As the night descended upon the forest, its ominous form was filled with the sounds and presence of fierce creatures. Krishna, standing before the gopīs—the slender-waisted women of Vraja—spoke with gentle firmness: “This night is perilous; it is not proper for you to remain here. Return to Vraja, for your mothers, fathers, sons, brothers, and husbands are searching for you, unable to find you. Do not cause your families anxiety.” He reminded them, “You have seen the forest adorned with flowers, brightened by the moon, and the Yamunā River, whose breeze plays among the beautiful budding trees. Now, do not delay—go back to the cowherd village. Serve your husbands faithfully; the calves and children are crying for you—go, feed and milk them.” Yet Krishna’s words softened as he considered their devotion. “Or perhaps, compelled by your deep affection for Me, you have come here. This is natural, for all beings are drawn to Me. But remember, for women the highest duty is to serve their husbands sincerely, to 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.” He continued, “By hearing, seeing, meditating upon, or singing about Me, devotion arises—not so much by physical proximity. Therefore, return to your homes.” Hearing Govinda’s words, which felt harsh to their hearts, the cowherd women were devastated. Their hopes shattered, they fell into deep anxiety and distress. Wiping their faces, their lips faded and parched from sighs, they traced the ground with their feet. Their breasts were stained with tears mingled with the red of their ornaments. Silent and weighed down by sorrow, longing for their beloved Krishna, they stood, brushing their tear-dimmed eyes. Their voices choked with emotion, the devoted gopīs spoke a little. “Do not speak so cruelly, Lord!” they pleaded. “It does not befit you. Having abandoned all else, 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.” They continued, “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, in you, the teacher of righteousness, you are truly the dearest, the friend and soul of all embodied beings. Those who are 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 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? O beloved, moisten us with the nectar of your lips, with 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. Seeing your face framed by locks of hair, your earrings shining on your cheeks, the nectar of your lips, your smiling glances, your arms bestowing fearlessness, and your chest, the sole abode of Lakṣmī, we wish only to be your servants. “What woman in the three worlds, enchanted by your sweet, melodious words and divine deeds, would not be captivated? Seeing your beauty, which even cows, birds, trees, and deer behold with delight, who would not be moved? Clearly, you have appeared in Vraja to remove fear and suffering, just as the primeval Lord, protector of the gods. O friend of the afflicted, place your lotus hand on the burning breasts and heads of your maidservants.” Śuka then described how, hearing their distressed words, the Lord of yogis, though self-satisfied, smiled kindly and delighted in the gopīs. Surrounded by those women, whose faces blossomed with joy at his glance, Acyuta—radiant with a smile like a pair of white jasmine buds—shone among them like the moon among stars. As the chief of hundreds of women sang and was sung to, Krishna, adorned with the Vaijayantī garland, wandered through the forest, adorning it with his presence. Entering the riverbank with the gopīs, on the cool, sandy shore, he sported, delighted by the gentle, fragrant breeze carrying the scent of lotuses. With outstretched arms, embraces, playful struggles, loosened girdles, and the touch of nails, with laughter, glances, and smiles, Krishna aroused the god of love, delighting the beautiful women of Vraja. Having received the favor of the great-souled Lord Krishna, those proud women considered themselves to be the most fortunate on earth. But seeing their pride, born from their good fortune, Keśava disappeared from there at once, to pacify and favor them. Thus ends the twenty-ninth chapter of the first half of the Tenth Canto in the Śrīmad Bhāgavatam Mahāpurāṇa, the scripture for the supreme paramahaṃsas. Śuka then offered reverence: “I bow to that Supreme Person, the foremost, known as Krishna, who, like a bee extracting the essence of the Vedas, imparted the nectar of knowledge and realization to his servants, to remove the fear of worldly existence. Hari is the soul of all embodied beings, the Lord of nature Himself; His feet are the refuge, from which comes safety for people in this world. He alone is the dearest Self, from whom not even the slightest fear arises; he who knows this is truly wise, and such a wise one is the teacher—Hari Himself.” Nārada addressed the king: “O best of men, your question has thus been answered; now, as I speak, listen attentively to this secret, well-determined matter. A small, wandering creature, seeking shelter among the gentle, becomes attached to the sweet songs of the six-legged ones, greedy for their sound; heedless of the wolves ahead, who are never satisfied, he moves forward, while behind, a deer—wounded by the hunter’s arrow—pursues him. “The meaning is this: Among women of gentle nature, the shelter of the hermitage is like a flower’s fragrance—very slight. Seeking fleeting pleasure born of desire, one becomes absorbed in union, with the mind fixed there. Like the songs of the six-legged ones, the alluring speech of women captivates the ears. Ahead, like a pack of wolves, time devours one’s lifespan, day and night, unnoticed, as one enjoys life at home. Meanwhile, unseen, the hunter—Death—strikes with his arrow. O King, you should see this self, whose heart is pierced. “Therefore, observe the behavior of the deer and restrain your own mind within your heart, as a charioteer holds the reins. Abandon the company of women and the songs of the herd, and gradually take refuge in the shelter of the Swan—be satisfied and withdraw step by step.” The king then said, “O brāhmaṇa, I have heard and reflected on what the Lord has spoken. Why do the teachers not explain this, if they know it? My great doubt has been dispelled by your words. Even sages are bewildered where the senses do not reach.” Nārada concluded, “By whatever actions a person acts here, abandoning this body, with another body he enjoys the results of those actions there.” Thus the story flowed, revealing the divine play of Krishna, the longing of the gopīs, and the profound teachings imparted to seekers of truth.