He should recognize her—be she wife, child, or home itself—as the very embodiment of death sent by fate, just as the sweet song of a hunter spells doom for the unsuspecting deer. For a living being, endowed with a body, wanders endlessly from one world to another, ceaselessly performing actions and reaping their results, never finding rest. The body itself, made up of the elements, the senses, and the mind, clings to him throughout this journey; its dissolution is called death, and its reappearance, birth. When the means of perception and the objects of perception are lost, that is dissolution; birth, in turn, arises when the sense of ‘I’ comes into being with the perception of objects. Just as vision ends when the eye or its components lose their power, so too, when both the perceiver and the means are unfit, perception ceases. Therefore, one should not be afraid, nor fall into sorrow or confusion. Understanding the soul’s journey, the wise—free from attachment—should live accordingly in this world. With intellect illumined by true vision, joined with yoga and detachment, one should live here, in this world woven by illusion, unconcerned with the body and its changes. At this time, Śuka continued: The gopīs, overwhelmed with longing for Kṛṣṇa, sang and lamented in many ways, their cries echoing through the night as they yearned for his presence. Then, suddenly, Hari himself appeared among them, his lotus face radiant with a gentle smile, dressed in yellow garments, adorned with a fragrant garland—he whose beauty bewilders even the god of love. Seeing their beloved return, the gopīs’ eyes lit up with joy; it was as if life itself had flowed back into their bodies, and all of them rose at once to greet him. One joyfully clasped Hari’s lotus hand between her own; another placed his sandalwood-scented arm over her shoulder. One slender maiden took the betel leaf he had chewed into her cupped hands; another, burning with longing, pressed his lotus foot to her breast. One among them, her brow furrowed with agitation, overwhelmed by the tumult of love, seemed to strike him with sidelong glances, her teeth clenched beneath her lip. Another, with unblinking eyes, gazed upon his lotus-like face, drinking it in and never feeling satisfied, just as the wise are never sated by the sight of his feet. Another, closing her eyes, drew him into her heart through her gaze, embracing him with her trembling, goosebump-covered limbs, absorbed in the bliss of a yogi. All of them, delighted by the sight of Keśava, rejoiced in the highest festival of joy, letting go of their pain of separation just as people do upon attaining wisdom. Surrounded by those freed from sorrow, the Lord Acyuta shone even more resplendently, like a person empowered by his own energies. Taking them with him, the Lord entered the sandy banks of the Yamunā, where jasmine and mandāra flowers bloomed, fragrant breezes drifted, and bees hummed in delight. The place glowed, the darkness dispelled by the mass of autumn moonbeams, the sand soft and bright, Krishna’s hand restless in play. Their hearts, soothed by the joy of seeing him, as the Vedas reach their goal, the gopīs prepared a seat for their beloved, spreading their upper garments—stained with the red of their breasts—upon the sand. There the Lord, the master, seated himself, becoming the very seat of the yogis’ hearts, shining among the assembly of gopīs, worshipped as the single abode of the fortune of all three worlds. Honoring him, the kindler of desire, with laughter, playful glances, and expressive brows, the gopīs touched his feet, their hands resting on his lap, and, with words of gentle reproach, praised him. They said to him: “One who loves is loved in return by some, while others do the opposite, and some love neither. O noble one, tell us, which of these ways 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 rooted only in self-interest. Those who love even those who do not love them, like compassionate parents, act without fault; here, affection and virtue are truly excellent. Some do not love even those who love them, let alone those who do not; such people are self-satisfied, fulfilled in themselves, ungrateful, and disrespectful to their elders. But as for me, O friends, I do not love even those who love me, for their devotion; just as a poor man, upon gaining wealth and then losing it, becomes so absorbed in thought of it that he knows nothing else. Thus, you, gentle ones, have abandoned all worldly and scriptural duties for my sake, to serve me; though you worship me directly, I hide myself from you, so that you may not become proud or complacent. O beloveds, do not resent this. I am unable to repay your flawless devotion, not even in the lifetime of the gods; you who have broken the hard chains of home for me—let your own virtuous deeds be your reward.” Thus ends the thirty-second chapter, “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. When devotion, in the form of yoga, is directed toward Bhagavan Vāsudeva, it quickly gives rise to detachment and knowledge that leads to realization of Brahman. When a person’s mind, through the senses, makes no distinction between objects—whether pleasant or unpleasant—at that very moment, he perceives himself by himself as unattached, seeing all equally, free from acceptance and rejection, established in the supreme state. Pure knowledge alone is the supreme Brahman, the Supreme Self, the Lord, the Person; Bhagavan is perceived as one, though he appears as many through the diversity of objects and perceptions. To this extent alone, through complete yoga, does the yogi attain the desired goal here: total detachment from all things. That one knowledge, when turned outward by the senses, appears—through illusion—in the form of objects, as Brahman without qualities, taking on the characteristics of sound and so on. Just as the great principle, in the form of ego, becomes threefold and fivefold, self-ruling, and its elevenfold form is the cosmic egg from which the world arises—so too is the world manifested. This is seen by one who, with faith and devotion, practices yoga constantly, whose mind is collected, who is unattached, and who sees with detachment. Thus has been spoken this profound knowledge, which is the vision of Brahman, by which one discerns the true nature of both prakriti and purusha. Just as an object, though possessing many qualities, is not divided because it is perceived through the separate gates of the senses, so too is Bhagavan, though approached by various scriptural paths, always one and undivided.