When a person's mind, guided by the senses, ceases to make distinctions between things—whether they are pleasant or unpleasant—a remarkable transformation takes place. In that very moment, such a person perceives their own true self, standing apart and unattached, seeing all things equally. Free from the impulses to accept or reject, they abide in the supreme state. This pure knowledge alone is the highest Brahman, the Supreme Self, the Lord, the Person. Bhagavān, though appearing as many through the variety of objects and perceptions, is in truth one. Through the complete practice of yoga, the yogi attains the highest goal here: absolute detachment from all things. The one true knowledge, when turned outward by the senses, seems—by the power of illusion—to manifest as the many objects of the world, as Brahman without qualities appears to take on the forms of sound and other attributes. Just as the great principle, in the form of ego, divides itself threefold and fivefold, ruling itself, and then, in its elevenfold form, becomes the cosmic egg from which the world arises, so too is the process of manifestation. This profound vision is beheld by one who, with faith and devotion, practices yoga constantly, whose mind is steady, unattached, and who sees all things with detachment. Thus has this deep knowledge—the vision of Brahman—been spoken, by which one discerns the reality of both prakriti (nature) and purusha (spirit). Just as an object, though possessing many qualities, is not divided when perceived through the separate gates of the senses, so too is Bhagavān, though approached by the various paths of scripture, always one. By action, by sacrifice, by charity, by austerity, by study, by self-restraint, by mastery over the senses and mind, and by renunciation of action; by yoga in its many limbs, by the yoga of devotion, by dharma that includes both activity and renunciation—one who pursues these paths, through realization of the truth of the self and firm detachment, attains Bhagavān, whether with qualities or beyond qualities, perceiving him with their own self. I have described to you the fourfold nature of bhakti-yoga, and also that which, when time itself enters the unmanifest, disappears among living beings—the many cycles of transmigration, born of ignorance and action, through which the soul wanders, not knowing its own path. This knowledge, however, should never be taught to the wicked, the undisciplined, the arrogant, the hostile, or those who are only outwardly religious. It should not be given to the greedy, to those engrossed in household life, to those without devotion 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, let this be imparted. Teach it to one who is outwardly detached, peaceful of mind, pure, free from envy, and who holds me dearest of all. 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 continued: Thus, when the cowherd women heard these most beautiful words of the Lord, all the pain of separation left their hearts. Their desires were fulfilled simply by his presence. There, Govinda began the rāsa dance, surrounded by those devoted, joyful women—the finest among all women—each with arms entwined with one another. The festival of rāsa commenced, the circle of gopīs radiant, with Krishna, the lord of yogis, standing between every pair. Entering among them, Krishna drew the women close, his arms around their necks. Anyone witnessing this would imagine the sky filled with hundreds of flying palaces, so wondrous was the sight. The gods, with their wives, watched with minds enraptured; celestial drums resounded, flowers rained down from the heavens, and the Gandharvas and their wives sang his spotless glory. Within the rāsa circle arose a joyous tumult—the jingling of bracelets, anklets, and bells, mingling with the laughter and voices of the women and their beloved Krishna. Among them, the Lord, son of Devakī, shone with surpassing brilliance, like a great emerald among golden gems. With the stamping of feet, waving of arms, smiling glances, playful movements of brows, earrings swaying against their cheeks, and hair braids loosened and damp with sweat, the wives of Krishna sang joyfully. They shone like flashes of lightning within a circle of clouds. Dancing, their voices raised, throats flushed with passion, delighted by Krishna’s touch, the beloved gopīs sang, their song filling the air. One, singing with Mukunda, skillfully blended her voice with his, and as he praised her, saying “Well done, well done,” she sang again and again, basking in his favor. Another, weary from the dance, rested her arm—bracelet loosened, jasmine garland slipping—upon the shoulder of Krishna, the mace-bearer, who stood beside her. One gopī, taking Krishna’s arm, fragrant with blue lotus and sandalwood, pressed it to her nose and, thrilled with joy, 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, grew weary and 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 and sang, rejoicing with him. With lotus earrings, shining faces, sweat-dappled cheeks, the music of bracelets and anklets, and garlands loosened in their hair, the gopīs danced with the Lord, accompanied by the humming of bees in the cowherd’s grove. With embraces, touches of the hand, affectionate glances, playful smiles and laughter, the Lord of Lakshmi delighted in the beautiful women of Vraja, as a child delights in his own reflection. Overwhelmed with joy from contact with Krishna’s limbs, the women of Vraja—hair, garments, or breastbands loosened—could not properly gather up what had fallen, their garlands and ornaments slipping down. Witnessing Krishna’s playful sports, the celestial women in the sky became bewildered, overcome by desire; even the moon and his retinue were astonished. By his own playful will, the Blessed Lord, though self-satisfied, assumed as many forms as there were cowherd women, enjoying with each of them. And when they became tired from their play, he, full of compassion and love, gently wiped their faces with his peaceful hand.