Longing for Krishna, the gopīs wandered through the enchanting groves of Vṛndāvana, their hearts restless in separation. As they searched, they called out to the trees, “O Kurabaka, Aśoka, Nāga, Punnāga, Campaka—have you seen Rāma’s younger brother, whose smile humbles even the proudest maidens, pass this way?” They turned to the sacred Tulasī, beloved of Govinda’s feet and surrounded by humming bees, and asked, “O blessed one, has Acyuta, adorned with your leaves, walked by here?” They appealed to the fragrant Mālatī, Mallikā, Jāti, and Yūthikā creepers, “O friends, did Mādhava pass by, delighting you with his gentle touch?” To the great trees along the Yamunā—Cūta, Priyāla, Panasa, Āsana, Kovida, Jambu, Arka, Bilva, Bakula, Āmra, Kadamba, Nīpa, and all the rest—they pleaded, “O trees, our hearts are empty. Please show us the path Krishna has taken.” In wonder, they addressed the Earth herself, “O Earth, what austerities have you performed that you now shine, your hairs standing on end in joy from the touch of Keśava’s feet? Is it the touch of his feet, his mighty deeds, or the embrace you once received from his Boar incarnation that fills you with such bliss?” They wondered aloud, “Has Acyuta come here to meet his beloved, delighting her senses with his body and gaze? The fragrance of his garland, stained with the kuṅkuma from his beloved’s breasts, is wafting on the breeze.” They imagined Krishna, his lotus hand resting on his beloved’s shoulder, wandering through the forest, followed by intoxicated bees and Tulasī. “Do the trees bow to him as he passes, glancing at them with affection?” Turning to the creepers, they said, “Ask these vines, who embrace the trees with their arms; surely, touched by his hand, they shiver in delight.” Speaking thus, their minds overcome with longing, the gopīs, mad with love and distressed in their search, began to enact Krishna’s playful pastimes, each absorbed in thoughts of him. One gopī, imitating Pūtanā, offered her breast to Krishna to be suckled; another, pretending to be a crying child, was comforted; another, acting as the cart-demon, was struck by a foot. One, playing the part of a demon, seized a companion who was acting as Krishna; yet another, imitating the sounds of the cowherd village, dragged someone by the foot in play. Some played the roles of Krishna and Balarāma, tending cows; another pretended to be the calf-demon and was defeated; one took the role of the crane-demon. Another, calling out to a friend in the distance as Krishna would, played the flute and sported about, while the others praised her, saying, “Well done!” One gopī placed her arm on another’s shoulder as they walked, declaring, “I am Krishna—see my graceful gait,” her mind wholly absorbed in him. Another said, “Do not fear the wind or rain; I have arranged for your protection,” and tried to cover her friend with her garment, using only one hand. One climbed upon another, stepping on her head, and said, “Wicked one, go away! I am born as the punisher of the wicked!” Another cried out, “O cowherds, see this terrible forest fire! Close your eyes and I will quickly ensure your safety.” A slender one, tying her friend to a mortar with a garland, said, “I am binding the butter thief who broke the pots and stole the clarified butter!” The other, frightened, covered her eyes and feigned fear. As they questioned the creepers and trees about Krishna, they noticed footprints in the forest—the marks of the Supreme Soul. “These footprints, so clearly visible, belong to the great son of Nanda,” they said, pointing out the symbols of the banner, lotus, thunderbolt, goad, and barleycorn impressed in the dust. Following those footprints, the gopīs pressed on. Soon they saw that some footprints were closely joined with those of another—those of a bride. Distressed, they exclaimed, “Whose footprints are these, walking with the son of Nanda, her arm upon his shoulder, just as an elephant cow is embraced by her mate?” They realized, “Surely, this one has worshiped Hari, the Supreme Lord, for Govinda has left us all and led her away in secret.” They gazed at the creepers and plants, blessed by the dust from Govinda’s lotus feet—dust which even Brahmā, Śiva, and Lakṣmī place upon their heads for their highest good. But they grew anxious, seeing the beloved’s footprints pressed deeply into the earth. “Her footprints disturb us, for Acyuta has taken only her away and enjoys her lips in secret. Her footprints disappear—surely, her tender feet were pained by grass and sprouts, and her beloved carried her in his arms.” “See here,” they pointed, “these footprints are pressed even deeper—Krishna, overwhelmed by love, is carrying his beloved. Here, the great-souled one set her down to pick flowers. Look, at every step, the marks of his feet are clear.” They saw where Krishna had arranged her hair as she sat, lovingly adorning her tresses. The gopīs marveled: “Though self-satisfied and complete in himself, he enjoyed with her, revealing the wretchedness of lovers and the fickleness of women.” Speaking thus, the gopīs, bewildered, wandered on—while the one whom Krishna had led away, leaving the others behind in the forest, was left alone. That gopī, considering herself the most fortunate of all, thought, “Having abandoned the others who desire him, my beloved now worships me alone.” But after a time, her pride swelling, she said to Keshava, “I can walk no further; take me wherever your heart desires.” Krishna replied, “Climb onto my shoulder.” But as she reached for him, Krishna vanished, leaving her alone to lament. She cried out, “Alas, Lord, beloved, dearest! Where are you, mighty-armed one? O friend, show yourself to your poor servant!” Meanwhile, as the gopīs continued their search, they found their friend, bewildered and distressed by separation from her beloved. Hearing her story—her pride, Krishna’s response, and her humiliation—they were filled with wonder. They pressed deeper into the forest, searching as long as the moonlight lasted. But when darkness fell, the women turned back. Their thoughts, speech, and actions were all absorbed in Krishna; they imitated him, sang only of his virtues, and forgot their own homes. Returning again to the banks of the Yamunā, their minds fixed on Krishna, they gathered together, longing for his return, and sang of him. Then, O King, overcome by anger in their separation, they released fire and wind from their mouths, as if to scorch the earth, like the Samvartaka fire at the end of the age.