As the cowherds pondered the mystery before them, the Blessed Lord Hari—Krishna himself—moved by deep compassion, revealed to them a vision of his own transcendental world, a realm untouched by any shadow or darkness. This was not an ordinary place, but the very truth and knowledge itself: the infinite Brahman, the eternal radiance that sages perceive when all qualities have dissolved and their minds are absorbed in perfect stillness. Krishna led the cowherds to the very lake of Brahman. There, he immersed them, and then drew them forth, allowing them to behold that world of pure spirit—just as Akrura had once glimpsed it. Nanda and the other cowherds, beholding this wondrous place, were overwhelmed with supreme joy and amazement. They saw Krishna himself being praised with sacred hymns in that divine realm. In that place, the nature of reality was revealed to them: knowledge, discrimination, scripture, austerity, direct perception, tradition, and inference—whatever is present at the beginning and end of these, and time and causality as well—only that truly exists in the middle. Just as gold, shaped before and after by oneself, is present throughout all golden objects, so too, Krishna declared, amidst all the various names and forms, he alone abides. He explained further: “O dear one, this knowledge appears in three states, woven from the three guṇas—cause, effect, and agent. But when both union and separation of these are transcended, only the fourth state remains—the ultimate truth. That which is not present before, nor after, nor in the middle, is merely a name, an empty designation. Only that which is established as real by the Supreme truly exists—so I understand. “What appears to exist, though it does not, is a transformation born of rajas. Yet Brahman, self-luminous, shines forth as the wondrous diversity of Brahman, senses, objects, mind, and their modifications. Therefore, by clear reasoning that discerns Brahman, and by skillfully setting aside contrary views, one should cut off self-doubt, become tranquil, satisfied in one’s own bliss, and indifferent to all objects of desire. “The self is not the body made of earth, nor the senses, nor the gods, demons, wind, water, or fire. Mind is only food, intellect is sattva, ego is space, earth is the balance of elements. How could the senses, composed of guṇas, affect one whose true abode is clearly known? Or what harm if they are disturbed? Just as clouds, even when present, do not affect the sun once they have passed. “In the same way, as space is not attached to the qualities of wind, fire, water, or earth—each coming and going with its own properties—so too, the imperishable self remains untouched by sattva, rajas, and tamas, the causes of mental transmigration. Nevertheless, one should avoid association with the guṇas, which are creations of māyā, until, by firm devotion to me, the impurity of rajas is removed from the mind. “False yogis, hindered by obstacles from gods or men, may again practice yoga by force of previous habit, but not according to the proper method of karma. Actions are performed, and beings act, impelled by some cause or by fate; but the wise, even while living in the world, having renounced all thirst, experience their own happiness. “Whether standing, sitting, walking, lying down, releasing, or eating—whatever state the self assumes, the mind established in the self recognizes no other. If one perceives an unreal object of the senses, and by reasoning sees something contrary, the wise do not consider it real—just as a dream vanishes upon waking. “The patterns of guṇas and actions, acquired before and mistaken for the self due to ignorance, cease by mere observation; the self is neither grasped nor abandoned. Just as the rising sun destroys darkness for human eyes but does not create it, so too my discernment destroys the darkness of ignorance in a person’s intellect. “This self-luminous, unborn, immeasurable one is the great experience, the experience of all—the one without a second, by whom speech and life are directed, when speech itself has ceased. The very notion of difference within the pure self is the root of delusion; apart from the self, there is no other support for the self. “That which is apprehended by name and form, fivefold and uncontradicted—even if meaningless—is mere praise; such duality belongs to those who consider themselves wise. “For a yogi whose yoga is not yet mature, bodily disturbances may arise and hinder him; for this, the prescribed rule is given. By yogic concentration, some destroy afflictions through postures and breath retention; others dispel disturbances with austerity, mantras, and medicinal herbs. Some remove inauspicious influences by meditating on me, chanting my name, or following the path of the yoga masters. Certain wise ones, having established a stable and youthful body, then engage in various methods to attain perfection. “But such skill is not to be highly esteemed, for that effort is fruitless; the body is perishable, like the fruit of a tree. If, through constant yoga practice, the body becomes fit for longevity, the wise should not trust in it, but rather abandon yoga and devote themselves to me. A yogi who takes refuge in me, pursuing yoga in this way, is undisturbed by obstacles, free from desire, and experiences his own happiness. Consider now a parable: When a beloved woman, unaware that her dearest has departed, sits firmly in her place, she behaves as before. But when she no longer feels the warmth in her husband’s feet while worshipping him, she sits with an anxious heart, like a doe separated from her herd. She grieves for herself, helpless and friendless, weeping with tears; pressing her breasts in the forest, she cries out in a clear voice: ‘Rise, rise, O royal sage! You must protect this land encircled by the ocean, which fears the robbers and kṣatriya outcasts!’ Thus lamenting, the young woman followed her husband into the forest. Falling at his feet, she shed tears without restraint. She built a wooden funeral pyre, placed her husband’s body upon it, and, preparing to follow him in death, fixed her mind while lamenting. At that moment, an earlier friend—a self-realized brāhmaṇa—gently consoled her with soothing words as she wept. The brāhmaṇa asked, ‘Who are you? Whose are you? Who is this lying here, for whom you grieve? Do you know me as a friend, with whom you once wandered? Do you remember yourself, O friend, as my unknown companion? Leaving me, you sought another place, absorbed in earthly pleasures.’ Thus concludes the twenty-eighth chapter of the first half of the tenth book in the great Purana, Srimad Bhagavata, the scripture of the supreme swan-like sages.