The illusion of self is profound: it is the mistaken notion of difference within what is truly pure. In reality, apart from the self, there is no other support for one’s own being. All that is perceived through names and forms—divided into categories and never contradicted—remains, even if devoid of meaning, only a kind of empty praise; such duality belongs to those who imagine themselves wise. For a yogi whose practice is not yet perfected, disturbances may arise in the body and hinder progress. For these, the ancient rules and disciplines have been prescribed. Some yogis, through the power of concentration and postures combined with breath retention, overcome bodily afflictions; others dispel these disturbances with austerities, mantras, or the use of medicinal herbs. There are also those who, meditating upon me, chanting my name, or following the path of accomplished yogis, cast off inauspicious influences. Certain wise ones, having established their bodies as strong and healthy in youth, then pursue various methods in search of perfection. Yet, even this skill is not to be highly esteemed, for such effort is ultimately fruitless; the body, after all, is perishable—no more lasting than the fruit of a tree. If, through constant practice, the body becomes fit for a long life, the wise should not place their trust in it. Rather, they should abandon attachment to yoga’s physical accomplishments and devote themselves fully to me. A yogi who takes refuge in me, pursuing yoga with this understanding, remains undisturbed by obstacles, free from desires, and finds true happiness within himself. Consider, for example, the beloved wife who, unaware that her dearest husband has departed, sits steadfastly in her place, carrying on as before. But when, in worshipping him, she no longer feels the warmth in his feet, her heart grows anxious, like a gentle doe separated from her herd. She grieves, helpless and alone, weeping bitterly; 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 trembles in fear of robbers and lawless kṣatriyas.” Thus lamenting, the young woman followed her husband into the forest. Falling at his feet, she shed her tears without restraint. Building a wooden funeral pyre, she placed her husband’s body upon it, preparing to follow him in death, her mind fixed in sorrow. At that moment, an old friend appeared—a self-realized brāhmaṇa—who gently consoled her with soothing words as she wept. “Who are you?” he asked. “Whose are you? Who is this for whom you grieve? Do you recognize me as your friend, with whom you once wandered?” “Do you remember, O friend, how you and I were unknown companions? You left me, seeking another place, absorbed in worldly pleasures. Long ago, we were swans—friends dwelling in the serene lake of the mind. For thousands of years, there was no separation between us. But you abandoned me, O companion, and descended to earth, your mind set on worldly things. In your wanderings, you came upon a place fashioned by a certain woman: five gardens, nine gates, one guardian, three chambers, six families, five marketplaces, and a fivefold nature—the abode of woman. The five gardens are the sense objects, the nine gates are the channels of life, the digestive fires and food are the chambers, and the family is the gathering of the senses. The marketplaces are the powers of action, the elemental nature is imperishable, and the lord of power is the person who dwells here, though he does not realize it. There, touched by Rāma, delighting, you lost your memory and hearing; from that association, you came to this fallen state. You are not the daughter of Vidarbha, nor is this hero your true friend; you are not the husband of Purañjanī, who was confined by her at the ninth gate. All this is illusion, created by me, by which you take the man and the virtuous woman to be real. Neither is truly so, just as the two swans observe the course of both of us. I am you, and you are not other than me; you alone are I—understand this, O friend. The wise never see even the slightest difference between us. Just as a person sees himself as one, yet as two—once in a mirror and once in his own sight—so it is with our inner nature. Thus, the swan of the mind, awakened by the swan, returned to his true state; by this correction, he regained his lost memory. O Barhiṣmat, all this has been shown in a spiritual, indirect manner, for the Lord, creator of the universe, delights in what is indirect. Now, as autumn nights blossomed with jasmine, the Blessed Lord beheld their beauty and, moved by desire, resolved to enjoy them through his yogic power. The moon, king of the stars, rose with gentle rays, bathing the eastern sky in a soft reddish glow, gladdening the hearts of the virtuous, like a beloved appearing after long absence. Seeing the full, unbroken circle of the moon—radiant as a lotus face, tinged with saffron, and the forest adorned by gentle cows—Krishna began to sing a sweet, enchanting melody for the lovely-eyed women of Vraja. Hearing that song, which stirred the deepest longing of love, the gopīs, whose hearts were already captivated by Krishna, left their homes one by one, unnoticed by each other, drawn to where their beloved stood, his earrings swinging. Some, while milking cows, left the task unfinished in their eagerness; others, leaving milk on the stove, hurried away without feeding their children. Some, serving food, abandoned their duties; others, while feeding their infants, left them behind; still others, attending to their husbands, departed without finishing their meal. Some, applying ointment or cleaning themselves, others painting their eyes, with garments and ornaments in disarray, all rushed to Krishna’s side. Though restrained by husbands, fathers, brothers, and relatives, their hearts had been stolen by Govinda, and they could not be held back, so enchanted were they. Some gopīs, unable to leave their homes, remained inside, but their thoughts were entirely absorbed in Krishna. With closed eyes, they meditated on him. Tormented by the unbearable pain of separation from their beloved, their suffering burned away all inauspiciousness. Through the power of meditation, they attained union with the infallible Lord; and by that bliss, all misfortune was dispelled.