As the day drew to its close, the gopīs, hearts brimming with longing, gazed toward the forest, where Kṛṣṇa would often appear. His hair shimmered blue in the fading light, his face radiant and adorned with forest flowers, yet now dusted by the clouds of dusk. Again and again he revealed himself, stirring deep currents of love within their hearts. They yearned for him, the hero who enchanted their souls. With devotion, they prayed for the touch of his lotus feet—feet that fulfill the desires of those who bow before them, feet revered by Lakṣmī herself, the ornament of the earth. In times of hardship, these feet are the object of meditation, bringers of peace. “Beloved,” they pleaded, “place your sacred feet upon our breasts and soothe the pain within us.” Their longing deepened as they remembered the sweetness of his lips, graced by the melody of his flute. That music awakened love and dispelled sorrow, making all other passions seem pale and distant. “O hero,” they cried, “grant us the nectar of your lips.” The gopīs lamented the long hours when Kṛṣṇa wandered the forest by day. For those deprived of his sight, even a moment stretched into an age. His curling locks and beautiful face, so dear to them, were hidden behind their own unworthy eyelids when they blinked, denying them his vision. Moved by irresistible love, they had left behind husbands, sons, families, brothers, and all other ties. Drawn by the path he walked and enchanted by the song of his flute, they confessed, “O infallible one, which woman, upon hearing your music, would ever return home at night?” They remembered the secret words exchanged, the love awakened in their hearts, his smiling face, affectionate glances, and the splendor of his broad chest—the very abode of fortune. These memories, ever present, made their minds restless and bewildered with longing. They called out to him, the embodiment of auspiciousness for all who dwell in Vraja. His presence alone destroyed all suffering and brought blessings to the world. Yet, in their pain of separation, they begged, “If you must cure our longing, beloved, withdraw even slightly from those whose hearts are tormented by love for you, for only your absence can relieve this burning ache.” Despite their fears, they gently placed his beautiful lotus feet upon their breasts, wondering if their hearts could bear their hardness. They worried for him, too: “Is this why you wander the forest? Do your tender feet not suffer upon the sharp stones?” Their minds, sustained by his life, never strayed from him. Thus concludes the thirty-first chapter, “The Song of the Gopīs,” in the first half of the Tenth Book of the Śrīmad Bhāgavatam, the great Purāṇa, the scripture for those who seek supreme renunciation. Elsewhere, when Rāma departed, his wives, unable to bear separation, embraced his body and entered the fire. The wives of Vasudeva and the daughters-in-law of Hari, including those of Pradyumna, followed the same path. Kṛṣṇa’s own wives, led by Rukmiṇī, entered the fire as well, united in spirit with their beloved. Arjuna, overwhelmed by the loss of his dearest friend Kṛṣṇa, sought solace in songs and wise words about him, recalling his glories. He performed the proper funeral rites for his relatives whose lineage had been lost, arranging all with due care for those slain. As Hari abandoned Dvārakā, the ocean swiftly flooded the city, sparing only the Lord’s splendid abode. There, Madhusūdana remains eternally present, removing all evil through remembrance, the most auspicious among all that is auspicious. Taking the surviving women, children, and elders, Dhanañjaya brought them to Indraprastha, establishing Vajra as king. When Arjuna’s grandfathers heard of the passing of their friends, they made you, O King, the bearer of the lineage, and then departed along the great path. Whoever, with faith, recounts the birth and deeds of Viṣṇu, Lord of the gods, is freed from all sins. By hearing and reciting the charming descents, heroic acts, and childhood exploits of Hari, whether here or elsewhere, one attains supreme devotion on the path of the highest renunciates. Yet, in this world, a person driven by passion, with body, pride, anger, and desire, enters into conflict with others, bringing about his own ruin. The ignorant soul, bound to the body made of five elements, clings to the false ideas of ‘I’ and ‘mine,’ and from this misguided thinking, a faulty intellect arises. If, again, one follows the path of the wicked, seeking only to satisfy the belly and genitals, he falls into indulgence and returns to darkness as before. Truth, purity, compassion, silence, intelligence, fortune, modesty, fame, forgiveness, tranquility, self-control, and prosperity—all these fade through association with those who lack them. One should avoid the company of the restless, the foolish, the broken in spirit, the unsaintly, the pitiable, or women who are mere 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 himself, upon seeing his own daughter transformed as a roe deer, was overcome by her beauty and, filled with shame, 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 such as me, fashioned by illusion? Witness the power of my illusion, embodied as a woman: she conquers even the victorious of all directions, subduing those who have trodden the earth with nothing but the arching of her brows. Therefore, one who seeks the highest stage of yoga should never associate with women; those who have realized the true self through service to me declare such association to be 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 concealed by grass. Deluded, a man takes her as his wife, though she is my illusion, appearing as a cow. By associating with women, he is reborn as a woman 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. With a body endowed with life, a man wanders from world to world, continually acting and experiencing the results without end. The living being’s body, composed of elements, senses, and mind, follows him; its dissolution is called death, its manifestation is called birth. When the means of perceiving an object and the capacity to perceive it are lost, that is dissolution; the sense of ‘I’ arises with perception, and that is birth. Just as, when the eye or its components lose their power, vision ceases—so too, when both are unfit, perception ends. Therefore, one should not fear, nor feel pity or confusion. Knowing 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—crafted by illusion—unconcerned with the body. Śuka then continued: Thus, the gopīs, singing and lamenting in many ways, wept aloud, longing for the sight of Kṛṣṇa. Suddenly, Hari appeared among them, his lotus face beaming with a smile, dressed in yellow garments and adorned with a garland—he who bewilders even the god of love. Seeing their beloved returned, the gopīs’ eyes blossomed with joy; all of them rose at once, as if life itself had returned to their bodies.