He who creates and withdraws, by his own will, the vast and endless speech—expressed in countless languages and woven through meters that grow in steps of four syllables—remains the source behind all expression. These meters are Gāyatrī, Uṣṇik, Anuṣṭup, Bṛhatī, Paṅkti, Triṣṭubh, Jagatī, Aticchandas, Atyaṣṭi, Atijagat, and Virāṭ. Each carries its own rhythm and measure. What, then, does this speech establish, declare, imply, or distinguish? In this world, no one but I truly knows its heart. For it is I whom the Vedas establish, denote, and distinguish; they also negate me through their sound, ultimately reciting illusion only to transcend it and reveal grace. Just as speech is surrounded by forms and illusions, so too was the sage’s hermitage encircled by deer, boars, wild dogs, oxen, buffalo, elephants, cow-tails, monkeys, mongooses, and snakes. Into this sacred place came the chief of kings, accompanied by his sons. There, he beheld the sage seated, the sacrificial fire burning before him. The sage shone with the radiance of one long devoted to severe austerity, yet not emaciated—his form preserved by the Lord’s affectionate glances and the nectar of divine words he had heard. Tall and lotus-eyed, with matted hair, clad in garments of bark, the sage appeared unadorned and unwashed, as befitted an ascetic. As the king approached, he bowed in reverence. The sage welcomed him with proper hospitality and respectful greetings. After receiving the king’s offerings and seating him, the sage—mindful of the Lord’s command—spoke gently, pleasing the self-restrained monarch: “O lord, your wandering is for the protection of the virtuous and the destruction of the wicked; you are the sustaining power of Hari. You assume the roles of sun, moon, fire, Indra, wind, Yama, Dharma, and Varuṇa—homage to you, the pure one. “When you mount your victorious, jewel-adorned chariot, brandishing your fierce bow, you strike terror into the wicked. With your army’s feet, you crush the earth’s circle, shaking its very sphere, and, like the radiant sun, you draw forth a mighty host. Were you to cease, all the boundaries of varṇa and āśrama, established by the Lord, would be broken by bandits, and unrighteousness would arise, fostered by greedy, unrestrained men. If you were to rest, this world, seized by outlaws, would surely perish. “Yet, O hero, I ask—what is the purpose of your coming here? Let us, with honest hearts, act accordingly.” Meanwhile, Śuka told another tale. In the first month of winter, the young girls of Nanda’s Vraja performed the vow of worshipping Kātyāyanī, eating only the simplest food. At dawn, as the sun rose, they bathed in the waters of the Kālindī, then shaped an image of the goddess from sand on the riverbank and worshipped her. With fragrant garlands, perfumes, offerings, incense, lamps, and various gifts—sprouts, fruits, and grains—they honored her. Chanting, “O Kātyāyanī, great power, great yoginī, supreme ruler, O goddess, make the son of Nanda my husband; I bow to you,” they offered their devotion. Thus, with minds fixed on Kṛṣṇa, the maidens observed their vow for a month, worshipping Bhadrakālī, desiring that the son of Nanda become their husband. Each morning, they rose together, linked arms, and sang loudly of Kṛṣṇa as they went to bathe in the Kālindī. One day, arriving at the riverbank, they set aside their clothes as usual and, singing of Kṛṣṇa, joyfully played in the water. The Lord Kṛṣṇa, master of all yogis, aware of their hearts’ desire, came there with his friends to fulfill their wish. Swiftly, he gathered their garments and climbed a kadamba tree, laughing with the boys. He called out playfully, “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 one another bashfully and smiled, but did not come out of the water. As Govinda teased them, their minds were agitated; shivering in the cold water, they 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.” Kṛṣṇa 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.” Shivering from the cold, the girls emerged from the water, covering themselves as best they could with their hands. Seeing them thus, the Lord, pleased by their pure devotion, placed their garments on his shoulder and, smiling, spoke 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 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. Seeing them bowing, the Lord, son of Devakī, moved by compassion, returned their garments to them, being pleased. Though they had been teased, embarrassed, and made to play as if in sport, and even had their clothes taken, the girls did not resent him; rather, they found joy in his beloved company. After putting on their garments, their hearts set on meeting their beloved, the girls, their eyes cast down in modesty, did not depart from him.