destruction of the wicked; for you are the sustaining power of Hari. You, who assume the forms and stations of the sun, moon, fire, Indra, wind, Yama, Dharma, and Varuṇa—homage to you, the pure one. When you do not mount your victorious chariot, adorned with jewels, brandishing your fierce bow, you terrify the wicked with your chariot.” Thus, the narrative unfolds, blending the divine pastimes of Krishna in the forest with the teachings on the deeper purpose of human life, the nature of Vedic knowledge, and the meeting of the king and the sage, all shining forth from the Śrīmad Bhāgavatam.