As the chariot bearing Krishna and Balarama prepared to depart for Mathura, the hearts of the gopīs of Vraja were overcome with sorrow and longing. They spoke among themselves, their voices trembling with emotion, “Mukunda, so strong-willed, is now captivated by the sweet, honeyed words of those city folk. How will he ever return to us, the simple village women, bashful and bewildered by love?” They imagined the day unfolding in Mathura—a great festival surely awaited the Daśārhas, Bhojas, Andhakas, Vṛṣṇis, and Sātvatas. Travelers on the road would behold the beautiful Lord, the very abode of all virtues, the beloved son of Devakī. Their hearts ached with the thought. “Let the name Akrūra be given to one so pitiless as this!” they lamented, for Akrūra, without comforting them in their deep sorrow, was taking away their dearest friend. With an unfeeling heart, he had mounted the chariot, and the eager urged him onward. The cowherds, neglected by their elders, followed with their carts, while fate itself seemed to turn against the gopīs that day. Desperate, they resolved, “Let us go and stop Mādhava! What could our elders and relatives do for us, when, by fate, our hearts—unable to bear even a half-blink’s separation from Mukunda—are now shattered?” Their minds raced with memories: “We, whose hearts were led away 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?” They recalled how, at day’s end, Krishna—the friend of Ananta—would return to Vraja, surrounded by cowherds, his hair dusted by their hooves, playing his flute, glancing with smiling eyes. “How could we live if we were deprived of him?” they cried. Thus, the women of Vraja, their minds wholly absorbed in Krishna and tormented by separation, cast off their shyness and wept aloud, calling out, “Govinda! Dāmodara! Mādhava!” As the sun rose and their lamentations echoed, Akrūra, having fulfilled his friendly duties, urged the chariot onward. The cowherds, led by Nanda and others, followed after with their carts, bearing many gifts—jars filled with the products of the cows. The cowherd women, enchanted by their beloved Krishna, followed after him as well, longing for a sign from the Lord, and stood waiting, their eyes searching for a final glance. Seeing them so afflicted as he departed, Krishna, the foremost of the Yadus, comforted them with loving words, assuring them through messengers, “I will return.” As long as the banner atop the chariot was visible and the dust of its wheels could be seen, the gopīs continued following, their hearts drawn toward Krishna as if by painted images. But when all hope of Govinda’s return was gone, they turned back. Yet, free from sorrow, they spent their days singing of their beloved’s deeds, keeping him ever alive in their hearts. Meanwhile, the Lord arrived at the purifying Yamunā river, accompanied by Balarama and Akrūra, riding swiftly in the chariot. There, after rinsing his mouth and drinking the clear, jewel-like water, Krishna approached a grove of trees with Balarama and entered the chariot. Akrūra, having bid them farewell, seated himself atop the chariot and went to the Yamunā’s pool to perform his ritual bathing. Immersing himself in those sacred waters and reciting the eternal Brahman, Akrūra suddenly beheld a wondrous vision: there, within the water, he saw Balarama and Krishna together. Amazed, he wondered, “How are the sons of Devakī here in the water, when they should be on the chariot?” Rising up, he looked for them, but there again, as before, he saw them seated on the chariot. He submerged himself once more, questioning whether his vision had been false. Yet again, a divine sight appeared before him: the great Lord was being praised by Siddhas, Charanas, Gandharvas, and Asuras with bowed heads and musical instruments. Akrūra beheld the divine one with a thousand heads, crowned with a thousand serpent hoods, clad in blue garments, shining white like snowy peaks. On his lap rested a dark, cloud-hued person, dressed in yellow silk, four-armed, peaceful, with lotus-petal reddish eyes. His face was serene and beautiful, adorned with a charming smile; his features—brows, nose, ears, cheeks, and lips—were all lovely and reddish. The Lord’s 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 shining with rays; his feet, adorned with nine toes and thumb-like digits, gleamed like lotus flowers. 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 Brahmā and Rudra, and by nine foremost twice-born sages. Prahlāda, Nārada, the Vasus, and other foremost devotees praised him with words, each from their own perspective, their hearts pure and spotless. He was served by Śrī (fortune), Puṣṭi (nourishment), speech, brilliance, fame, satisfaction, dissolution, victory, knowledge, ignorance, power, and illusion. Beholding this wondrous vision, Akrūra was deeply delighted. Filled with supreme devotion, his body thrilled with joy, his heart overflowing with emotion, his eyes moist. With a choked voice, standing firm in goodness, Akrūra bowed low with his head, joined his palms in reverence, and slowly, with care, began to praise the Lord. He said: “I bow to you, the cause of all causes, Nārāyaṇa, the primeval, imperishable Person, from whose navel-lotus Brahmā arose, and from whom this world has come forth. Earth, water, fire, wind, space, the great elements, the origin of the unmanifest, mind, senses, all the objects of the senses, and all the gods—these are the elements that make up the world, O Lord. “Yet these, beginning with the unmanifest, do not know your true nature, for they are grasped as not-self; even the unborn, bound by qualities to the unborn, knows only what is beyond qualities, not your true form. Yogis worship you directly as the Supreme Person, the Lord, as the principle within the self, within beings, and within the gods. Some twice-born, following the Vedic path, worship you through the threefold Veda, with elaborate sacrifices of many forms and names. Others, having renounced all actions and attained tranquility, worship you, the embodiment of knowledge, through the sacrifice of wisdom.” Thus ends the thirty-ninth chapter, “Akrūra’s Return,” in the first half of the Tenth Book of the Śrīmad Bhāgavata Mahāpurāṇa, the supreme scripture for the paramahaṃsas.