After the great calamity that befell his kin, Arjuna, steadfast in duty, performed the proper funeral rites for those relatives whose lineages had been lost, arranging the ceremonies with care for all who had fallen. In the wake of these events, the city of Dvārakā—abandoned by Lord Hari—was swallowed by the ocean in but a moment, O King, all except for the resplendent abode of the Lord, which alone remained untouched. Within that sacred dwelling, the Lord Madhusūdana is eternally present, his remembrance alone sufficient to dispel all evil, for he is the most auspicious of all that is auspicious. Then, Dhanañjaya—Arjuna—gathered the surviving women, children, and elders and brought them safely to Indraprastha, where he installed Vajra as king. When their grandfathers heard of the deaths of their friends, O King, they entrusted you with the continuation of the lineage, and then departed from this world, setting out upon the great path. Indeed, whoever faithfully recounts the glorious deeds and divine birth of Viṣṇu, Lord of the gods, is freed from all sins. Thus, by hearing and narrating the enchanting descents, heroic deeds, and childhood pastimes of Hari, the Lord, whether here or elsewhere, one attains supreme devotion—the goal sought by the highest renunciates. Yet, those who are driven by bodily pride, swelling anger, and desire, engage in conflict with others who are similarly attached, bringing ruin upon themselves. The ignorant soul, bound within a body made of the five elements, clings to the false notions of “I” and “mine,” and this error gives rise to a faulty intellect. Should a person follow the path of the wicked, seeking only to satisfy the urges of the belly and the genitals, he indulges in 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 dispirited, the unsaintly, the pitiable, or with women who are like playthings. Delusion and bondage do not arise so much from ordinary association as they do from association with women, and even more from association with those who are attached to women. Even the lord of creatures, beholding his own daughter, was overcome by her beauty when she appeared as a roe deer, and, ashamed, pursued her in the form of a stag. Among all beings, who—except for 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: she conquers even those who are victorious in all directions, subduing the earth’s greatest merely by the arching of her brows. Therefore, one who seeks the highest stage of yoga should never associate with women; those who have realized the self through service to 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 hidden by grass. Deluded, a man thinks of her as his wife, though she is truly my illusion, appearing even as a cow; through such association, he is bound to womanhood and to the ties of 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. Endowed with a living body, a man wanders from world to world, endlessly performing actions and experiencing their results. The 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 perception, that is called birth. Just as, when the eye or its components lose their ability to see, vision ceases—so too, when both are unfit, perception ends. Therefore, one should neither fear nor grieve nor become confused; 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. Śuka then spoke: Thus, the gopīs, singing and lamenting in many ways, wept aloud, O King, yearning to see Kṛṣṇa once more. In that moment, Hari appeared among them, his lotus face adorned with a gentle smile, clad in yellow garments and a garland, he who bewilders even the god of love. At the sight of their beloved returned, the gopīs’ eyes blossomed with joy; all at once, they rose, 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 maiden received the betel leaf he had chewed in her cupped hands; another, burning with longing, pressed his lotus foot to her breast. One, her brow knit in agitation, overwhelmed by the tumult of love, seemed to strike him with sidelong glances, her teeth clenched beneath her lips. Another, with unblinking eyes, gazed upon his lotus-like face, and though she drank in the sight, she was never satisfied—just as the wise are never sated by the vision of his feet. Yet another, closing her eyes and drawing him into her heart through her gaze, embraced him with limbs covered in goosebumps, immersed in the bliss of a yogi. All the gopīs, delighted by the sight of Keśava, attained the highest festival of joy, abandoning the pain of separation as those who attain wisdom leave sorrow behind. Surrounded by those freed from grief, the Lord, Acyuta, shone forth even more, O dear one, like a man empowered by his own energies. Leading 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 the autumn moon’s beams, the sand soft and bright, and Krishna’s hand ever restless. Their hearts relieved of all pain by the joy of seeing him—as the Vedas reach their goal—they prepared a seat for their beloved, spreading their upper garments, marked with the red of their breasts. There, seated, the Lord, the master, took his place in the hearts of the yogis, shining among the assembly of gopīs, worshipped, bearing a form that is the single abode of the fortune of all the three worlds.