As the gopīs wandered through the forest by day, their hearts ached for Kṛṣṇa. For those who could not see him, even a single moment stretched into an age. The sight of his curly hair and beautiful face was so precious that, for those who gazed with dull, longing eyes, even the blink of an eyelid felt like a veil hiding his radiance. They had left behind husbands, sons, families, brothers, and all their relatives—everything that once defined their lives. Now, they were the last ones, drawn irresistibly to Kṛṣṇa, the infallible one. Knowing his mysterious ways and enchanted by the sweet music of his flute, they wondered: what woman, having heard his song and known his presence, could ever return home at night? The secret conversations they had shared with him, the stirrings of love in their hearts, his ever-smiling face, the tender glances he bestowed upon them, and the splendor of his broad chest—all these memories overwhelmed their minds, filling them with longing and bewilderment. Kṛṣṇa, the very abode of fortune, was the source of all their joy and confusion. To the gopīs, Kṛṣṇa was the embodiment of auspiciousness for all who lived in Vraja. His mere presence dispelled every sorrow and brought blessings to the world. Yet, in their pain of separation, they pleaded: “O beloved, if you must withdraw, even for a moment, from those whose hearts are tormented by longing, let your absence itself be the medicine to cure the burning ache of separation.” With gentle reverence, they placed his beautiful lotus feet upon their breasts, even as they worried that their softness might not be enough to shield him from the hardness of the forest floor. Was this why he wandered the woods, they wondered? Did his feet not ache from sharp stones and thorns? Their minds, sustained only by his life, could not stray from him for even a moment. Thus ended the thirty-first chapter, “The Song of the Gopīs,” in the first half of the Tenth Book of the Śrīmad Bhāgavatam, the great Purāṇa, revered by the supreme renunciates. In another time, when Rāma departed, his wives embraced his body and entered the fire. The wives of Vasudeva, the daughters-in-law of Hari, and the wives of Kṛṣṇa—led by Rukmiṇī—also entered the fire, united in spirit with their beloved. Arjuna, overwhelmed by the loss of his dearest friend Kṛṣṇa, sought solace in songs and wise teachings about him. Arjuna performed the proper funeral rites for his relatives, arranging them with due respect, even for those whose lineage had been lost. Then, the ocean rose and flooded the city of Dvārakā, which Hari had abandoned, sparing only the splendid abode of the Lord. There, Lord Madhusūdana remains eternally present, removing all evil by the power of remembrance, the most auspicious among all auspicious things. Taking the surviving women, children, and elders, Arjuna—Dhanañjaya—brought them to Indraprastha and installed Vajra as king. When Arjuna’s grandfathers heard of the death of their friends, they made you, O King, the bearer of the lineage, and then 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, the Lord, whether here or elsewhere, one attains supreme devotion, the path of the highest renunciates. Yet, when a passionate person, filled with pride, anger, and desire, clashes with others who are similarly driven, he brings ruin upon himself. In the body made of 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 to satisfy the urges of the belly and genitals, he falls into indulgence and darkness as before. Truth, purity, compassion, silence, intelligence, fortune, modesty, fame, forgiveness, tranquility, self-control, and prosperity—all these virtues diminish through association with those who lack them. Therefore, one should not keep company with the restless, the foolish, the broken in spirit, or the unsaintly, nor with those who are pitiable or with women who are mere playthings. Delusion and bondage arise not so much from association with others, but especially from association with women, and even more so from those attached to women. Even the lord of creatures, seeing his own daughter transformed into a roe deer, was overcome by her beauty and, ashamed, pursued her in the form of a stag. Among all beings, who but the sage Nārāyaṇa, whose mind is never disturbed, can resist a woman fashioned by illusion? Behold the power of my illusion, embodied as a woman—it conquers even the victorious of all directions, subduing the earth’s greatest heroes with nothing more than the arch of her brows. One who seeks the highest stage of yoga should never associate with women; those who have realized the true self through devotion 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 and should be recognized as death for the self—like a well hidden by grass. Deluded, a man mistakes her for his wife, though she is my illusion, appearing even as a cow; by associating with women, he is bound to become a woman himself, entangled with wealth, children, and home. He should understand that she—who appears as wife, child, and home—is death itself, sent by fate, just as the song of a hunter is death for the deer. With a body endowed with life, a man wanders from world to world, ceaselessly performing actions and experiencing 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 perceiving an object and the capacity to perceive it are lost, that is called dissolution; the sense of “I” arises with the perception of objects, and that is called birth. Just as vision ceases when the eye or its parts lose their function, so too, when both are unfit, perception ends. Therefore, one should not be afraid, 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, fashioned by illusion, unconcerned with the body. Śuka then spoke: Thus, the gopīs, singing and lamenting in many ways, wept aloud, longing to see Kṛṣṇa. Then, Hari himself appeared among them—his lotus face smiling, clothed in yellow garments, adorned with a garland—he who bewilders even the god of love. At the sight of their beloved Kṛṣṇa returned, the gopīs’ eyes blossomed with joy. All of them rose at once, as if life itself had returned to their bodies. One joyfully took Hari’s lotus hand in her joined palms; another placed his sandalwood-scented arm upon her shoulder. One slender woman, with cupped hands, cherished the betel leaf he had chewed; another, burning with longing, pressed his lotus foot to her breast. Yet another, her brow furrowed in agitation, overwhelmed by the tumult of love, seemed to strike him with her sidelong glances, her teeth clenched beneath her lips. In this way, the gopīs’ love and longing were fulfilled by the return of Kṛṣṇa, and the forest of Vraja was once again filled with the joy of his presence.