The gopīs, their hearts overflowing with devotion, gazed upon Krishna with longing and reverence. They beheld his face, framed by soft locks of hair, his earrings shining against his cheeks, and the nectar of his gentle lips. His smiling glances filled them with joy, and his strong arms, ever ready to grant fearlessness, drew them close. Upon his chest, the sole abode of Lakṣmī, their desires found their only fulfillment: to be his devoted servants. They wondered aloud, “What woman in all the three worlds could resist being captivated by your sweet, melodious words and your divine deeds? Even the cows, birds, trees, and deer are enchanted by your beauty—who would not be moved by such a vision?” It was clear to them that Krishna had appeared in Vraja to remove fear and suffering, just as the primeval Lord, protector of the gods, would do. “O friend of the afflicted,” they pleaded, “place your lotus hand upon the burning breasts and heads of your maidservants, soothing our pain.” Hearing these heartfelt words, the Lord of yogis, though self-satisfied and complete in himself, smiled kindly upon the gopīs. Their faces blossomed with joy at his glance, and he, Acyuta, radiant with a smile as pure as white jasmine buds, shone among them like the moon surrounded by stars. Amidst hundreds of women, Krishna, adorned with the Vaijayantī garland, sang and was sung to as he wandered through the forest, making the woods themselves more beautiful by his presence. Together, they entered the riverbank, delighting in the cool, sandy shore. There, Krishna sported with the gopīs, enjoying the gentle, fragrant breeze that carried the scent of lotuses. With outstretched arms, embraces, playful struggles, loosened girdles, and the soft touch of nails, with laughter, glances, and smiles, Krishna awakened the god of love, bringing delight to the beautiful women of Vraja. Having received such favor from the great-souled Lord, the gopīs, their hearts swelling with pride, considered themselves the most fortunate beings on earth. But perceiving their pride, which had arisen from their good fortune, Keśava vanished from their midst at once, wishing to pacify and ultimately bless them. Thus ends the twenty-ninth chapter of the first half of the Tenth Canto of the Śrīmad Bhāgavatam Mahāpurāṇa, the scripture for the supreme paramahaṃsas. I bow to that Supreme Person, Krishna, who, like a bee drawing out the essence of the Vedas, imparted the nectar of knowledge and realization to his servants, removing their fear of worldly existence. Hari is the soul of all embodied beings, the Lord of nature himself; his feet are the refuge, the source of safety for people in this world. He alone is the dearest Self, from whom not even the slightest fear arises. One who knows this is truly wise, and such a wise one is the teacher—Hari himself. Nārada then spoke: “O best of men, your question has thus been answered. Now, as I speak, listen attentively to this secret, well-established truth. Imagine a small, wandering creature seeking shelter among the gentle. Entranced by the sweet songs of the six-legged bees, he moves forward, greedy for their sound, heedless of the wolves ahead—those insatiable dangers—while behind him, a wounded deer, struck by the hunter’s arrow, gives chase. The meaning is this: Among gentle women, the shelter of the hermitage is as faint as a flower’s fragrance. Seeking fleeting pleasure born of desire, one becomes absorbed in union, the mind fixed there. The alluring words of women, like the songs of bees, captivate the ears. Ahead, like a pack of wolves, time devours one’s lifespan, day and night, as one enjoys life at home. Meanwhile, unseen, the hunter—Death—strikes with his arrow. O King, recognize this self whose heart is pierced. Therefore, observe the behavior of the deer and restrain your mind within your heart, as a charioteer holds the reins. Abandon the company of women and the songs of the herd, and gradually seek 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. If teachers know this, why do they not explain it?” He continued, “My great doubt has been dispelled by your words. Even sages are bewildered where the senses cannot reach. By whatever actions a person performs here, abandoning this body, with another body he enjoys the results of those actions there. This is the debate among those who know the Vedas: the actions performed are said to be hidden, not manifest.” Nārada answered, “By whatever actions one performs, 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, from which rebirth occurs. Just as the mind is inferred from the activities of the senses, so too are actions from previous bodies recognized by the movements of the mind. With this body, one may not have experienced, seen, or heard certain things; yet, at some time, 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. All objects accessible to the mind and senses come and go repeatedly in accordance with sequence; all people share this experience. When the mind is fixed solely in sattva, dwelling near the Lord, then darkness, like the moon’s shadow, is dispelled and this is illuminated. The notion of ‘I’ and ‘mine’ is interrupted in the person as long as the arrangement of intellect, mind, senses, and qualities—which is beginningless—persists. During sleep, fainting, and suffering, due to disruption of breath, the awareness ‘I am’ does not arise—even in the burning of death. In the womb and in childhood, due to immaturity, the elevenfold subtle body is not manifest, just as the moon is hidden in the new phase. Even when the object is absent, the cycle does not cease; as one contemplates objects, misfortune comes in dreams, though they are unreal. Thus, the fivefold subtle body, expanded in three and sixteen ways, when joined with consciousness, is called the living being. By this, the person takes up and abandons bodies, and through this experiences joy, sorrow, fear, pain, and happiness. Just as a leech on grass and water neither departs nor remains, so a person does not abandon identification with the body, even at the time of death. The unseen does not perish like the seen, but exists otherwise, like a dream; what has been, what is, and what will be, all sleep day and night.