As the moonlight bathed the blossoming forest and the Yamunā’s breeze played gently among the budding trees, the cowherd women had come to Krishna, drawn by love and longing. Krishna, seeing them, spoke with a gentle firmness: “You have witnessed the beauty of the night and the river, but now, do not delay. Return to your village and serve your husbands faithfully. The calves and children cry for you—go, feed and care for them.” He paused, understanding their hearts. “Or perhaps, compelled by your deep affection for Me, you have come here. This is only natural, for all beings are drawn to Me. Yet, for women, the highest duty is to serve their husbands sincerely, to care for their relatives, and to nourish their children. Even if a husband is unfortunate, old, dull, sick, or poor, he should not be abandoned by those who seek virtue. Union with another brings no heaven, only disgrace, meager and painful results, and fear—it is condemned everywhere. True devotion arises by hearing, seeing, meditating upon, or singing about Me—not by physical proximity. Therefore, return to your homes.” Hearing these words, Śuka narrates, the gopīs’ hopes were shattered. Deep distress overcame them; anxiety flooded their hearts. Wiping their faces, their lips faded by sighs, tracing the ground with their feet, their breasts stained with tears mingled with the red of their ornaments, they stood silent, weighed down by sorrow, longing for Krishna, who had turned away all desires for his sake. Brushing their tear-dimmed eyes, their voices choked with emotion, the devoted ones spoke a little. The gopīs pleaded, “Do not speak so cruelly, Lord! 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. 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 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 continues: Hearing their distressed words, Krishna, 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, wearing the Vaijayantī garland, Krishna wandered through the forest, adorning it. 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. Yet, 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 bows to Krishna, the Supreme Person, who, like a bee extracting the essence of the Vedas, imparted the nectar of knowledge and realization to his servants, removing 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 spoke: “O best of men, your question has thus been answered; now, listen attentively as I reveal to you this secret, well-determined matter. Picture a small, wandering creature seeking shelter among the gentle, drawn 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 replied, “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. By whatever actions a person acts here, abandoning this body, with another body he enjoys the results of those actions there. This is the debate heard among those who know the Vedas: the actions performed are said to be hidden, not manifest.” Nārada explained, “By whatever actions one acts, by those very actions he enjoys the results in the next life, without interruption, through the subtle body and mind.” Thus, the story flows from the gopīs’ longing and Krishna’s teaching, through the wisdom imparted by Nārada, illuminating the path of devotion, duty, and the subtle workings of karma.