The nature of sound, which is none other than the sound-Brahman, is exceedingly subtle and difficult to comprehend. It is woven from the very essence of life-breath, senses, and mind; vast and immeasurable, deep and unfathomable, its mystery is as profound as the depths of the ocean. This sound-principle is expanded by the Infinite, by the all-powerful Brahman; among living beings, it is perceived as sound, just as a fine thread runs through the stalk of a lotus, hidden yet essential. Consider how a spider draws from its own heart and weaves a web through its mouth—so too does the life-breath, endowed with the power of sound, arise from space itself, taking on the form of touch through the workings of the mind. The Lord, the source of all, is composed of the sacred meters and the essence of immortality, possessing a thousand paths. From the primal syllable Om, adorned with consonants, vowels, sibilants, and resonant sounds, He is firmly established within all. It is He who, by His own will, creates and withdraws the great and endless speech, which spreads forth in countless languages and is measured in meters, each increasing by four syllables. These meters—Gāyatrī, Uṣṇik, Anuṣṭup, Bṛhatī, Paṅkti, Triṣṭubh, Jagatī, Aticchandas, Atyaṣṭi, Atijagat, and Virāṭ—form the very rhythm of sacred utterance. Yet, what does this speech establish, what does it declare, imply, or distinguish? In this world, none but the Infinite knows its innermost heart. For it is this speech that establishes, denotes, distinguishes, and even negates the Lord Himself. Thus, the entire meaning of the Vedas, resting upon sound, differentiates the Lord, and, having recited only the illusion of difference, finally negates it and becomes gracious. Just as the sacred space is surrounded by deer, boars, wild dogs, oxen, buffalo, elephants, cow-tails, monkeys, mongooses, and snakes, so too is this sound encircled by myriad forms. It was into such a holy place that the chief among kings, accompanied by his sons, entered. There, within the forest, they beheld the sage seated, the sacrificial fire burning before him. The sage shone with a resplendent form, having long engaged in severe austerities. Yet, he was not emaciated, for the Lord’s affectionate glances and the nectar-like words he had heard had nourished him. Tall, with eyes like lotus petals, matted-haired and clad in bark garments, he appeared unadorned and unclean as was fitting for an ascetic. As the king approached the hermitage and bowed, the sage welcomed him with all due hospitality and respectful greetings. After receiving the proper offerings and seating the self-restrained king, the sage, mindful of the Lord’s command, spoke to him with gentle words. “O lord,” said the sage, “your wanderings are surely for the protection of the virtuous and the destruction of the wicked, for 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 wield your fierce bow, you strike terror into the hearts of the wicked. Crushing the earth with the feet of your army, shaking its very sphere, and drawing forth your great host, you roam like the radiant sun. If you were to rest, O King, then all the boundaries established by the divisions of varṇa and āśrama, created by the Lord Himself, would 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. Yet, O hero, I ask you: for what purpose have you come here? Let us act with honest hearts.” Śuka then continued the tale. In the first month of winter, the young girls of Nanda’s Vraja undertook a vow of worship to Kātyāyanī, eating only the simplest of foods. At dawn, when the sun had just risen, they bathed in the cold waters of the Kālindī. Then, on the riverbank, they fashioned an image of the goddess from sand and worshipped her with fragrant garlands, perfumes, offerings, incense, lamps, and various gifts—sprouts, fruits, and grains, both great and small. As they worshipped, the maidens chanted this mantra: “O Kātyāyanī, great power, great yoginī, supreme ruler, O goddess, make the son of Nanda my husband; I bow to you.” Thus, their minds fixed wholly on Kṛṣṇa, they observed the vow for an entire month, worshipping Bhadrakālī, desiring that the son of Nanda become their husband. Each morning, rising with their companions, the girls joined arms and sang loudly of Kṛṣṇa as they made their way to the Kālindī for their ritual bath. One day, as was their custom, they came to the riverbank, left their clothes on the shore, and, singing of Kṛṣṇa, joyfully played in the water. Lord Kṛṣṇa, the master of all yogis, understanding their hearts’ desire, came to the spot, accompanied by his friends, intent on fulfilling their wish. Swiftly, he gathered up their garments and climbed a kadamba tree, laughing with his companions. He called out 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 your vow has truly wearied you. I have never spoken a lie before, and these boys know it. O fair-waisted ones, come one by one to receive your garments, not all together.” The gopīs, seeing Kṛṣṇa’s playful mischief, were overwhelmed with love. They looked at one another with bashful smiles but did not come out of the water. As Govinda spoke thus, their minds agitated, the girls, immersed up to their necks and shivering in the cold, 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.” Thus compelled, all the girls, shivering from the cold, emerged from the water, covering themselves as best they could, afflicted by the chill. Seeing them thus, the Lord, pleased by their pure devotion, placed their garments on his shoulder and, smiling, spoke to them with affection: “You entered the water naked, maintaining your vow, and this is an offense against the gods. With folded hands, bow your heads to dispel this fault, and then, taking your clothes, put them on.” In this way, the Lord both fulfilled their desire and taught them the path of devotion and humility.