As the story unfolds, the Lord teaches that even if, through steadfast practice of yoga, one's body becomes fit for longevity, the wise should not place their trust in the body. Instead, they are advised to abandon yoga and dedicate themselves wholly to Him. A yogi who follows this path, taking refuge in the Lord, remains undisturbed by obstacles, free from desires, and experiences happiness within himself. Meanwhile, a beloved woman, unaware that her dearest has departed, sits steadfastly in her place, behaving as she always did. But when she feels no warmth in her husband’s feet while worshipping him, her heart grows anxious, like a doe separated from her herd. Alone and helpless, she grieves for herself, weeping and pressing her breasts in the forest, crying out with a clear voice, “Rise, rise, O royal sage! You must protect this land encircled by the ocean, which fears the robbers and kṣatriya outcasts.” Lamenting thus, the young woman follows her husband into the forest. She falls at his feet, shedding tears without restraint. She constructs a wooden funeral pyre, places her husband’s body upon it, and, preparing to follow him in death, fixes her mind while lamenting. At that moment, an old friend—a self-realized brāhmaṇa—appears and gently consoles her with soothing words as she weeps. He asks, “Who are you? Whose are you? Who is this lying here, for whom you grieve? Do you remember me as a friend, with whom you once wandered? Do you recall yourself, O friend, as my unknown companion? You left me, seeking another place, absorbed in earthly pleasures. “O noble one, you and I were swans, friends dwelling in the lake of the mind; for thousands of years, we were never separated. But you abandoned me, O companion, and went to earth with a worldly mind. Wandering, you saw a place fashioned by a certain woman—five gardens, nine gates, one guardian, three chambers, six families, five marketplaces, and fivefold nature—the abode of woman. “The five sense objects are pleasures; the nine gates are the channels of life; the digestive fires and food are the compartments; the family is the collection of senses. The marketplace is the power of action; the elemental nature is imperishable; the lord of power is the person who has entered here, yet does not realize it. “There, you, touched by Rāma, delighting, lost memory and hearing; from that association, O master, you attained such a degraded condition. You are not the daughter of Vidarbha, nor is this hero your friend; you are not the husband of Purañjanī, who was confined by her at the ninth gate. “This is illusion, created by me, by which you consider the man and the virtuous woman as real; neither is true, 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 any flaw between us, not even the slightest. “Just as a person sees himself as one, yet as two in the mirror and in his own sight, so too is the inner nature of both of us.” Thus, the swan of the mind, awakened by the swan, returns to his own state; by that correction, he regains his lost memory. “O Barhiṣmat, this has been shown in a spiritual manner, indirectly, for the Lord, creator of the universe, delights in what is indirect.” The narrative then shifts to the Blessed Lord, who, seeing the nights of autumn adorned with blooming jasmine, desires to enjoy, resorting to His yogic power. The moon, king of stars, with gentle rays, anoints the eastern sky with a reddish hue, rising and cleansing the hearts of the virtuous, like a beloved appearing after a long absence. Krishna, seeing the unbroken circle of the moon, radiant as a lotus face tinged with saffron, and the forest adorned by tender cows, sings a sweet, enchanting melody for the lovely-eyed women. Hearing that song, which increases longing, the women of Vraja, whose minds are captivated by Krishna, come together, unnoticed by each other, to where their beloved stands, his earrings swinging. Some, while milking, leave the task unfinished, eager to go; others, leaving the milk on the stove, hurry away without feeding their children. Some, serving food, abandon their duties; some, while feeding their infants, leave them; others, attending to their husbands, depart without finishing their meal. Some, applying ointment or cleaning themselves, others painting their eyes, with garments and ornaments disarranged, hurry to Krishna’s side. Though restrained by husbands, fathers, brothers, and relatives, their hearts stolen by Govinda, they cannot be stopped, being enchanted. Some gopīs, unable to leave their homes, remain inside; absorbed in thoughts of Krishna, they meditate on Him with closed eyes. Tormented by the unbearable pain of separation from their beloved, their intense suffering washes away all inauspiciousness; through meditation they attain union with the infallible Lord, and by that bliss, all misfortune is dispelled. Having come together with the Supreme Self—even with the attitude of a lover—they immediately cast off their bodies composed of the modes of nature, their bondage at once destroyed. King Parīkṣit then asks, “O sage, the women of Vraja knew Krishna as their supreme beloved, not as Brahman; how could the cessation of the flow of the modes occur for those whose minds were fixed on qualities?” Śuka replies, “This has already been explained to you before—how even the wicked Śiśupāla attained perfection. If one who hated Hṛṣīkeśa was liberated, how much more so those devoted to the transcendent Lord? “For the highest good of people, O King, the Supreme Lord—imperishable, immeasurable, beyond the modes, yet the soul of all qualities—manifests Himself. Those who constantly direct desire, anger, fear, affection, unity, or friendship toward Hari, indeed become absorbed in Him. “Therefore, you should not be astonished by this, for it is by Krishna, the unborn Lord of all yogic masters, that such liberation is attained.” As the women of Vraja approach Him, the Lord—foremost among speakers—addresses them with charming words, deluding their minds.