As the gopīs wandered through the moonlit forest, searching for Krishna, they came upon a spot where it seemed a lover had once arranged the hair of his beloved. The gentle traces on the earth and the fragrance in the air told them that, surely, while she was seated here, he had adorned her tresses with his own hands. Though Krishna was self-satisfied and complete in himself, he had delighted in the company of his beloved, revealing both the helplessness of those lost in love and the fickle nature of women’s hearts. The gopīs, bewildered and longing, roamed the forest, trying to piece together what had happened. Among them was the gopī whom Krishna had led away, leaving the others behind in the woods. This gopī, feeling singled out by Krishna’s affection, grew proud, thinking, “He has abandoned all the other gopīs who desire him, and now my beloved worships me alone.” When they reached a certain spot in the forest, her pride swelled, and she said to Krishna, Keshava, “I can walk no further; take me wherever your heart desires.” Krishna, smiling, replied, “Climb onto my shoulder.” But as soon as she tried, Krishna vanished, leaving her alone in the forest, her heart plunged into sorrow. She cried out in anguish, “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 Krishna’s trail, not knowing where he had gone, they found their friend in a state of confusion and grief, distraught from her separation. Hearing her story—her pride, Krishna’s gentle response, and her humiliation—they were filled with wonder at the mysterious ways of love and the Lord. They pressed deeper into the forest, wandering as long as the moonlight guided them. But as darkness fell, the women, weary and heartsick, turned back. Yet their minds were utterly absorbed in Krishna. Their speech was only about him, their actions imitated his, and their very selves were devoted to him. Singing only his virtues, they forgot all thoughts of home. Once more, they gathered on the banks of the Yamunā, their thoughts fixed on Krishna, longing for his return. There, united in yearning, they sang of him, pouring out their hearts in song. In another time, in a different tale of cosmic consequence, anger flared so fiercely among the sons of Barhiṣmat that fire and wind seemed to issue from their mouths, threatening to burn the earth like the Samvartaka fire at the end of the age. Trees were reduced to ashes, and seeing this destruction, Brahmā himself appeared, calming the sons of Barhiṣmat with wise counsel. The surviving trees, frightened, offered their daughter to the Pracetas, just as Svayambhū had directed. By Brahmā’s command, the Pracetas accepted Māriṣā, and from her, due to a great offense, was born the progenitor of all beings. When the interval of the Cākṣuṣa Manvantara arrived, and creation began anew, Dakṣa, compelled by destiny, brought forth the desired beings. He, who at birth outshone all with his brilliance and skill, was called Dakṣa, the able one, for his deeds. He, without beginning, was appointed by the Supreme for the creation and protection of all creatures, made lord over all living beings. Returning to the gopīs, their song flowed from the depths of their longing hearts: “O Krishna, your birth has made Vraja flourish; Lakshmi herself dwells here because of you. Beloved, let your devotees be seen in every direction, for those whose lives depend on you search for you everywhere. O noble one, on these autumn nights, your glance steals the very beauty from the lotus’s heart. Lord of love, we are your humble servants; O giver of boons, is it right for you to let us perish here, consumed by longing? You have protected us time and again—from poisoned waters, from demons in serpent form, from storms, lightning, fire, from the wrath of the rain-god’s son, and from dangers on every side, O supreme one. You are not only the delight of the gopīs; you are the inner witness of all beings. At Brahmā’s request, you appeared in the Sātvata clan to protect the world. O chief of the Vṛṣṇis, your feet are a shelter for those who seek you, freeing them from the fear of worldly existence. Beloved, whose lotus hands grant every desire, place your auspicious touch upon our heads. O hero, remover of Vraja’s suffering, whose smile humbles even your own people, friend, accept us as your servants; let us see your beautiful lotus-like face. You destroy the sins of those who bow to you; you wander with those who graze the cows; you are the abode of fortune. Your lotus feet, worshipped by the serpent’s hoods, should rest upon our breasts and relieve our aching hearts. With sweet words and wisdom that charms the mind, O lotus-eyed one, you bewilder us. O hero, nourish us with the nectar of your lips. The nectar of your stories is life itself for the suffering; praised by poets, it removes all sin. Hearing them brings auspiciousness and wealth; those who spread your tales are truly generous. Your laughter, beloved, your loving glances, your playful acts, and your meditations are all auspicious. The secret words you speak touch our hearts and disturb our minds. When you wander from Vraja, herding the cows, O lord, your lotus-like feet tread on stones, grass, and tender sprouts; our minds, afflicted by longing, follow you wherever you go. At day’s end, with your blue hair and forest-flower face dusted by the clouds, you appear again and again, O hero, stirring love in our hearts. Your lotus feet, worshipped by Lakshmi and the ornament of the earth, are worthy of meditation in adversity and bring peace; beloved, place them upon our breasts and ease our pain. Your lips, kissed by the melodious flute, increase our love and erase all sorrow, making us forget every other passion; O hero, grant us the nectar of your lips. When you wander the forest by day, a moment without seeing you feels like an age; your curly hair and beautiful face are hidden from our dull eyes by our own eyelids. We have left behind husbands, sons, families, brothers, and relatives, enchanted by your song, knowing your path. Who among women could return home at night, O infallible one? Your secret words, the rising of love in our hearts, your smiling face, loving glances, and broad, splendid chest, O abode of fortune, repeatedly bewilder our longing minds. O embodiment of auspiciousness for all in Vraja, your presence alone destroys suffering and brings blessing. Please, if you must, withdraw even a little from those whose hearts ache for you, for your absence is the only cure for the pain of separation among your own. We gently place your beautiful lotus feet upon our breasts, even as we fear their hardness. Is this why you wander the forest? Do your feet not feel pain from sharp stones? Our minds, sustained by your life, never stray from you.” Thus the gopīs sang, their hearts overflowing with love and longing for Krishna, their beloved. So ends the Song of the Gopīs, the thirty-first chapter in the first half of the Tenth Book of the Śrīmad Bhāgavatam, the great Purāṇa, scripture of the supreme renunciates. And in another time, when the Lord departed from this world, the wives of Rāma, Vasudeva, and the daughters-in-law of Hari, including those of Pradyumna, as well as Krishna’s own wives led by Rukmiṇī, embraced his memory and entered the fire, united in spirit with their beloved.