Just as a person perceives himself as a single being, yet sees two images—one in the mirror and one with his own eyes—so too is the subtle nature of both the soul and the Lord: distinct, yet inseparably connected. In this way, the swan-like mind, awakened by the swan of wisdom, returned to its true state. By this correction, it regained its lost memory, remembering its original nature. O Barhiṣmat, this teaching has been presented in a spiritual, indirect manner, for the Supreme Lord, creator of the universe, delights in indirectness and subtlety. As the nights of autumn unfolded, adorned with blossoming jasmine, the Blessed Lord Krishna, seeing their beauty, desired to enjoy those nights, employing his divine yogic power. At that time, the moon—sovereign of the stars—rose in the eastern sky, its gentle rays painting the horizon with a reddish hue. Its appearance, like that of a beloved returning after a long absence, cleansed the hearts of the virtuous. Krishna beheld the unbroken circle of the full moon, radiant as a lotus face tinged with saffron, and the forest, beautified by the presence of tender cows. Inspired, he sang a sweet and enchanting melody, its notes flowing for the lovely-eyed women of Vraja. Hearing that song, which only deepened their longing, the gopīs—whose hearts and minds were already captivated by Krishna—left their homes, each unnoticed by the others, drawn irresistibly to where their beloved stood, his earrings gently swinging. Some, in the midst of milking cows, left the task unfinished, unable to contain their eagerness. Others, leaving milk boiling on the stove, hurried away without feeding their children. Some abandoned the act of serving food; others, while feeding their infants, left them behind; and some, even as they attended to their husbands, departed without finishing their own meal. Some left while applying ointment or cleaning themselves, others with their eyes half-painted, their garments and ornaments in disarray—all rushed to Krishna’s side. Though their husbands, fathers, brothers, and relatives tried to restrain them, the gopīs could not be held back. Their hearts, stolen by Govinda, rendered them powerless against the spell of love. Some gopīs, unable to leave their homes, remained within, but their minds were absorbed in thoughts of Krishna. With closed eyes, they meditated on him alone. Tormented by the unbearable pain of separation, their intense suffering washed away all inauspiciousness. Through meditation, they attained union with the infallible Lord, and by that bliss, all misfortune was dispelled. Having come together with the Supreme Self—even with the attitude of lovers—they at once cast off their bondage to the modes of nature, their material attachments falling away like a discarded garment. Hearing this, King Parīkṣit asked, “O sage, the women of Vraja knew Krishna as their beloved, not as Brahman. How could their attachment to his qualities bring about the cessation of the modes of nature?” Śuka replied, “O King, this has 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 all, the Supreme Lord—imperishable, immeasurable, beyond the modes, yet the soul of all qualities—manifests himself. Those who constantly direct their desire, anger, fear, affection, unity, or friendship toward Hari become absorbed in him. Therefore, do not be astonished. It is by Krishna, the unborn master of all yogic powers, that such liberation is attained.” Meanwhile, the women of Vraja approached Krishna. The Lord, foremost among speakers, greeted them with charming words, yet his speech was designed to test their devotion and delude their minds. The Blessed Lord said, “Welcome, O most fortunate ones! How may I please you? Is all well in Vraja? What brings you here tonight? This night is fearsome, haunted by wild creatures. Return to Vraja, O slender-waisted women; 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 them anxiety. You have seen the forest adorned with flowers, brightened by the moon, and the Yamunā, whose breeze stirs the budding trees. Now, do not delay—return to your 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. But for women, the highest duty is to serve their husbands, 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 a man other than their husband 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 stern words from Govinda, the cowherd women were deeply distressed, their hopes shattered, and they fell into overwhelming anxiety. Wiping their faces, their lips parched by sighs, they traced patterns in the dust with their feet. Their breasts were stained with tears mingled with the red of their ornaments. Silent, weighed down by sorrow and longing for their beloved Krishna—having forsaken all other desires for his sake—they brushed their tear-filled eyes, and, with voices choked by emotion, spoke softly. They said, “Do not speak so cruelly, Lord! It does not befit you. Having abandoned everything, we have 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 declared that a woman’s duty is to serve her husband, children, and friends. Let it be so. Yet, O Lord, you are the true teacher of righteousness, the dearest 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 suffering? Therefore, be gracious to us, Supreme Lord—do not sever the hope we have long cherished in you, O lotus-eyed one. Our minds, happily stolen 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? O beloved, moisten us with the nectar of your lips, your laughter, glances, and sweet songs that soothe the fire in our hearts. Otherwise, consumed by the fire of separation, we will reach your feet in meditation, friend, leaving these bodies behind. O lotus-eyed one, from the moment we touched the soles of your feet—granted even for a moment to Lakṣmī, beloved of the forest-dwellers—we have not been able to stand before anyone else, so enchanted are we by you. Lakṣmī herself longed for the dust of your lotus feet, and though she gained a place on your chest, served by your attendants, she still desired it. For the sake of your glance, even other gods strive. In the same way, we too have surrendered to the dust of your feet. Therefore, be gracious to us, destroyer of suffering. We have abandoned our homes, seeking only to serve at your feet. O ornament of men, our hearts burn with intense longing for your beautiful smile and glance—grant us the service of your maidservants.” Thus, with hearts full of longing and devotion, the gopīs spoke, their love for Krishna shining brighter than the autumn moon, unwavering and pure.