With a mind illumined by true understanding, joined with yoga and detachment, one should move through this world—fashioned by illusion—remaining unconcerned with the body and its entanglements. Now, Śuka continued his narration: The gopīs, their hearts aching, sang and lamented in many ways, their voices rising in longing and sorrow as they wept loudly, yearning for the sight of Kṛṣṇa. Then, as if in answer to their love and lament, Hari himself appeared among them. His lotus face shone with a gentle smile; he was adorned in radiant yellow garments and a garland, his beauty bewildering even the god of love. When the gopīs beheld their beloved Kṛṣṇa returned to them, joy blossomed in their eyes; all at once, as if life itself had returned to their bodies, they rose to greet him. One gopī, overwhelmed with happiness, took Hari’s lotus hand in her joined palms; another placed his sandalwood-scented arm upon her shoulder, savoring his touch. A slender one caught with her cupped hands the betel leaf he had chewed, treasuring it as a priceless gift. Another, burning with longing, placed his lotus foot upon her breast, her heart surging with devotion. One gopī, her brow knit in agitation, overcome by the tumult of love, struck him with sidelong glances, her teeth pressed beneath her lips in bashful agitation. Another, her eyes unblinking, gazed upon his lotus-like face, drinking in his beauty yet never feeling satisfied—just as the wise are never sated by the nectar of his feet. Yet another closed her eyes, drawing his image into her heart through the gateway of her gaze, embracing him within, her limbs covered in goosebumps, immersed in the bliss known only to yogis. All the gopīs, their hearts surging with delight at the sight of Keśava, experienced the highest festival of joy, abandoning the pain of separation just as one abandons suffering upon attaining wisdom. Surrounded by these beloved ones, now freed from sorrow, Acyuta shone with even greater brilliance, like a person empowered by the fullness of his own energies. With them, the Lord made his way to the sandy bank of the Yamunā, a place blossoming with jasmine and mandāra flowers, where fragrant breezes played and bees hummed in delight. The night was auspicious, its darkness dispelled by the flood of autumn moonbeams; the sand was soft and bright, and Kṛṣṇa’s restless hand moved gently across it. Relieved of all pain by the joy of his presence—as the Vedas find fulfillment in their goal—the gopīs prepared a seat for their beloved, spreading their upper garments, marked with the red of their breasts, upon the sand. There, the Lord, the master of all, took his seat, shining among the assembly of gopīs as he dwells in the hearts of yogis, worshipped and adored, bearing a form that is the single abode of all the world’s fortune. Honoring him, the kindler of desire, with laughter, playful glances, and expressive brows, they touched his feet with their hands, which they placed upon his lap. Praising him, they spoke with a gentle, feigned anger, saying, “One who loves is loved in return by another; some do the opposite, and 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 merely friends; there is no true affection or righteousness in such a bond, for it is founded in self-interest alone. Those who love those who do not love them, like compassionate parents, act without fault; here, affection and virtue are truly excellent. Yet, some do not love even those who love them, let alone those who do not; such people are self-satisfied, fulfilled within themselves, ungrateful, and disrespectful to their elders. “But I, O friends, do not show love even to those who love me, for their devotion. Just as a poor man, having gained wealth and then lost it, is so absorbed in its thought that he knows nothing else, so it is with you. You, O tender-hearted ones, have abandoned all worldly and scriptural duties for my sake, to serve me alone. Though you worship me directly, I sometimes hide myself, so that your love may grow ever deeper—please do not resent this, O beloveds. “I am unable to repay your flawless devotion, not even with the lifespan of the gods. Those who have loved me, breaking the hard chains of home and family, let their own virtuous deeds be their reward, for nothing I can give is equal to such love.” Thus concluded the 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. Śuka continued: When devotion in the form of yoga is directed toward Bhagavān Vāsudeva, it quickly gives rise to detachment and knowledge that leads to realization of Brahman. When a person’s mind, through the senses, ceases to make distinctions among objects—whether pleasant or unpleasant—then, at that very moment, he perceives himself by himself as unattached, seeing all with equality, free from acceptance and rejection, established in the supreme state. Pure knowledge alone is the supreme Brahman, the Supreme Self, the Lord, the Person; Bhagavān is perceived as one, though appearing as many through various objects of perception. To this extent alone, through complete yoga, does the yogi attain the desired goal here: total detachment from all things. That one knowledge, by the outward-turned senses, appears—through illusion—in the form of manifold objects, as Brahman without qualities, taking on the characteristics of sound and so forth. 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 born of that one source. 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 this profound knowledge, which is the vision of Brahman, been spoken—by which one discerns the reality of both prakriti (nature) and puruṣa (spirit). 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 Bhagavān—though approached by various scriptural paths—always one and undivided. By action, by sacrifice, by gifts, by austerity, by study, by self-restraint, by mastery over the senses and mind, and by renunciation of actions; by yoga with its various limbs, and by the yoga of devotion; by dharma marked by both activity and renunciation—one who is engaged in both; through realization of the truth of the self, and by firm detachment—Bhagavān is attained by these means, both as the Lord with qualities and as the formless One, by one who sees with the eye of wisdom. I have described to you the fourfold nature of bhakti-yoga, and also that which, when time enters the unmanifest, disappears among living beings. The many cycles of transmigration of the living being, created by ignorance and action, into which the self enters, yet does not know its own path, have also been revealed. This knowledge should never be taught to the wicked, nor to the undisciplined, nor to the arrogant, nor to the hostile, nor to those who are only outwardly religious.