Surrounded by those whom he had freed from all sorrow, the Lord Acyuta shone with even greater radiance, like a person empowered by the very energies that surround him. Gathering the gopīs, whose hearts he had liberated, Krishna led them to the sandy banks of the Yamunā. The riverbank was blossoming with jasmine and mandāra flowers, its air fragrant with gentle breezes and alive with the humming of bees. The place was auspicious, its darkness dispelled by the silvery light of the autumn moon. Krishna, his hand ever restless, walked upon the sand, which was soft and bright beneath his feet. The gopīs, their hearts now relieved of all pain by the joy of beholding him—just as the Vedas reach their ultimate goal—prepared a seat for their beloved. With devotion, they laid down their own upper garments, stained with the red of their ornaments and the marks of their affection. There, seated in their midst, the Lord—master of all—took his place not only upon the seat they offered, but in the very hearts of the yogis. Among that assembly of gopīs, he shone resplendent, worshipped by all, bearing a form that is the single abode of all fortune in the three worlds. The gopīs honored him, the very kindler of desire, with laughter, playful glances, and the expressive movements of their brows. They reached out and touched his feet, their hands resting upon his lap. With loving praise and a touch of feigned anger, they addressed him: “One who loves is loved in return by some, while others do the opposite; and some do not love at all. Please, O noble one, tell us—which of these is right?” The Blessed Lord replied, “Those who love each other for their own benefit are mere friends; there is no true affection or righteousness in such a bond, for it is rooted only in self-interest. But those who love even those who do not love them, like compassionate parents, act without fault—here, affection and virtue are truly excellent. There are some who 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 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, becomes so absorbed in its memory that he knows nothing else, so it is with me. You, gentle ones, have abandoned all worldly and scriptural duties for my sake, to serve me. Though you worship me directly, I sometimes hide myself from you, so you would not grow proud or complacent. O beloveds, you should not resent this. “I am unable to repay your flawless devotion, even with the lifespan of the gods. You have broken the hard chains of home and loved me alone—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 Bhagavān Vāsudeva, it quickly gives rise to detachment and knowledge that leads to realization of Brahman. When a person’s mind, through the functions of the senses, does not distinguish between pleasant and unpleasant objects, then, in that very moment, he perceives himself by his own self 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. Bhagavān is perceived as one, though appearing as distinct through the objects of perception and the senses. By complete yoga, the yogi attains the desired goal here: total detachment from all things. The one knowledge, through the outward-turned senses, appears—by illusion—in the form of various 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 this seen by one who, with faith and devotion, practices yoga constantly, whose mind is collected, unattached, and who sees with detachment. Thus has this profound knowledge been spoken, the vision of Brahman, by which one discerns the reality 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 Bhagavān, though approached by various scriptural paths. By action, by sacrifices, 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 indeed by the yoga of devotion; by dharma marked by both activity and renunciation—through all these, and through realization of the truth of the self and firm detachment, Bhagavān is attained, both with qualities and without, by one who sees with his own self. I have described to you the fourfold nature of bhakti-yoga, and also that which, when time has entered the unmanifest, disappears among living beings: the many cycles of transmigration, created by ignorance and action, into which the self enters, yet does not know its own path. 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. It should not be given to the greedy, nor to one absorbed in household life, nor to one who is not devoted to me, nor to those who hate my devotees. But to one who is faithful, devoted, disciplined, free from envy, friendly to all beings, and eager to serve—to such a one, let this be given. Let it be shared with those who are outwardly detached, peaceful of mind, pure, free from envy, and for whom I am the dearest among the dear. O mother, any person who even once hears this with faith, or recites it with mind fixed on me, surely attains my path. Śuka then said: Thus, having heard the most beautiful words of the Lord, the cowherd women let go of all the pain born of separation. Their desires were fulfilled by his presence. There, Govinda began the rāsa play, surrounded by his devoted and joyful companions—the finest among women—each entwining her arms with the others. The festival of rāsa commenced, adorned by the circle of gopīs, with Krishna, the lord of yogis, standing between each pair among them. Entering among them, he drew the women close by the neck; those who witnessed this would imagine the sky crowded with hundreds of flying palaces. The gods, along with their wives, overcome with eagerness, watched from above. Drums sounded, showers of flowers fell from the heavens, and the lords of the Gandharvas, with their wives, sang his spotless glory. Within the rāsa circle arose a joyous tumult—the sound of bracelets, anklets, and bells of the women, all together with their beloved Lord.