As the cycle of creation unfolded, during the interval of the Cākṣuṣa Manvantara, destiny moved Dakṣa to bring forth new beings. At the very dawn of this creation, Dakṣa shone brighter than all, radiating his own brilliance, and through his skillful deeds earned the name Dakṣa, the able one. He who is without beginning—Lord Himself—appointed Dakṣa and others as lords of all creatures, entrusting them with the creation and protection of living beings. In Vraja, the gopīs sang their yearning song to their beloved Kṛṣṇa. They rejoiced that Vraja flourished more because of his birth, for Lakshmi herself dwelled there. They prayed that his devotees might be seen in every direction, for all whose lives depended on him sought him ceaselessly. In the crisp autumn night, his gaze stole the beauty of the lotus’s heart. "Lord of love," they cried, "we are your unpaid servants; is it right for you to abandon us here?" They remembered how Kṛṣṇa had protected them from countless dangers: from poison in the waters, from the serpent-demon, from storms, lightning, fire, and the wrath of the rain-god’s son. Again and again, he had rescued them from peril. Yet, they knew he was not only their delight, but the inner witness of all embodied souls. Requested by Brahma for the world’s protection, he had appeared in the clan of the Sātvatas. "O foremost of the Vṛṣṇis," they pleaded, "your feet are a shelter for all who approach, freeing them from fear. Beloved, whose lotus hands grant every desire, place your auspicious hand upon our heads." They called him the hero, remover of Vraja’s suffering, whose smile destroyed the pride of his own people. "Accept us as your servants; let us behold your beautiful, lotus-like face." They praised him as the destroyer of sin for those who bow, the companion of those who graze the cows, the abode of fortune. His lotus feet had been offered by the serpent’s hoods; they begged him to place them on their breasts and relieve their heart’s pain. His sweet speech, charming words, and wisdom delighted their minds, yet bewildered them. "Nourish us with the nectar of your lips," they implored. The gopīs extolled the nectar of his stories, which is life for the suffering, praised by poets, removing sin, bestowing auspiciousness and wealth. Those who spread these stories are truly generous. His laughter, loving glances, playful ways, and meditation were all auspicious. Secret conversations that touched their hearts disturbed their minds. When Kṛṣṇa wandered from Vraja, herding the cows, his lotus feet trod upon stones, grass, and sprouts. Their minds, afflicted by longing, followed him. At day’s end, he would appear with blue hair, a face adorned with forest flowers, covered in dust, repeatedly showing himself and stirring love in their hearts. His lotus feet, worshipped by Lakshmi, ornament of the earth, worthy of meditation in adversity, brought peace. They begged him to place them upon their breasts and relieve their pain. His lips, kissed by the melodious flute, increased love, destroyed sorrow, and made people forget all other passions. "Grant us the nectar of your lips," they prayed. When he wandered the forest by day, a moment became an age for those who did not see him. His curly hair and beautiful face were hidden from their dull eyes by their own eyelids. Abandoning husbands, sons, families, brothers, and relatives, the gopīs, the last ones, had come to him, the infallible one. Enchanted by his song, knowing his path, which woman would return home at night? The secret conversations, the rising love in their hearts, his smiling face, loving glances, and the splendor of his broad chest repeatedly caused their minds to long and become bewildered. "O embodiment of auspiciousness for the dwellers of Vraja," they cried, "your presence alone destroys all suffering and brings universal blessing. Please, withdraw—even slightly—from those whose hearts are afflicted by longing for you, for your absence is the cure for the pain of separation among your own people." They gently placed his beautiful lotus feet upon their breasts, though fearful of their hardness. "Is it for this reason you wander the forest? Do your feet not feel pain from walking on sharp stones? Our minds, sustained by your life, do not stray from you." Thus ended 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. After Kṛṣṇa’s departure, the wives of Rāma embraced his body and entered the fire. The wives of Vasudeva, the daughters-in-law of Hari—including those of Pradyumna—and the wives of Kṛṣṇa, led by Rukmiṇī, all entered the fire, united in spirit with him. Arjuna, overwhelmed by separation from his dear friend Kṛṣṇa, consoled himself with songs and wise sayings about Kṛṣṇa. He performed proper funeral rites for his relatives whose lineage had been lost, arranging them in due order for those who had been slain. The ocean flooded Dvārakā, which had been abandoned by Hari, in a moment, O King, save for the splendid abode of the Lord. There, Lord Madhusūdana is eternally present, removing all evil by remembrance, the most auspicious among all auspicious things. Arjuna, taking the surviving women, children, and elders, brought them to Indraprastha and installed Vajra as king. Hearing of the death of their friends, Arjuna’s grandfathers made you, O King, the bearer of the lineage, and all departed on the great path. Whoever, with faith, recounts the deeds and birth of Viṣṇu, Lord of the gods, is freed from all sins. By hearing and reciting the charming descents, heroic deeds, and childhood exploits of Hari, whether here or elsewhere, one attains supreme devotion upon the path of the highest renunciates. Yet, those who remain attached to the body, pride, increasing anger, and desire, engage in conflict with others who are similarly desirous, bringing ruin upon themselves. The ignorant soul, bound to the body composed of five elements, clings repeatedly to the false notions of ‘I’ and ‘mine,’ and this misguided thinking produces faulty intellect. If a creature follows the path of the wicked, seeking only satisfaction of the genitals and belly, he indulges and enters darkness as before. Truth, purity, compassion, silence, intelligence, fortune, modesty, fame, forgiveness, tranquility, self-control, and prosperity—all these diminish through association with those who lack them. One should not associate with those who are restless, foolish, broken in spirit, or unsaintly, nor with those who are pitiable or women who are like playthings. Delusion and bondage do not arise so much from association with others as from association with women, and even more so from association with those attached to women. The lord of creatures, seeing his own daughter, was overcome by her beauty; she had taken the form of a roe deer, and he, ashamed, pursued her in the form of a stag. Among all those created and repeatedly created beings, who, except for the sage Nārāyaṇa—whose mind is never disturbed—can resist a woman like me, fashioned by illusion? Thus, the scripture reveals the wonders of creation, the longing of devotion, the sorrow of separation, and the wisdom of detachment, all woven together in the eternal song of Sanātana Dharma.