Who among all the women in the three worlds, enchanted by your sweet, melodious words and divine deeds, could resist your charm? Even the simple creatures of Vraja—the cows, the birds, the trees, and the deer—gaze upon your beauty with delight. Who would not be captivated? Surely, you have come to Vraja to remove our fear and suffering, just as the original Lord protects the gods. O friend of the afflicted, please, place your lotus hand upon the burning hearts and heads of your maidservants, soothing their longing. Hearing the gopīs’ heartfelt words, the Lord of yogis, though ever content within himself, smiled kindly. He took delight in the devotion of the gopīs. Surrounded by these women, whose faces blossomed with joy at his glance, Krishna—Acyuta—shone among them, radiant, his smile as pure and lovely as a pair of fresh white jasmine buds. He was like the moon, brilliant among the stars. As the chief among hundreds of women, Krishna, adorned with the Vaijayantī garland, wandered through the forest, singing and being sung to, gracing the woods with his presence. Along the cool, sandy banks of the river, he sported with the gopīs, delighted by the gentle, fragrant breeze that carried the scent of blooming lotuses. With outstretched arms, embraces, playful struggles, loosened girdles, and the gentle touch of nails, accompanied by laughter, glances, and smiles, Krishna awakened the god of love in the hearts of the beautiful women of Vraja, filling them with joy. Having received such favor from the great-souled Krishna, the gopīs, full of pride, considered themselves the most fortunate women on earth. But Krishna, seeing their pride born of good fortune, vanished from their midst at once, wishing to pacify and bless them further. 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, Krishna, foremost among all, who, like a bee extracting nectar from the Vedas, imparts the sweet essence of knowledge and realization to his devotees, removing the fear of worldly existence. Hari is the soul of all embodied beings, the very Lord of nature. His feet are the true refuge, the source of safety for all people. 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—Hari Himself—is the teacher. Nārada then spoke: “O best of men, your question has been answered. Now, as I speak, listen with care to this subtle, well-determined secret. Imagine a small, wandering creature, seeking shelter among the gentle, drawn by the sweet songs of the six-legged bees, greedy for their sound. Heedless of the hungry wolves ahead, who are never satisfied, he moves forward, while behind him a deer—wounded by the hunter’s arrow—pursues him. The meaning is this: Among gentle women, the shelter of the hermitage is as faint as a flower’s scent. Seeking fleeting pleasure born of desire, one becomes absorbed in union, mind fixed on enjoyment. The alluring words of women, like the songs of bees, captivate the ear. Ahead, like a pack of wolves, time devours one’s lifespan—day and night pass 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 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, withdrawing step by step. The king then said: ‘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, ‘O brāhmaṇa, my great doubt has been dispelled by your words. Even sages are bewildered where the senses cannot reach.’ By whatever actions a person performs in this life, upon leaving the body, he enjoys the results of those actions in another body elsewhere. This is the debate among those learned in the Vedas: the actions performed are said to be hidden, not manifest. Nārada replied: ‘By whatever actions one acts, by those very actions he experiences 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 fruits of his actions, either with that body or with another. Whatever a person, thinking “I am this,” grasps with his mind, he attains the results of those actions, and thus 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 seen, heard, or experienced certain things, yet at some time, that form may be perceived within oneself. Therefore, O King, the embodied soul attains a form arising from the body; what is not directly experienced cannot be grasped by the mind. The mind alone reveals to a person the previous forms, as well as those yet to be, and even those that will never be. May you be blessed. Sometimes, things never seen or heard appear 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; and all people share this experience. When the mind is fixed solely in sattva, dwelling near the Lord, then darkness is dispelled—just as the moon’s shadow fades—and true understanding arises. The sense of “I” and “mine” is interrupted as long as the arrangement of intellect, mind, senses, and qualities—beginningless as they are—continues. During sleep, fainting, or suffering, when breath is disturbed, 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 new moon is hidden. Even when the object is absent, the cycle does not cease; contemplating objects, misfortune may come 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 fully 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. When one repeatedly contemplates actions performed by the senses, as long as ignorance persists in action, bondage arises for the non-self.