Taking up the garments offered to him, Lord Krishna entered the sandy banks of the Yamunā, a place radiant with blooming jasmine and mandāra flowers. Fragrant breezes drifted through the air, carrying the gentle hum of bees, while the moon of autumn cast its cool, silvery light, dispelling all darkness. The sand beneath Krishna’s restless hand was soft and bright, and the entire grove was auspicious, filled with a sense of sacredness. The gopīs, whose hearts had ached in separation, found their pain soothed and their spirits uplifted at the sight of their beloved, just as the Vedas find fulfillment in their ultimate aim. Overflowing with love, they prepared a seat for Krishna, spreading their upper garments—stained with the red dye from their breasts—upon the ground as an offering of devotion. Seated thus, the Lord, who is the very master of all, took his place not only among the gopīs but also within the hearts of the yogis, as he is the single abode of all fortune in the three worlds. The gopīs honored him, the kindler of their deepest desires, with laughter, playful glances, and expressive movements of their brows. They touched his feet with their hands, resting them gently on his lap, and spoke to him with words tinged with a playful, feigned anger. They asked, “O noble one, tell us: Some say love should be returned by love, others say the opposite, and some claim love should not be given at all. Which is right?” The Blessed Lord replied, “When two love each other only for their own benefit, it is friendship, but there is no true affection or righteousness in such self-interest. Those who love even those who do not return their love, like compassionate parents, are faultless, and their affection and virtue are praiseworthy. Yet, there are some who do not love even those who love them, nor anyone else; such people are self-satisfied, fulfilled in themselves, ungrateful, and disrespectful to their elders. “But I, dear friends, do not immediately reciprocate the love of those devoted to me. Just as a poor man, having once gained and then lost wealth, becomes absorbed in thoughts of that lost treasure, so too do my devotees become wholly absorbed in me when I seem to withdraw, knowing nothing else. “You, delicate ones, have given up all worldly and scriptural duties for my sake, to serve me. Though you worship me directly, I sometimes hide myself, so that your love may grow ever deeper. Please, do not resent this, beloveds. Truly, I cannot repay your flawless devotion, even over the lifespan of the gods. Those who have broken the hard chains of home and loved me so purely—let their own virtuous deeds be their reward.” Thus concludes the chapter known as “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. Krishna continued, “When devotion, in the form of yoga, is directed toward Bhagavān Vāsudeva, it swiftly gives rise to both detachment and knowledge, leading to the realization of Brahman. When a person’s mind, through the senses, ceases to make distinctions between pleasant and unpleasant objects, then, in that very moment, he perceives himself by himself, unattached, seeing all equally, free from acceptance and rejection, and established in the supreme state. “Pure knowledge alone is the supreme Brahman, the Supreme Self, the Lord, the Person. Though Bhagavān appears as many due to objects of perception, he is truly one. Through complete yoga, the yogi attains the desired goal here: total detachment from all things. “The one knowledge, when turned outward through the senses, appears—through illusion—in the form of objects, as Brahman without qualities takes 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 perceived by one who, with faith and devotion, practices yoga constantly, whose mind is collected, unattached, and who sees with detachment. “Thus I have spoken this profound knowledge, the vision of Brahman, by which one discerns the reality of both prakriti and purusha. Just as an object with 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 in its various forms, by the yoga of devotion, by dharma marked by both activity and renunciation—through realization of the truth of the self and by 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 cycles of transmigration, created by ignorance and action, are many, and the self enters them without knowing its own path. “This knowledge should never be taught to the wicked, the undisciplined, the arrogant, the hostile, or those who are only outwardly religious. Nor should it be given to the greedy, those absorbed in household life, those not devoted to me, or 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. Give it to one who is outwardly detached, whose mind is peaceful, 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 who recites it with a mind fixed on me, surely attains my path.” Śrī Śuka then continued: Hearing these most beautiful words of the Lord, the hearts of the cowherd women were released from the pain of separation, their every desire fulfilled by his presence. There, Govinda began the rāsa play, surrounded by the devoted and joyful gopīs, the finest among women, their arms entwined with one another. The festival of rāsa commenced, adorned by the circle of gopīs, with Krishna, the lord of yogis, standing between each pair. Entering among them, he drew the women close by the neck, and those who witnessed this would imagine the sky filled with hundreds of flying palaces. The gods, along with their wives, watched with minds carried away by eagerness. Drums resounded, showers of flowers fell from the heavens, and the lords of the Gandharvas sang Krishna’s spotless glory with their wives. Within the rāsa circle arose a tumultuous sound—the jingling of bracelets, anklets, and bells—mingling with the laughter of the beloved women and their Lord. Among them all, the Lord, son of Devakī, shone with surpassing brilliance, like a great emerald set among golden gems.