O Earth, what great austerities must you have performed, that you shine so radiantly, your very hairs standing on end in joy when touched by the festival of Keśava’s lotus feet! Is it the touch of His divine feet, the memory of His mighty deeds, or the loving embrace of His Boar incarnation that fills you with such bliss? Or, perhaps, Acyuta Himself has come to visit you, His beloved, delighting your senses with the touch of His body and the glance of His eyes. The fragrance of the garland worn by the chief of the Yadu clan, stained with the kuṅkuma from His beloved’s breasts, drifts through the air, announcing His presence. With His lotus hand placed gently on the shoulder of His beloved, Rāma’s younger brother wanders here, followed by intoxicated bees and the sacred Tulasī. Do the trees bow before Him as He passes, glancing at them with affection? Ask these creepers, who embrace the trees with their arms; surely, touched by His hand, they shiver with delight, their joy visible in the horripilation that covers them. Thus, in their longing and madness, the gopīs, distressed in their search for Kṛṣṇa, began to imitate His playful acts, each one wholly absorbed in thoughts of Him. One, playing the role of Pūtanā, approached and offered her breast to Kṛṣṇa to suckle; another, pretending to be a crying child, was comforted; yet another, acting as the cart-demon, was struck by a playful foot. Another took the part of a demon and seized one who was playing Kṛṣṇa, while yet another, imitating the sound of the cowherd settlement, dragged her friend by the foot in play. Some, acting as Kṛṣṇa and Rāma, played as cowherds; one played the calf-demon and was defeated, while another took the role of the crane-demon. One called out to a distant friend as Kṛṣṇa would, following after her, playing the flute and sporting about, while the others praised her, saying, “Well done!” Another, placing her arm on a friend’s shoulder as she walked, declared, “I am Kṛṣṇa—see my graceful gait,” her mind lost in thoughts of Him. “Do not fear the wind or the rain; I have arranged for your protection,” said one, trying to cover her friend with her garment, using only one hand. One climbed upon another, stepping on her head, and proclaimed, “Wicked one, go away! I am born as the punisher of the wicked!” There, one called out, “O cowherds, see this terrible forest fire! Close your eyes, and I will quickly ensure your safety.” A slender one, tying another with a garland to a mortar, 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. In this way, while questioning the creepers and trees of Vṛndāvana about Kṛṣṇa, the gopīs pointed out the footprints of the Supreme Soul in the forest. These footprints, clearly marked with banners, lotuses, thunderbolts, goads, and barleycorns, belonged to the great son of Nanda. Following the various footprints, the women pressed ahead. When they saw a set of footprints closely joined with those of a bride, they spoke in distress: “Whose footprints are these, walking with the son of Nanda, her arm placed on his shoulder like an elephant cow embraced by her mate?” “Surely, this one has worshipped the Lord, Hari, the Supreme, for Govinda has left us all and led her away in secret!” they exclaimed. “How blessed are these creepers and plants, dusted by the pollen from Govinda’s lotus feet, which even Brahmā, Śiva, and the goddess Lakṣmī place upon their heads for their highest good!” But then, seeing that the bride’s footprints were pressed deeply and disappeared, the gopīs lamented, “Her tender feet, pained by grass and sprouts, must have caused her beloved to lift her up. Krishna, burdened by love, is carrying his beloved. Here, see, he set her down to pick flowers for her; at every step, the marks of his feet are clearly seen.” “Here, he arranged her hair as she sat. Though self-satisfied and undivided in himself, he enjoyed with her, showing the wretchedness of lovers and the fickleness of women.” As they spoke in this way, the gopīs wandered, bewildered. The gopī whom Krishna had led away, leaving the others in the forest, began to think herself the most fortunate of all women: “Having abandoned the gopīs who desire him, my beloved now worships me alone.” But, proud, she said to Keshava, “I can walk no further; take me wherever your heart desires.” Krishna replied, “Climb onto my shoulder.” But then, in an instant, Krishna vanished, and the bride was left alone, lamenting, “Alas, Lord, beloved, dearest! Where are you, where are you, mighty-armed one? O friend, show yourself to your poor servant!” As the gopīs searched for the path of the Lord, not knowing where he had gone, they found their friend, bewildered and distressed in her separation. Hearing her account—her pride, Mādhava’s response, and her humiliation—they marveled greatly. They entered the forest, searching as long as the moonlight lasted, but when darkness fell, the women turned back. Their minds absorbed in him, their speech about him, their actions imitating him, their very selves devoted to him, singing only his virtues, they forgot their own homes. Again, they returned to the bank of the Yamunā, their thoughts fixed on Krishna. There, gathered together, longing for his arrival, they sang of Krishna. Then, O King, out of anger, they released fire and wind from their mouths, as if to make the earth barren, like the Samvartaka at the end of the age. Seeing the trees being reduced to ashes, Brahmā arrived and pacified the sons of Barhiṣmat with wise counsel. The remaining trees, frightened, gave their daughter to the Pracetas as instructed by Svayambhū. By Brahmā’s command, they accepted Māriṣā, from whom, due to a great offense, was born the progenitor of beings. When the interval of the Cākṣuṣa Manvantara arrived, at the dawn of creation, as time swept forward, impelled by destiny, Dakṣa created the desired living beings.