If a living being again follows the path of the wicked, seeking only to satisfy the urges of the belly and the genitals, he indulges in sensual pleasures and, as before, descends into darkness. Qualities such as truthfulness, purity, compassion, silence, intelligence, fortune, modesty, fame, forgiveness, tranquility, self-control, and prosperity all diminish through the company of those who lack these virtues. Therefore, one should avoid associating with restless, foolish, broken-spirited, or unsaintly people, as well as with those who are pitiable or with women who are frivolous. Delusion and bondage do not arise so much from association with others as they do from association with women, and even more so from association with those who are attached to women. Even the lord of all creatures, upon seeing his own daughter who had taken the form of a doe, was overcome by her beauty; he felt ashamed, yet pursued her in the form of a stag. Among all the beings created and recreated, who, except the sage Nārāyaṇa—whose mind is never disturbed—could resist a woman such as myself, fashioned by illusion? Behold the power of my illusion, embodied as woman: she conquers even the victorious of all directions, subduing those who have trodden the earth, merely by the arching of her brows. One who aspires to the highest stage of yoga must never associate with women. Those who have realized the true self through serving me affirm 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 covered with grass. Deluded, a man mistakes her for his wife, though she is my illusion, appearing as a cow; through association with women, he enters womanhood and becomes bound to wealth, children, and home. He should understand that she—who appears as husband, child, and home—is 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 performing actions and reaping their results, never ceasing. The living being’s body, made 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, when the eye or its components lose the ability to see, the seer’s capacity to perceive ceases—so too, when both are unfit, vision 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 here 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. At this point, Śuka continued his narration. The gopīs, longing for Kṛṣṇa, sang and lamented in many ways, their voices rising in loud cries of yearning, O King. Then, Hari himself appeared among them, his lotus face adorned with a gentle smile, dressed in yellow garments, garlanded, he who bewilders even the god of love. When the gopīs beheld their beloved Kṛṣṇa returned, their eyes blossomed with joy, and 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-smeared arm upon her shoulder. One slender maiden, with cupped hands, accepted the betel leaf he had chewed; another, burning with longing, placed his lotus foot upon 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; though she drank in his beauty, she was never satisfied, just as the wise are never satiated by meditating on his feet. Yet another, closing her eyes, drew him into her heart through the portals of her eyes, embracing him with her goosebump-covered limbs, immersed in the bliss of a yogi. All of them, delighted by the sight of Keśava, experienced the highest festival of joy, casting aside the pain of separation, just as people do upon attaining wisdom. Surrounded by those freed from sorrow, the Lord, Acyuta, shone forth even more, O dear one, like a person empowered by his own energies. Taking them with him, the Lord entered the sandy bank of the Yamunā, which was blooming with jasmine and mandāra flowers, fragrant breezes, and humming bees. The place was auspicious, its darkness dispelled by the mass of 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 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 slight feigned anger. The gopīs asked, “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. Thus, you, gentle ones, have abandoned worldly and scriptural duties for my sake, to serve me. Though you worship me directly, I hide myself, so you should not resent this, O beloveds. “I am unable to repay your flawless devotion, even with the lifespan of the gods. Those who have loved me, breaking the hard chains of home, let their virtuous deeds be your reward.” Thus concludes the thirty-second chapter, named “The Consolation of the Gopīs,” in the first half of the tenth book of the Śrīmad Bhāgavatam, the great Purāṇa, the scripture of the supreme swan.