O King, listen as I recount the wondrous tale, as it was spoken by the wise Śuka to Parīkṣit. Once, a soul, touched by Rāma, was filled with delight, yet in that very contact lost both memory and hearing. From this association, O master, he fell into a degraded state of existence. But know this truly: you are not the daughter of Vidarbha, nor is this hero your companion; you are not the husband of Purañjanī, who was kept captive at the ninth gate. All this is but illusion, created by me, by which you mistake the man and the virtuous woman for reality—yet neither are true, just as the two swans watch the journey of us both, remaining untouched. Understand, dear friend, I am you, and you are not other than me; you alone are I. The wise see no distinction between us, not even the slightest flaw. Just as a person perceives himself as one, yet sees two forms in a mirror and in his own vision, so too is the inner nature of both of us. Thus, the swan of the mind, awakened by the swan, returned to his own true state; and by this correction, he regained his lost memory. O Barhiṣmat, this has been revealed to you in a spiritual, indirect manner, for the Lord, creator of the universe, delights in such subtlety. Now, hear of a night in Vraja, when the Blessed Lord beheld the autumn nights adorned with blooming jasmine. Desiring to enjoy, he drew upon his yogic power. The moon, king of stars, rose with gentle rays, bathing the eastern sky in a reddish glow, cleansing the hearts of the virtuous—like a beloved returning after long absence. Seeing the full moon, radiant as a lotus face tinged with saffron, and the forest adorned by tender cows, Krishna sang a sweet, enchanting melody for the lovely-eyed women. Hearing that song, which kindled the fires of longing, the women of Vraja, their minds captivated by Krishna, came together, each unnoticed by the others, drawn toward their beloved, whose earrings swung as he played. Some, in the midst of milking, left their task unfinished, eager to go; others left milk on the stove and hurried away without feeding their children. Some, serving food, abandoned their duties; some, while feeding infants, left them behind; others, even while attending to their husbands, departed without finishing their meal. Some were applying ointment, others cleaning themselves or painting their eyes; with garments and ornaments askew, they hastened to Krishna’s side. Though restrained by husbands, fathers, brothers, and relatives, their hearts had been stolen by Govinda; enchanted, they could not be held back. Some gopīs, unable to leave their homes, remained inside; absorbed in thoughts of Krishna, they meditated upon him with closed eyes. The agony of separation was unbearable; their intense suffering washed away all inauspiciousness. Through meditation, they attained union with the infallible Lord, and by that bliss, all misfortune was dispelled. Thus, coming together with the Supreme Self—even with the attitude of a lover—they immediately cast off the bondage of their bodies, composed of the modes of nature. Their attachments were instantly destroyed. At this, King Parīkṣit asked, “O sage, the women of Vraja knew Krishna as their beloved, not as Brahman. How could the flow of the modes be halted for those whose minds were fixed on qualities?” Śuka replied, “This has already been explained, 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 all, O King, the Supreme Lord—imperishable, immeasurable, beyond the modes, yet the soul of all qualities—manifests Himself. Those who direct desire, anger, fear, affection, unity, or friendship toward Hari become absorbed in Him. Therefore, do not be astonished; it is by Krishna, the unborn Lord of all yogic masters, that such liberation is attained.” Meanwhile, seeing the women of Vraja approach him, the Lord—foremost among speakers—addressed them with charming words, deluding their minds. He said, “Welcome, O most fortunate ones! What may I do to please you? Is all well in Vraja? Tell me, what brings you here? This night is fearsome, haunted by wild 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 families distress. You have seen the forest adorned with flowers, brightened by the moon, and the Yamunā’s breeze playing among blossoming trees. Now, do not delay—return to the 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—this is natural, for all beings are drawn to me. Yet 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. For noble women, union with another man brings no heaven, only disgrace, meager and painful results, and fear—it 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.” Hearing these harsh words from Govinda, the cowherd women, their hopes dashed, were plunged into deep distress and overwhelming anxiety. Wiping their faces, their lips parched by sighs, they traced the ground with their feet, their breasts stained with tears mingled with the red of their ornaments. Silent, weighed down by sorrow, longing for Krishna—who had turned away all their desires for his sake—they brushed their tear-dimmed eyes, and, their voices choked with emotion, spoke softly: “Do not speak so cruelly, Lord! It does not befit you. We have abandoned all else and come to your feet. Cherish your devotees—do not reject us with harshness, just as the Supreme Person does not abandon those who seek liberation. You, knower of dharma, have said that a woman’s duty is to serve husband, children, and friends. Let it be so. Yet, O Lord, you are truly the dearest, the friend and soul of all embodied beings. The wise place their love in you, the eternal beloved. What use are husbands, sons, and others who bring only suffering? Therefore, be gracious to us, Supreme Lord—do not sever the hope we have cherished in you, O lotus-eyed one. Our minds, joyfully stolen away by you, do not return to our homes, nor do our hands engage in household tasks. Our feet will not move from your feet. How, then, can we go to Vraja, or what else can we do?” Thus, in longing and devotion, the gopīs poured out their hearts to Krishna, standing steadfast in their love for the Lord of all beings.