As the night in Vrindavan unfolded, one among the gopīs, feeling herself exalted above all the others, thought, “My beloved has now left behind all the other gopīs who long for him—he worships me alone.” Filled with pride at Krishna’s singular attention, she walked with him deeper into the forest. When her feet grew weary, she turned to Keshava and, with a sense of entitlement, said, “I cannot walk any further; carry me wherever your heart desires.” Krishna, her beloved, replied with gentle affection, “Climb onto my shoulder.” But in that very moment, he vanished from her sight, leaving her alone, bewildered and stricken with sorrow. Overcome with longing and grief, she cried out into the night, “Alas, Lord! Beloved! Where are you, my mighty-armed one? O friend, show yourself to your poor servant!” Meanwhile, the other gopīs, searching the forest paths for Krishna, did not know where he had gone. Eventually, they found their friend, lost and distraught in her separation from him. Listening to her tale—of her pride, Krishna’s response, and her humiliation at being left alone—the gopīs were filled with wonder at the mysterious ways of their beloved. Together, they pressed on into the forest, searching as long as the moonlight guided their way. But as darkness fell, they had no choice but to turn back. Yet their minds remained absorbed in Krishna: they spoke only of him, imitated his actions, and sang his praises. So deep was their devotion that they forgot even their own homes. Returning to the banks of the Yamunā, their hearts fixed on Krishna, they gathered together, longing for his return, and sang songs devoted to him. In the intensity of their longing, they felt a fiery anger arise within them, as if their very breath could scorch the earth like the cosmic fire at the end of time. Witnessing the trees reduced to ashes by this fury, Brahmā himself appeared, and with wise counsel, pacified the sons of Barhiṣmat. The remaining trees, trembling with fear, gave their daughter in marriage to the Pracetas, just as Svayambhū had instructed. By Brahmā’s command, the Pracetas accepted Māriṣā, and from her—due to a great offense—was born the progenitor of living beings. When the time of the Cākṣuṣa Manvantara arrived, at the dawn of creation, Dakṣa, compelled by destiny, began to create the desired beings. He shone with a brilliance surpassing all others, and by his own skill and actions, was called Dakṣa, the able one. The Lord, who is without beginning, appointed Dakṣa and others as the lords of creation, entrusting them with the protection of all beings. Meanwhile, on the banks of the Yamunā, the gopīs poured out their hearts in song. “Vraja flourishes because of your birth, Krishna,” they sang. “Lakshmi herself dwells here. Beloved, let your devotees be seen in all directions; we, whose lives depend on you, search for you everywhere. “O noble one, on this autumn night, your glance surpasses even the beauty of the lotus. Lord of love, we are your unpaid servants—O giver of boons, is it right for you to leave us here to die of longing? “You have always protected us, O supreme one—from poisoned waters, from the serpent-demon, from storms, lightning, fire, from the son of the rain-god, and from dangers on every side. “You are not just the delight of the gopīs—you are the inner witness in the hearts of all beings. At Brahmā’s request, you appeared in the Sātvata clan to protect the world. “O foremost of the Vṛṣṇis, your feet are a shelter for the faithful, freeing us from fear. 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, accept us as your servants and show us your beautiful, lotus-like face. “Destroyer of sin, you are the friend of those who graze the cows, the abode of fortune. Even the serpent Kaliya offered his hoods to your lotus feet—place those feet on our breasts and ease the pain in our hearts. “Your sweet words and wisdom enchant us, O lotus-eyed one. Nourish us, O hero, with the nectar of your lips. “The stories of your deeds are life itself for the suffering; praised by poets, they destroy sin and bring auspiciousness and wealth. Those who spread your stories on earth are truly generous. “Your laughter, your loving glances, your playful acts, and your meditations are all auspicious. Your secret words, which touch our hearts, leave our minds restless. “When you wander from Vraja, herding the cows, your lotus feet tread on stones and grass—our minds, aching with longing, follow you everywhere, beloved. “At dusk, with your blue hair, your face adorned with forest flowers and dust, you appear again and again, O hero, stirring love in our hearts. “Your lotus feet, worshipped by Lakshmi and worthy of meditation in adversity, bring peace to all—place them upon our breasts and relieve our pain. “Your lips, touched by the melodious flute, increase our love and banish all sorrow, making us forget every other passion—O hero, grant us the nectar of your lips. “When you wander the forest by day, for those who cannot see you, a moment stretches into an age. Your curly hair and beautiful face are hidden from us by our own eyelids. “We have abandoned husbands, sons, family, brothers, and relatives—we, the last ones, have come to you, O infallible one. Knowing your path and enchanted by your song, what woman would return home at night? “Your secret words, your loving glances, your smiling face, and the splendor of your broad chest, O abode of fortune, repeatedly bewilder our minds. “O embodiment of auspiciousness for Vraja, your presence alone destroys all suffering and brings blessings to the world. Yet, if you must, withdraw even slightly from those who long for you, for your absence is the only cure for the pain of separation among your own. “O beloved, we gently place your beautiful lotus feet upon our breasts, though we fear their hardness. Is this why you wander the forest—do your feet not feel pain from the sharp stones? Our minds, sustained by your life, never stray from you.” Thus ended their heartfelt song, known as the Song of the Gopīs, in the great Purāṇa, the Śrīmad Bhāgavatam, scripture of the supreme renunciates. In another time, when Krishna departed from the world, the wives of Rāma embraced his body and entered the fire. The wives of Vasudeva, as well as the daughters-in-law of Hari, including those of Pradyumna, followed, and the wives of Krishna, led by Rukmiṇī, entered the fire as well, united in spirit with their beloved. Arjuna, overwhelmed by grief at the loss of his dearest friend Krishna, found solace in singing songs and recalling wise sayings about him. He performed the proper funeral rites for all his relatives whose lineage had ended, arranging everything in due order for those who had fallen. Then, in a moment, the ocean rose and flooded the city of Dvārakā, abandoned by Hari, sparing only the splendid abode of the Lord himself.