Śuka continued his narration: When the cowherd women of Vraja heard Govinda speak such harsh words, their hopes were dashed. Overwhelmed by sorrow, they fell into deep distress and anxiety, their hearts aching with longing for Krishna. Their faces were wet with tears, their lips parched and faded from sighing. With their feet, they traced patterns in the earth, their breasts stained by tears mingled with the red of their ornaments. Heavy with grief and unable to return to their homes, they stood in silence, brushing away the tears that dimmed their vision. Their voices were choked with emotion, but, devoted as they were, they managed to speak a little. “O Lord,” the gopīs pleaded, “do not speak so cruelly! Such words do not suit you. We have abandoned everything and come to your feet. Cherish your devotees—do not turn us away with harshness, just as the Supreme Person never abandons those who seek liberation.” They continued, “You, who know the path of dharma, have declared that a woman’s duty is to serve her husband, children, and friends. So be it. Yet, O teacher of righteousness, you are truly the dearest, the very soul and friend of all living beings.” “The wise place their love in you, the eternal beloved. What use are husbands, sons, and others who only bring sorrow? Therefore, be gracious to us, O Supreme Lord—do not sever the hope we have long cherished in you, O lotus-eyed one.” “Our minds, joyfully stolen away by you, refuse to return to our homes; our hands will not tend to household tasks, nor will our feet move from your feet. How can we return to Vraja, or what else can we do?” “O beloved, moisten us with the nectar of your lips, with your laughter, your glances, and your sweet songs that soothe the fire in our hearts. Otherwise, consumed by the flames of separation, we will reach your feet in meditation, 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 herself, beloved by the dwellers of the forest—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, surrounded by your attendants, she still desired it. Even the gods strive for your glance. We too have surrendered to the dust of your feet.” “Therefore, be gracious to us, O destroyer of suffering. We have left our homes behind, seeking only to serve at your feet. O ornament of men, our hearts burn with longing for your beautiful smile and glance—grant us the service of your maidservants.” “Seeing your face, framed by curling locks, 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? Even cows, birds, trees, and deer delight in your beauty—who would not be moved?” “It is clear 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 continued: Hearing the distress in their words, the Lord of yogis, though ever self-satisfied, smiled kindly and delighted in the gopīs’ devotion. Surrounded by those women, whose faces blossomed with joy at his glance, Acyuta shone among them, radiant with a smile as bright as a pair of white jasmine buds, like the moon shining among the stars. As the chief among hundreds of women, Krishna sang and was sung to, adorned with the Vaijayantī garland, wandering through the forest and beautifying it by his presence. He entered the riverbank with the gopīs, sporting with them on the cool, sandy shore, 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 women, proud of their fortune, considered themselves the most blessed on earth. But seeing their pride, born from their good fortune, Keśava vanished from their midst at once, seeking 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. 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, removing the fear of worldly existence. Hari is the soul of all embodied beings, the very Lord of nature; his feet are the refuge from which safety arises for all 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. Then Nārada spoke: “O best of men, your question has thus been answered. Now, listen as I reveal a 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 the fragrance of a flower—very slight. Seeking fleeting pleasure born of desire, one becomes absorbed in union, 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, while one enjoys life at home. Meanwhile, unseen, the hunter—Death—strikes with his arrow. O King, 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?” “O brāhmaṇa, 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 in this life, abandoning this body, with another body he enjoys the results of those actions in the next.” “This is the debate among those who know the Vedas: the actions performed are said to be hidden, not manifest.” Nārada replied, “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.” “Just as a man leaves behind a sleeping, breathing body, so does he enjoy the results of actions, either with that body or with another.” “Whatever this person, saying ‘I am this,’ grasps with his mind, he attains the results of those actions, by which rebirth occurs.” “Just as the mind is inferred from the activities of both types of senses, so too are actions from previous bodies recognized by the movements of the mind.” “With this body, one may not have seen or heard or experienced certain things, yet at times, that form may be perceived, as it is within oneself.” “Therefore, O King, the embodied soul attains such a form arising from the body; the meaning not directly experienced cannot be grasped by the mind.” “The mind alone reveals to a person the previous forms, and likewise those that will be, as well as those that will not be. May you be blessed.” “Here, sometimes, what has not been seen or heard appears in the mind; thus, one should infer according to place, time, and action.