Hearing and reciting the enchanting descents, heroic deeds, and playful childhood exploits of Lord Hari, whether at home or elsewhere, brings a person to the highest devotion, even along the path followed by the greatest renunciates. Yet, those who are driven by pride, anger, and desire, engaging in rivalry with others similarly possessed by longing, end up bringing about their own downfall. The ignorant soul clings to the body made of five elements, caught in the illusion of ‘I’ and ‘mine,’ and from this mistaken thinking, the intellect becomes clouded. If, instead of seeking the higher path, one follows the ways of the wicked—striving only to satisfy the urges of the body and the belly—he falls again into darkness, just as before. Truthfulness, purity, compassion, silence, intelligence, fortune, modesty, fame, forgiveness, tranquility, self-control, and prosperity—all these virtues diminish when one keeps company with those who lack them. Therefore, one should avoid the company of the restless, the foolish, the broken-spirited, the unvirtuous, the pitiable, or women who are like toys for the senses. Delusion and bondage do not arise so much from the company of others in general, but especially from association with women, and even more so from those who are attached to women. Even the lord of creatures, upon seeing his own daughter transformed into a doe, was overcome by her beauty and, ashamed, pursued her in the form of a stag. Among all the beings created and recreated, 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 māyā, taking the form of a woman: she conquers even the victorious of all directions, subduing those who walk the earth with just 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 serving me have declared that such association is the very gateway to hell. The illusion, taking the form of a woman and created by the gods, approaches slowly; one should recognize her as death for the soul, like a well covered with grass. Deluded, a man thinks of her as his wife—though she is truly my illusion, appearing perhaps as a cow. Through such association, he is bound in the cycle of birth and death, becoming attached to wealth, children, and home. He should understand her, who appears as wife, child, and home, to be death itself—sent by destiny—just as the song of a hunter is death for the deer. With a living body, a person wanders from world to world, continually acting and experiencing the results of those actions without end. The body, made of elements, senses, and mind, follows him; its dissolution is called death, and its manifestation is birth. When the means of perception and the capacity to perceive are lost, that is dissolution; when the sense of ‘I’ arises with perception, that is birth. Just as when the eye or its components lose the power to see, vision ceases, so too, when both are unfit, there is no perception. 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 said: In this way, the gopīs, singing and lamenting in many ways, wept loudly, longing to see Kṛṣṇa. Then, Lord Hari appeared among them, his lotus face smiling, dressed in yellow garments, adorned with a garland—he who bewilders even the god of love. Seeing their beloved returned, the women’s 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 on her shoulder. One slender maiden took the betel leaf he had chewed into her cupped hands; another, burning with longing, placed his lotus foot upon her breast. One of them, 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. Another, with unblinking eyes, gazed upon his lotus-like face, and though she drank in its beauty, she was never satisfied—just as the wise are never satiated by contemplating his lotus feet. Another, closing her eyes, drew him into her heart through her gaze, embracing him within, her body covered in goosebumps, immersed in the bliss of a yogi. All of them, delighted by the sight of Keśava, experienced the highest festival of joy and abandoned the pain of separation, just as people do upon attaining wisdom. Surrounded by those freed from sorrow, the Lord, Acyuta, shone forth even more, like a person empowered by his own energies. Taking them with him, the Lord entered the sandy bank of the Yamunā, blooming with jasmine and mandāra flowers, filled with fragrant breezes and the humming of bees. The place was auspicious, its darkness dispelled by autumn moonbeams, with Krishna’s restless hand, and the sand soft and bright. Their hearts relieved of pain by the joy of seeing him—just as the Vedas reach their goal—they prepared a seat for their beloved with their own upper garments, marked with the red of their breasts. There, seated, the Lord, the master, assumed a seat in the hearts of the yogis and shone among the assembly of gopīs, worshipped, bearing a form that is the single abode of the fortune of the three worlds. Honoring him, the kindler of desire, with laughter, playful glances, and expressive brows, they touched his feet with their hands placed on his lap and, praising him, spoke with a trace of feigned anger: “One who loves is loved in return by one, another does the opposite; some do not love either. Please tell us, O noble one, which is right?” The Blessed Lord replied, “Those who love each other for their own benefit are friends, but there is no true affection or righteousness there, for it is only for self-interest. Those who love those who do not love them, like compassionate parents, act without fault; here, affection and virtue are excellent. Some do not love even those who love them, let alone those who do not; for they are self-satisfied, fulfilled in themselves, ungrateful, and disrespectful to their elders. But I, O friends, do not love even those who love me, for their devotion; just as a poor man, upon gaining wealth and then losing it, absorbed in its thought, knows nothing else.