After worshipping the gods through sacrifices, many people believe, “We shall enjoy pleasures in heaven.” But when their heavenly enjoyment ends, they long to return to earth, desiring wealth and noble birth again. Those whose minds are captivated by enticing, flowery promises, who are proud and excessively greedy, find even the Lord’s teachings unappealing. The Vedas themselves, with their threefold division, discuss Brahman, the self, and the gods. Sages speak in indirect ways, and the Lord too delights in subtle speech. The sound-Brahman, which forms the essence of the Vedas, is exceedingly difficult to comprehend; it is woven from life-breath, senses, and mind, boundless and unfathomable, deep and as hard to penetrate as the ocean. This sound-Brahman is expanded by the Infinite—the Lord himself—by Brahman of endless power. Among all beings, it is perceived as sound, like the thread running within the stalk of a lotus. Just as a spider spins its web from its heart through its mouth, so too does the life-breath, endowed with sound, arise from space, manifesting as touch through the mind. The Lord is composed of meters and immortality, possessing a thousand paths. From Om, adorned with consonants, vowels, sibilants, and resonant sounds, he is established within. He himself creates and withdraws 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 Vedic speech. What does this speech establish, declare, imply, or distinguish? In this world, only the Lord knows its heart. It establishes the Lord, denotes him, distinguishes and negates him. Thus, the entire meaning of the Vedas, relying on sound, differentiates the Lord, and, having recited only illusion, finally negates it and becomes gracious. In a similar way, the hermitage 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, saw the sage seated with the sacrificial fire burning. The sage shone with his form, long engaged in severe austerity; he was not too emaciated, for the Lord’s affectionate glances and nectar-like words he had heard had sustained him. He was tall, with eyes like lotus petals, matted hair, clad in bark garments, appearing unclean as befitted an ascetic, and unadorned. As the king approached the hermitage and bowed before the sage, the sage welcomed him with proper hospitality and greetings. Having received the offerings and seated the self-restrained king, the sage, recalling the Lord’s command, pleased him and spoke gently: “O lord, your wandering is for the protection of the virtuous and destruction of the wicked; you are the sustaining power of Hari. You 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 and wielding your fierce bow, you terrify the wicked with your presence. Crushing the earth’s circle with the feet of your army, shaking its 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 you have come here; let us, with honest hearts, act accordingly.” Śuka then continued his narration: In the first month of winter, the young girls of Nanda’s Vraja undertook the vow of worshipping Kātyāyanī, eating only simple food. At dawn, after bathing in the waters of the Kālindī when the sun had just risen, they made an image of the goddess from sand on the riverbank and worshipped her, O King. They offered fragrant garlands, perfumes, incense, lamps, and gifts—sprouts, fruits, grains, both great and small. As they worshipped, they chanted this mantra: “O Kātyāyanī, great power, great yoginī, supreme ruler, O goddess, make the son of Nanda my husband; I bow to you.” In this way, the maidens, their minds fixed on Kṛṣṇa, observed the vow for a month, worshipping Bhadrakālī, desiring that the son of Nanda become their husband. At dawn, rising with their companions, linking arms, they sang loudly of Kṛṣṇa as they went each day to bathe in the Kālindī. One day, coming to the riverbank, they left their clothes as before and, singing of Kṛṣṇa, joyfully played in the water. The Lord Kṛṣṇa, master of all yogis, understanding their intention, came there surrounded by his friends to fulfill their desire. Quickly taking their garments, he climbed a kadamba tree and, laughing with the boys, spoke to the girls in jest: “Come here, girls, and each of you take back your own garment as you wish; I speak the truth, not merely in jest, if you are truly wearied by your vow. I have never spoken a lie before, and these boys know it; O fair-waisted ones, come one by one to receive them, not all together.” Seeing his playful gesture, the gopīs, overwhelmed with love, looked at each other bashfully, smiled, but did not come out. As Govinda spoke thus in jest, their minds agitated, the girls, immersed up to their necks in the cold water and shivering, addressed him: “O beloved son of Nanda, please respect us; we know you are worthy of Vraja’s praise. Give us our clothes, for we are trembling. O Śyāmasundara, we are your servants and will do as you say; give us our garments, O knower of dharma, or else we will complain to the king.” The Blessed Lord replied, “If you are truly my servants and will do as I have said, let these pure-smiling girls come here and receive their garments.