As the gopīs stood before Kṛṣṇa, their hearts full of longing and devotion, the Lord addressed them with gentle candor. “O dear friends,” he said, “my love does not arise even for those who love me, drawn only by their devotion. Imagine a poor man who, upon gaining wealth and then losing it, becomes so absorbed in thoughts of what he had that he forgets all else. In this way, my attention is fixed elsewhere, and I do not return love for love as you might expect. Yet, you—so gentle and tender—have forsaken all worldly and scriptural duties for my sake, choosing to serve me above all else. Though you worship me directly, I remain hidden from your sight, not out of disregard but from a deeper purpose. Do not harbor resentment for this, my beloveds. Your devotion is flawless, and I am unable to repay it, not even if I possessed the lifespan of the gods. You have broken the hard chains of home and virtue for my sake; let your own noble deeds be your reward, for I can offer nothing greater in return. Thus concludes 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 swiftly brings about detachment and knowledge, leading to the realization of Brahman. When one’s mind, through the functions of the senses, ceases to make distinctions between pleasant and unpleasant things, at that very moment, one perceives the self by itself—unattached, seeing all equally, free from acceptance or 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 through objects of perception and such, he is truly one. Through complete yoga, the yogi attains the highest goal here: utter detachment from all things. The one knowledge, when turned outward through the senses, appears—by illusion—as the manifold objects of the world, as Brahman without qualities taking on the features of sound and so forth. Just as the great principle, in the form of ego, becomes threefold and fivefold, self-ruling, and, in 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 and unattached, and who sees with detachment. Thus, this profound knowledge has been spoken, the vision of Brahman, by which one discerns the reality of both prakṛti and puruṣa. 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 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, attains Bhagavān by these means, both with qualities and without, seeing with one’s 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 teaching should never be given to the wicked, nor to the undisciplined, the arrogant, the hostile, or those who are only outwardly religious. It should not be taught to the greedy, nor to one whose mind is 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 person, this should be given. Let this be given to one who is outwardly detached, whose mind is peaceful, who is free from envy, pure, and for whom I am dearest among the dear. O mother, any person who even once hears this with faith, or who recites it with mind fixed on me, surely attains my path. Śuka then narrated: Having heard these most beautiful words of the Lord, the gopīs let go of the pain that separation had caused them; their desires were fulfilled by his presence. There, Govinda began the rāsa play, surrounded by his devoted and joyful companions—the gopīs, the finest among women—who entwined their arms with one another. The festival of rāsa commenced, its circle adorned by the gopīs, with Kṛṣṇa, the lord of yogis, standing between each pair among them. As he entered among them, Kṛṣṇa drew the women close by the neck. Those who beheld this wondrous sight would imagine the sky itself crowded with hundreds of flying palaces. The gods, along with their wives, their minds carried away by eagerness, watched the scene unfold. Drums sounded from the heavens, showers of flowers rained down, and the lords of the Gandharvas sang Kṛṣṇa’s spotless glory with their wives. Within the rāsa circle, a tumultuous sound arose—the music of bracelets, anklets, and bells of the women, together with their beloveds. Among them, the Lord, son of Devakī, shone exceedingly, as a great emerald among golden gems. With the stamping of feet, the waving of arms, smiling glances, playful movements of brows, swaying earrings brushing their cheeks, and loosened hair braids damp with sweat, the wives of Kṛṣṇa sang; they shone like lightning within a circle of clouds. Dancing, their voices raised, their throats flushed with passion, delighted by Kṛṣṇa’s touch, the beloveds sang, filling the place with their song. One, together with Mukunda, skillfully blended her singing with his; being honored by him with affection and praised as “well done, well done,” she sang again and again, and he showed her great favor. Another, exhausted from the rāsa, rested her arm, with loosened bracelet and jasmine garland, upon the shoulder of the mace-bearer who stood beside her. One, taking Kṛṣṇa’s arm—fragrant with blue lotus and smeared with sandalwood—to her nose, thrilled with joy and kissed it. Another, her cheek adorned with the gleam of earrings tossed by her dancing, pressed her cheek to his and offered him betel she had chewed. One, dancing and singing, her anklets and girdle ringing, weary, placed the lotus hand of Acyuta, who stood beside her, upon her breasts for comfort. The gopīs, having gained Acyuta as their beloved—the exclusive consort of Śrī—embraced him around the neck with their arms and, singing, enjoyed with him. With lotus earrings, locks of hair, cheeks shining with sweat, faces radiant, and the music of bracelets and anklets, the gopīs danced together with the Lord, their garlands loosened in their hair, accompanied by bees singing in the cowherd’s grove.