O noble one, listen as I recount the tale woven from the ancient verses. Long ago, you and I were like two swans, inseparable friends who dwelled together in the serene lake of the mind. For thousands of years, we knew no separation, sharing a deep companionship. But then, my companion, you abandoned me and descended to earth, your mind drawn into worldly pursuits. As you wandered, you came upon a place fashioned by a mysterious woman. This place was wondrous: it had five gardens, nine gates, one vigilant guardian, three chambers, six families, five bustling marketplaces, and a fivefold nature—truly, the abode of woman. Within this abode, the five gardens were the pleasures of the senses, and the nine gates were the vital channels of life. The three chambers were the digestive fires and the food that nourished, while the families were the collection of senses. The marketplaces represented the powers of action, and the elemental nature was imperishable. The lord of all these powers was the very person who had entered this abode, though he remained unaware of his true identity. There, touched by the enchantment of Rāma, you lost yourself in delight, forgetting both memory and hearing. From that association, O master, you fell into a degraded condition. But, in truth, 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. All this is illusion, a creation of mine, by which you perceive the man and the virtuous woman as real. Neither is ultimately true, just as the two swans observe the journey of both of us. Know this, my friend: I am you, and you are not different from me. You alone are I—understand this well. The wise never see any distinction 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 is the inner nature of both of us. Thus, the swan of the mind, awakened by the other swan, returned to his own true state. By this correction, he regained his lost memory. O Barhiṣmat, this teaching has been presented in a spiritual, indirect manner, for the Lord, creator of the universe, delights in the subtle and indirect. Now, the story shifts. The Blessed Lord, beholding the enchanting nights of autumn adorned with blooming jasmine, desired to enjoy, employing His yogic power. The moon, king of the stars, rose with gentle rays, bathing the eastern sky in a soft, reddish glow. Its presence cleansed the hearts of the virtuous, much like a beloved returning after a long absence. As the unbroken circle of the moon shone, radiant as a lotus face tinged with saffron, and the forest was adorned by tender cows, Krishna sang a sweet and enchanting melody, inviting the lovely-eyed women of Vraja. Hearing this song, which stirred the longing of love within them, the women—already captivated by Krishna—quietly left their homes, each unnoticed by the other, drawn to where their beloved stood, his earrings swaying. Some, in the midst of milking, left their task unfinished, eager to go. Others, leaving milk on the stove, hurried away without feeding their children. Some, while serving food, abandoned their duties; others, feeding their infants, left them behind. Some, attending to their husbands, departed without finishing their meal. Some, applying ointment or cleansing themselves, others painting their eyes, hurried to Krishna’s side with garments and ornaments askew. Though their husbands, fathers, brothers, and relatives tried to restrain them, the women’s hearts, stolen by Govinda, could not be held back—they were utterly enchanted. Some gopīs, unable to leave their homes, remained inside, but their minds absorbed in thoughts of Krishna, they meditated on him with closed eyes. Tormented by the unbearable pain of separation from their beloved, these women experienced such intense suffering that all inauspiciousness was washed away. Through their meditation, they attained union with the infallible Lord, and by that bliss, all misfortune was dispelled. United with the Supreme Self—even in the mood of lovers—they immediately cast off the bonds of their bodies, composed of the modes of nature, and their bondage was at once destroyed. King Parīkṣit, hearing this, asked, “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 replied, “This has already been explained 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 become absorbed in Him. Therefore, do not be astonished, for it is by Krishna, the unborn Lord of all yogic masters, that such liberation is attained.” Now, as the women of Vraja approached Krishna, He—the foremost among speakers—addressed them with charming words, skillfully deluding their minds. He said, “Welcome, O most fortunate ones! What may I do to please you? Is all well in Vraja? Please tell Me the reason for your coming. “This night is fearsome, frequented by fierce creatures; return to Vraja, O slender-waisted women, for it is not proper for you to remain here. Your mothers, fathers, sons, brothers, and husbands are searching for you, unable to find you; do not cause your relatives anxiety. “You have seen the forest adorned with flowers, brightened by the moon, and the Yamunā, whose breeze plays among the beautiful budding trees. Now, do not delay—return to the cowherd village, serve your husbands faithfully; the calves and children are crying—go, feed and milk them. “Or perhaps, compelled by your deep affection for Me, you have come here; this is natural, for all beings are attracted to Me. For women, the highest duty is to serve their husbands sincerely, care for their relatives, and nourish their children. Even if a husband is of bad character, unfortunate, old, dull, sick, or poor, he should not be abandoned by women who desire virtue in this world. For noble women, union with a man other than their husband brings no heaven, only disgrace, meager and painful results, fear, and is condemned everywhere. “By hearing, seeing, meditating upon, or singing about Me, devotion arises—not so much by physical proximity; therefore, return to your homes.” When Govinda spoke these harsh words, the cowherd women, their hopes shattered, became deeply distressed and fell into overwhelming anxiety.