The Infinite, the all-pervading Brahman of boundless power, expands itself into the world, manifesting among beings as sound—like the subtle thread running within the stalk of a lotus. Just as a spider spins its web from its own heart and mouth, so too does the life-breath, endowed with sound, arise from space and, through the mind, takes on the quality of touch. The Lord himself is composed of the sacred meters and immortality, possessing a thousand paths. From the primordial syllable Om—adorned with consonants, vowels, sibilants, and resonant sounds—he is firmly established within. He alone creates and withdraws the great and endless speech, which spreads out in countless languages, its meters each increasing by four syllables. The meters are these: Gāyatrī, Uṣṇik, Anuṣṭup, Bṛhatī, Paṅkti, Triṣṭubh, Jagatī, Aticchandas, Atyaṣṭi, Atijagat, and Virāṭ. But what do these meters establish, declare, imply, or distinguish? In truth, none but I truly know their heart. They establish me, denote me, distinguish and negate me. Thus, the Vedas, whose meaning is rooted in sound, differentiate me, and, after reciting only illusion, finally set it aside and become gracious. In the same way, the speech is surrounded—like a sacred place encircled by deer, boars, wild dogs, oxen, buffalo, elephants, cow-tails, monkeys, mongooses, and snakes. Entering that foremost holy place, the chief among kings, accompanied by his sons, beheld the sage seated with the sacrificial fire burning brightly. The sage shone with an austere form, having long practiced severe penances; yet he was not too emaciated, for the Lord’s affectionate glances and nectar-like words had sustained him. He was tall, with eyes like lotus petals, matted hair, and bark garments. He appeared unclean, as was fitting for an ascetic, and wore no ornaments. As the king approached the hermitage and bowed low, the sage welcomed him with due hospitality and kind greetings. After receiving the proper offerings and seating the self-restrained king, the sage, remembering the Lord’s command, spoke gently to please him: “O lord, surely your wanderings are 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, jewel-adorned chariot, brandishing your fierce bow, even the wicked are terrified by your very presence. Crushing the earth’s circle with the feet of your army, shaking its sphere, and drawing forth your great host, you roam the world like the radiant sun. At such a time, 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 rest, 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 spoke: In the first month of winter, the young girls of Nanda’s Vraja undertook the vow of worshipping Kātyāyanī, eating only the simplest food. At dawn, when the sun had just risen, they bathed in the waters of the Kālindī, made an image of the goddess from sand on the riverbank, and worshipped her, O King. They adorned her with fragrant garlands, perfumes, offerings, incense, lamps, and various gifts—great and small—such as sprouts, fruits, and grains. With devotion, 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.” Thus, with minds fixed on Kṛṣṇa, the maidens observed this vow for a month, worshipping Bhadrakālī, all desiring that the son of Nanda become their husband. Each morning, at dawn, they rose with their companions, linked arms, and sang loudly of Kṛṣṇa as they made their way to bathe in the Kālindī. One day, as usual, they arrived at the riverbank, left their clothes on the shore, and, singing of Kṛṣṇa, joyfully played in the water. The Lord Kṛṣṇa, master of all yogis, understanding their intention, came there with his friends to fulfill their desire. Quickly gathering their garments, he climbed a kadamba tree and, laughing with the boys, 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 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 and smiled, but did not come out of the water. 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.” Then, shivering from the cold, the girls emerged from the water, covering their private parts with their hands, 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.” Hearing these words from Acyuta, the Vraja girls understood that bathing naked was a breach of their vow. Wishing to fulfill their purpose, they accepted this as the completion of their ritual, for it was directly ordained by him and thus blameless.