The gopīs, their hearts aching with longing, sang of Kṛṣṇa’s glories, describing his stories as nectar—life itself for those who suffer. These tales, extolled by poets, have the power to remove sin, bestow auspiciousness, and grant prosperity to those who listen and to those generous souls who share them upon the earth. They remembered his laughter, his affectionate glances, his playful pastimes, and his meditative moods, all of which brought blessings and auspiciousness. The secret conversations that passed between them and Kṛṣṇa, so intimate and full of love, unsettled their minds and stirred the depths of their hearts. When Kṛṣṇa wandered from Vraja, tending the cows, his lotus-like feet touched the hard stones, grass, and tender sprouts of the forest floor. The gopīs, tormented by separation, let their minds follow him wherever he went, unable to bear the distance. At the close of the day, Kṛṣṇa would reappear, his blue-black hair adorned with forest flowers, his face radiant yet dusted from the day’s wanderings. Again and again, he revealed himself to them, and with each appearance, he awakened ever-deeper love in their hearts. They yearned for his lotus feet—those feet worshipped by Lakṣmī herself, the ornament of the earth, and worthy of meditation in times of distress. These feet, which grant all desires to those who bow, bring peace and relief. The gopīs pleaded with him to place his feet upon their breasts and soothe their pain. They longed for the touch of his lips, made even more enchanting by the melody of his flute. The sound increased their love and dissolved all sorrow, making them forget every other passion. “O hero,” they implored, “grant us the nectar of your lips.” When Kṛṣṇa was away in the forest, a single moment felt like an age to those who could not see him. Even the beauty of his curly hair and radiant face was hidden from their eyes by the mere blinking of their eyelids. Having forsaken husbands, sons, families, brothers, and relatives, the gopīs declared themselves the last to come to him, drawn irresistibly by his song and fully aware of his path. What woman, enchanted by his music, could possibly return home at night? They spoke again of their secret exchanges with him, the rising waves of love in their hearts, his smiling face, loving glances, and the splendor of his broad chest—all these overwhelmed their minds, causing them to long for him and become bewildered. “O source of all auspiciousness for the people of Vraja,” they prayed, “your very presence destroys suffering and brings blessing to all. If only you would withdraw, even a little, from those whose hearts burn with longing for you—perhaps then the pain of separation would be cured. For your absence is the only remedy for those who are tormented by love for you.” They described how, with trembling hands, they placed his beautiful lotus feet upon their breasts, afraid of their hardness. They wondered if this was why he wandered the forest—did he feel pain from the sharp stones? Their minds, sustained by his very life, could not be drawn away from him. Thus ended the chapter known as “The Song of the Gopīs,” the thirty-first chapter of the first half of the Tenth Book of the Śrīmad Bhāgavatam, the great Purāṇa, scripture of the supreme renunciates. In another time, after Kṛṣṇa’s earthly pastimes had concluded, the wives of Rāma, as well as the wives of Vasudeva and the daughters-in-law of Hari, including those of Pradyumna, followed the example of Rukmiṇī and entered the fire, united in spirit with their beloved. Arjuna, overwhelmed by the loss of his dear friend Kṛṣṇa, found solace in songs and wise teachings about him. He performed the proper funeral rites for his relatives, arranging for those whose lineage had been lost after battle. The ocean, as if in mourning, flooded the city of Dvārakā—now abandoned by Hari—in a single moment, sparing only the Lord’s resplendent abode. There, Madhusūdana remains eternally present, removing all evil by the power of remembrance, the most auspicious among all things. Arjuna, also called Dhanañjaya, gathered the surviving women, children, and elders, brought them to Indraprastha, and established Vajra as king. Hearing of the deaths of their friends, Arjuna’s grandfathers appointed the king as the new bearer of the lineage and then departed on the great journey. 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 exploits, and childhood pastimes of Hari, whether here or elsewhere, one attains supreme devotion, walking the path of the highest renunciates. Yet, when a person, full of pride, anger, and desire, quarrels with others who are similarly driven, he brings about his own ruin. The ignorant soul, bound to a body made of the five elements, clings to false notions of “I” and “mine,” and this delusion clouds his intellect. If a person again follows the path of the wicked—seeking only to satisfy the belly and genitals—he falls into indulgence and darkness as before. Association with the impure diminishes truth, purity, compassion, silence, intelligence, fortune, modesty, fame, forgiveness, tranquility, self-control, and prosperity. Therefore, one should avoid the company of the restless, the foolish, the broken-spirited, the unsaintly, the pitiable, and women who are like playthings. Delusion and bondage do not arise so much from associating with others as from associating with women—and even more from associating with those attached to women. Even the lord of creatures, 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 created beings, who but the sage Nārāyaṇa, whose mind is never disturbed, can resist a woman fashioned by illusion? Behold the power of this illusion, embodied as a woman: she conquers even the victorious of all directions, subduing those who have trodden the earth with a mere arch of her brows. One who seeks the highest 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. This illusion, created by the gods in the form of a woman, approaches slowly—one should recognize her as death for the self, like a well hidden by 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 embodies husband, child, and home—as death itself, sent by fate, just as the song of a hunter spells death for the deer. With a body endowed with life, a man wanders from world to world, endlessly performing actions and reaping their results. The living being’s body, composed of elements, senses, and mind, follows him; its dissolution is his death, and its manifestation is his birth. When the means of perception and the capacity to perceive are lost, that is called dissolution; when the sense of “I” arises with the perception of objects, that is called birth. Just as, when the eye or its parts lose the ability to see, the seer’s vision ceases—so too, when both are unfit, vision ends. Therefore, one should neither fear nor feel pity or confusion. Understanding the journey of the soul, the wise, free from attachment, should live accordingly. With intellect endowed with true vision, joined with yoga and detachment, one should live in this world—fashioned by illusion—unconcerned with the body.