O Supreme One, time and again you have protected us from countless dangers: from the poisoned waters, from the serpent-demon, from fierce storms, lightning, and fire, from the wrath of the son of the rain-god, and from perils on every side. You are not merely the delight of the gopīs, but the inner witness abiding in the hearts of all living beings. At Brahmā’s request, you appeared in the Sātvata clan for the protection of the world, O dearest friend. O foremost among the Vṛṣṇis, you have made your feet a refuge for those who seek you, freeing them from the fears of worldly existence. Beloved, whose lotus hands fulfill all desires, place your auspicious touch upon our heads. O hero, remover of all suffering in Vraja, whose smile humbles even your own people, accept us as your devoted servants and reveal to us your beautiful, lotus-like face. For those who bow to you, you destroy all sin; you follow even those who simply graze grass, and you are the very abode of fortune. The serpent himself offered you his hoods as a seat for your feet—please, place those same feet upon our breasts and relieve the pain in our hearts. With your sweet speech, charming words, and wisdom that delights the mind, O lotus-eyed one, you enchant us. O hero, nourish us with the nectar of your lips. The stories of your deeds are the very life of those who suffer. Praised by poets, they cleanse all sin and bring auspiciousness and prosperity to those who hear or recite them. Truly generous are those who spread your stories throughout the world. Your laughter, your loving glances, your playful acts, your meditations—all are auspicious. The secret conversations that stir the heart, O enchanter, leave our minds restless. When you wander from Vraja, herding the cows, O Lord, your lotus-like feet tread upon stones, grass, and tender sprouts; our hearts, aching with longing, follow you wherever you go. At the end of the day, your blue locks dusted by the forest, you return with a face adorned by wildflowers, stirring love in our hearts again and again. Your lotus feet, worshipped even by Lakṣmī, the ornament of the earth, are worthy of meditation in adversity and bring peace to all. Beloved, place those feet upon our breasts and soothe our pain. Your lips, caressed by the melodious flute, awaken love and dispel sorrow, making us forget all other attachments. O hero, grant us the nectar of your lips. When you roam the forest by day, even a moment without seeing you becomes an age to us. Your curly hair and beautiful face are hidden from our longing eyes, veiled by our very own eyelids. Having left behind husbands, sons, families, brothers, and kin, we—the last of all—have come to you, O infallible one. Knowing the path you walk and enchanted by your song, what woman could return home at night? Your secret words, the love that wells up in our hearts, your smiling face, your loving glances, and the splendor of your broad chest—O abode of fortune—these again and again bewilder our minds with longing. O embodiment of auspiciousness for the people of Vraja, your very presence removes all suffering and brings universal blessings. If you must withdraw, even slightly, from those whose hearts are tormented by longing for you, then let your absence itself be the remedy for the pain of separation among your own. O beloved, 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 the sharp stones? Our minds, sustained by your very life, never stray from you. Thus ends this chapter, known as “The Song of the Gopīs,” from the first half of the Tenth Book of the Śrīmad Bhāgavatam, the great Purāṇa, the scripture of the supreme renunciates. In another time, when Rāma departed, his wives embraced his body and entered the fire. The wives of Vasudeva, as well as 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 the pain of separation from his dearest friend Kṛṣṇa, found solace in singing songs and recalling wise sayings about him. Arjuna performed the proper funeral rites for his relatives whose lineage had ended, arranging everything in due order for those who had been slain. The ocean then flooded Dvārakā, which had been abandoned by Hari, in a single moment, O King, sparing only the Lord’s splendid abode. There, Lord Madhusūdana remains eternally, removing all evil through remembrance, the most auspicious among all auspicious things. Taking the surviving women, children, and elders, Dhanañjaya brought them to Indraprastha and installed Vajra as king. When news of the deaths of their friends reached them, Arjuna’s elders made you, O King, the bearer of the lineage, and all departed upon the great journey. Whoever, with faith, recounts the birth and deeds of Viṣṇu, Lord of the gods, is freed from all sins. Thus, by hearing and reciting the charming descents, heroic deeds, and childhood exploits of Hari, the Lord, whether here or elsewhere, one attains supreme devotion, walking the path of the highest renunciates. But know this: with body, pride, growing anger, and desire, a passionate person comes into conflict with others who are also desirous, bringing ruin upon himself. In the body, composed of the five elements, the ignorant soul clings to the false notions of “I” and “mine,” and this delusion leads to a faulty intellect. If, again, a creature follows the path of the wicked, striving only for the satisfaction of the genitals and the belly, he indulges and falls into 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 the restless, the foolish, the broken in spirit, or the unsaintly, nor with those who are pitiable or with women who are like playthings. Delusion and bondage do not arise so much from association with others as they do from association with women, and even more so from association with those attached to women. The lord of creatures, upon seeing his own daughter who had taken the form of a roe deer, was overcome by her beauty and, ashamed, pursued her in the form of a stag. Among all beings, created and recreated, who but the sage Nārāyaṇa—whose mind is never disturbed—can resist a woman like me, fashioned by illusion? Behold the power of my illusion, embodied as a woman, which conquers even the victors of all directions—she subdues those who have trodden the earth merely by the arching of her brows. One who aspires to the highest stage of yoga should never associate with women; those who have realized the true self through serving me declare that such association is the gateway to hell. The illusion, in the form of a woman, created by the gods, approaches slowly; one should recognize her as death for the self, like a well covered with grass. Deluded, a man thinks of her as his wife, though she is my illusion, appearing as a cow; by associating with women, he enters womanhood and becomes bound to wealth, children, and home. He should understand her—who is the embodiment of husband, child, and home—as death itself, sent by fate, just as the song of a hunter spells death for the deer.