The news of Krishna’s imminent departure from Vraja spread swiftly, and a wave of anguish swept through the hearts of the gopīs. Some, overcome by sorrow, grew pale and sighed deeply, their faces drained of color. Their garments slipped from their shoulders, their bangles slid from their wrists, and their braids came undone, as if the very order of their lives was unraveling. Others, lost in thoughts of Krishna, forgot their daily tasks entirely. They moved about in a daze, oblivious to the world around them, as if they had retreated into the inner sanctum of their own hearts. There were those who, recalling Śauri’s—Krishna’s—gentle smiles and loving words, found themselves overwhelmed. The memory of his charming phrases, which had once filled their hearts with joy, now left them bewildered and adrift. They remembered everything: the grace of his walk, his playful gestures, the affectionate glances and smiles that soothed all sorrow, his jokes that dispelled their cares, and his delightful, mischievous deeds. As their minds turned again and again to Mukunda, fear and distress gripped them. Gathering together in small groups, tears streaming down their faces, they spoke to one another, hearts fixed on Acyuta. “O Creator,” they cried, “how merciless you are! You bring embodied beings together in friendship and love, only to separate them before their desires are fulfilled, just as a child’s toy is snatched away before the game is done. You showed us Mukunda’s face, framed by his dark curls, with lovely cheeks and a raised nose, his gentle smile dispelling all our sorrow—and now you send him far from us. This is not right! “You are cruel, living up to the very name Akrūra! You gave us eyes only to take away the vision we cherish most. Through you, we beheld the beauty of the enemy of Madhu, the perfection of all creation gathered in one form. The son of Nanda, whose affection is fleeting, no longer looks upon us. Though we are tormented by our own actions, we left behind home, family, and husbands to serve him, but now he has found new beloveds. “Surely, for the women of that city, the night will pass in happiness, and all their wishes will come true. As he enters, they will feast their eyes on the Lord of Vraja, drinking the nectar of his sidelong, smiling glances. Mukunda, captivated by their sweet and honeyed words, will be under their sway, though he is so strong-willed. How will he ever return to us simple village girls, bashful and bewildered by love? “Today, there will be a great festival for the Daśārhas, Bhojas, Andhakas, Vṛṣṇis, and Sātvatas. Those along the road will see the Lord, the very abode of all virtues, the son of Devakī, as he passes by. Let the name Akrūra be reserved for one so pitiless! He, without a word of comfort for us in our deep sorrow, is taking away our dearest friend. “With an unfeeling heart, he mounts the chariot, and the reckless urge him on. The cowherds, neglected by their elders, follow with their carts, while fate itself has turned against us today. Let us go and stop Mādhava! What can our elders or relatives do for us, when fate has shattered our hearts—hearts that cannot bear even the briefest separation from Mukunda? “We gopīs, whose hearts were stolen by his loving smiles, enchanting words, playful glances, embraces, and the joys of the rāsa dance—how can we cross this endless darkness of separation, even for a moment, without him? When, at day’s end, the friend of Ananta returns to Vraja, surrounded by cowherds, his hair dusted by their hooves, playing his flute, glancing with smiling eyes—how could we survive if deprived of him?” Śuka continued: Thus, the women of Vraja, their minds utterly absorbed in Krishna and tormented by the pain of separation, cast off all shyness and wept aloud, crying out, “Govinda! Dāmodara! Mādhava!” Their lamentations echoed through the dawn as the sun rose. Akrūra, having fulfilled his friendly duties, urged the chariot onward, carrying Krishna and Balarama away. The cowherds, led by Nanda and others, followed with their carts, bringing jars filled with the products of their beloved cows as gifts. The gopīs, still enchanted by Krishna, trailed behind, longing for just one more sign, one last glance from the Lord. Seeing them so afflicted as he departed, Krishna, the foremost of the Yadus, comforted them with loving words, sending messengers to assure them, “I will return.” As long as the chariot’s banner was visible and the dust of its wheels could be seen, the gopīs followed, their hearts fixed upon him, as if drawn by painted images. But when all hope of Govinda’s return vanished from sight, they turned back. Free from sorrow, they spent their days singing of their beloved’s wondrous deeds, keeping his memory alive in their hearts. Meanwhile, the Lord, accompanied by Rama and Akrūra, rode swiftly in the chariot to the purifying waters of the Yamuna. There, after rinsing his mouth and drinking the clear, jewel-like water, Krishna entered a grove of trees with Rama, and then returned to the chariot. Akrūra, having bid them farewell, sat atop the chariot and went to the Yamuna’s pool to perform his ritual bathing. Immersing himself in those sacred waters and reciting the eternal Brahman, Akrūra beheld a wondrous sight: Rama and Krishna together in the depths. He wondered, “How are the sons of Devaki here in the water, when they should be on the chariot?” Rising up, he looked for them, and there again, as before, he saw them seated. He submerged once more, questioning whether his vision in the water was an illusion. Once again, Akrūra beheld a marvelous vision: the great Lord being praised by Siddhas, Charanas, Gandharvas, and Asuras, all bowing their heads and playing musical instruments. He saw the divine one with a thousand heads, crowned with a thousand serpent hoods, clad in blue garments, shining white as snowy peaks. Upon his lap rested a dark, cloud-hued person, dressed in yellow silk, four-armed, peaceful, with lotus-petal reddish eyes. His face was beautiful and serene, adorned with a charming smile; his brows, nose, ears, cheeks, and lips were all lovely and tinged with red. His arms were long and full, his chest broad and splendid, his neck like a conch, his navel deep, his abdomen marked with gentle folds. His hips and thighs were large, his hands and knees well-formed, his legs graceful and beautifully shaped. His ankles were high, his nails reddish and radiant, his feet gleaming like lotus flowers, adorned with nine toes and thumb-like digits. He was adorned with priceless jewels: a crown, bracelets, armlets, sacred thread, waistband, garlands, anklets, and earrings. His lotus hands shone, holding conch, discus, and mace; his chest bore the mark of Srivatsa, the radiant Kaustubha gem, and a garland of forest flowers. He was attended by Sunanda, Nanda, and other associates, by the Sanaka sages, by the lords of the gods such as Brahma and Rudra, and by nine foremost twice-born sages. Prahlada, Narada, the Vasus, and other foremost devotees were there as well, each praising him in their own words, their hearts pure and spotless. Thus did Akrūra behold the supreme vision, the Lord in his divine glory, attended by the greatest of sages and devotees, and surrounded by the music and praise of the heavens.