Arjuna, weighed down by the sorrow of separation from his beloved friend Kṛṣṇa, sought comfort in songs and wise sayings that celebrated Kṛṣṇa’s virtues and deeds. Despite his grief, Arjuna fulfilled his duties, performing the proper funeral rites for his fallen relatives whose lineage had ended, ensuring each was honored in due order. Meanwhile, Dvārakā, the city once graced by Hari, was swiftly engulfed by the ocean after the Lord had departed, sparing only the magnificent abode of the Lord. Within that sacred place, Lord Madhusūdana remains eternally present, banishing all evil by remembrance and standing as the most auspicious among all blessings. Arjuna, mindful of his responsibilities, gathered the surviving women, children, and elders and brought them safely to Indraprastha, installing Vajra as king to preserve the lineage. Upon hearing of the demise of their friends, Arjuna’s grandfathers, O King, entrusted you with the continuation of their line and then departed on their final journey. It is said that anyone who faithfully recounts the birth and deeds of Viṣṇu, Lord of the gods, is freed from all sins. By hearing and reciting the enchanting descents, heroic acts, and childhood exploits of Hari, whether here or elsewhere, one attains supreme devotion on the path followed by the greatest renunciates. Yet, those driven by bodily pride, anger, and desire engage in conflict with others similarly afflicted, bringing ruin upon themselves. Ignorant souls, attached to the body made of five elements, cling to false notions of “I” and “mine,” resulting in a distorted intellect. If a creature follows the path of the wicked, seeking only gratification of the senses and the belly, he falls into indulgence and darkness once more. Truth, purity, compassion, silence, intelligence, fortune, modesty, fame, forgiveness, tranquility, self-control, and prosperity all diminish through association with those who lack these qualities. One should avoid the company of restless, foolish, broken-spirited, or unsaintly individuals, as well as those pitiable or 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 from association with those attached to women. The lord of creatures, seeing his own daughter who had taken the form of a roe deer, was overwhelmed by her beauty and, ashamed, pursued her in the form of a stag. Among all beings, none—except the sage Nārāyaṇa, whose mind remains undisturbed—can resist a woman fashioned by illusion. Behold the power of my illusion, embodied as a woman: she conquers even the victors of all directions, subduing those who walk the earth with but a glance of her arched brows. Those seeking 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, 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 destiny, 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, perpetually performing actions and experiencing their results. The living being’s body, composed of elements, senses, and mind, follows him; its dissolution marks his death, and its manifestation marks his 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 the perception of objects, and that is birth. Just as vision ends when the eye or its components lose their ability, so too, when both are unfit, perception ceases. 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 continued: Thus, the gopīs, singing and lamenting in various ways, wept loudly, O King, longing to see Kṛṣṇa. Then, Hari appeared among them, his lotus face radiant 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 women’s eyes bloomed 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 received the betel leaf he had chewed in her cupped hands; another, burning with longing, placed his lotus foot between her breasts. One, her brow knit in agitation, overwhelmed by the tumult of love, seemed to strike with her sidelong glances, her teeth clenched beneath her lips. Another, with unblinking eyes, gazed upon his lotus-like face, and though she drank it in, was never satisfied, just as the wise are never satiated by his feet. Another, closing her eyes and drawing him into her heart through the opening of her eyes, embraced him with goosebump-covered limbs, immersed in the bliss of a yogi. All of them, delighted by the sight of Keśava, experiencing the highest festival of joy, abandoned the pain of separation, just as people do upon attaining wisdom. Surrounded by those freed from sorrow, the Lord, Acyuta, shone even brighter, O dear one, like a person empowered by his energies. Taking them, the Lord entered the sandy bank of the Yamunā, blooming with jasmine and mandāra flowers, fragrant breezes, and humming bees. The place was auspicious, its darkness dispelled by autumn moonbeams, with Krishna’s restless hand and sand soft and bright. Their hearts, relieved of pain by the joy of seeing him—as the Vedas reach their goal—prepared a seat for their beloved with their own upper garments, marked with the red hue of their breasts.