The Pulinda women of the forest, their faces and breasts aglow with vermilion, had gathered the sacred dust left on the grass—dust that had once adorned the lotus feet of the great flute-player, Krishna, and had been lovingly transferred to the chests of their beloveds. With hearts aching from the love awakened by the mere sight of Krishna, they would apply this holy powder to themselves, finding solace and relief in its touch. Behold Govardhana Hill, the noblest among the servants of Lord Hari! Overjoyed by the touch of Rama and Krishna’s feet, the hill offered its devotion by presenting water, tender grasses, and nourishing roots to the two brothers, their cows, and their companions, honoring them with all that grew upon its slopes. As Rama and Krishna wandered through the forest, leading their herds of cows and surrounded by their joyful cowherd friends, the melodious music of their flutes enchanted every living being. The sweet notes cast such a spell that even the creatures who usually moved about stood motionless, the trees shivered with delight, and the very bonds that tied them seemed to fall away in wonder. In this way, the gopis, gathering together and speaking among themselves, became completely absorbed in recounting the playful pastimes of Krishna, the Lord who roams the groves of Vrindavana. Their hearts and minds were captivated by his divine play. Thus concludes the twenty-first chapter of the first half of the Tenth Canto in the Śrīmad Bhāgavata Mahāpurāṇa, the scripture revered by the paramahaṃsas. Turning to deeper wisdom, the text explains: A person who lives absorbed in sense objects, oblivious to his true self and higher purpose, wastes his life, living only for the body—like a bellows that merely breathes without awareness. The pursuit of fruitive results is not the highest good for people; such results are described only to attract them, just as medicine is sweetened to encourage its use. From birth, mortals are bound in mind to desires, to life itself, and to their own kin—even though these attachments are the very sources of their suffering. Those who do not understand their true welfare wander lost, ensnared on a path of misery. How could a wise person, knowing this, encourage others to pursue such darkness again? Therefore, those who are truly wise do not praise the flowery promises of fruitive rewards, for the knowers of the Veda do not glorify them. People who are driven by lust, greed, and pitiable cravings, who focus 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, such people do not know Me, the Lord who dwells within their hearts and from whom the world arises. Like those whose vision is blocked by dense fog, they are unsatisfied by hymns and rituals alone. Without understanding my deeper intention, those attached to sense objects may even become violent; for them, sacrifice itself is not enjoined. Indeed, the cruel, seeking only their own pleasure, perform sacrifices to gods, ancestors, and spirits, offering animals obtained through violence. Like merchants who abandon real wealth for dreams, they imagine blessings in an insubstantial world—pleasing to hear about, but as unreal as a dream. Those who are established in the modes of passion, goodness, or ignorance, and who cherish these qualities, worship Indra and the other principal gods, but not Me as I truly am. After worshipping the gods with sacrifices, they think, “We shall enjoy in heaven.” But when that pleasure ends, they desire to be wealthy and noble again on earth. Thus, those whose minds are distracted by flowery words, who are proud and excessively greedy, find no delight even in My teachings. The Vedas, with their threefold division, discuss Brahman, the self, and the gods. The sages speak indirectly, and I too delight in indirect speech. The sound-Brahman is exceedingly difficult to understand; composed of life-breath, senses, and mind, it is boundless, unfathomable, and deep—like an ocean impossible to cross. It is expanded by Me, the Infinite, by Brahman of endless power. Among beings, it is perceived as sound, like the thread that runs 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. 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—Gāyatrī, Uṣṇik, Anuṣṭup, Bṛhatī, Paṅkti, Triṣṭubh, Jagatī, Aticchandas, Atyaṣṭi, Atijagat, and Virāṭ—form the structure of sacred sound. But what does this sacred speech establish, declare, imply, or distinguish? In this world, no one but I knows its true heart. It establishes Me, denotes Me, distinguishes and negates Me; thus the entire meaning of the Vedas, relying on sound, differentiates Me. After reciting only illusion, it finally negates that illusion and becomes gracious. In the same way, the sacred place 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 an aura born of long and severe austerity; yet he was not emaciated, for the Lord’s affectionate glances and the nectar-like words he had heard had nourished him. He was tall, with eyes like lotus petals, his hair matted, and clad in garments of bark. He appeared unclean, as was proper for an ascetic, and wore no ornaments. As the king approached the hermitage and bowed low before the sage, the sage welcomed him with fitting hospitality and kind greetings. After receiving the proper offerings and seating the self-restrained king, the sage, recalling the Lord’s command, spoke to him with gentle words. “O lord,” he 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 take up the forms and duties of the sun, moon, fire, Indra, wind, Yama, Dharma, and Varuṇa—homage to you, the pure one. When you do not mount your victorious, jewel-adorned chariot and brandish your fierce bow, you still terrify the wicked simply by your presence. Crushing the earth’s circle with the feet of your army, shaking its very sphere, and drawing forth the great host, you roam like the radiant sun. At such times, O King, all the boundaries established by the divisions of varṇa and āśrama, created by the Lord, would surely be broken by bandits. Unrighteousness would arise, fostered by greedy and unrestrained men; if you were to lie down, this world, seized by outlaws, would surely perish. Nevertheless, O hero, I ask you: for what purpose have you come here? Let us, with honest hearts, act accordingly.