Krishna, speaking with deep affection, revealed to Uddhava, “O dear one, even though I am far from them, the women of Gokula, for whom I am the dearest beloved, are bewildered and overwhelmed by the pain of separation. Constantly remembering me, they are lost in longing. My cowherd maidens, whose hearts are bound with mine, sustain their lives with great difficulty, holding on only by the hope that I will return and by the messages I send.” Thus instructed, Uddhava, honoring his master’s command, mounted his chariot and departed for the cowherd village of Nanda. As the sun was setting and the herds were returning, Uddhava arrived in Nanda’s Vraja. His chariot was hidden by the thick dust raised by the hooves of the cattle. The air resounded with the bellowing of strong bulls competing for the cows, and the cries of calves running to their mothers, who were heavy with milk. All around, white calves leaped and played, while the sounds of milking and the sweet melodies of flutes filled the air. The gopīs, beautifully adorned, together with the cowherd men, sang of the auspicious deeds of Balarāma and Kṛṣṇa, making the whole village splendid. The delightful settlement was alive with rituals for the fire, the sun, guests, cows, brāhmaṇas, ancestors, and the gods, accompanied by the fragrance of incense, the glow of lamps, and garlands everywhere. Flower-filled groves bloomed in every direction, echoing with the songs of flocks of birds, and ponds adorned with swans, cranes, and lotuses decorated the land. When Uddhava arrived, Nanda joyfully embraced him, honoring Kṛṣṇa’s dear companion with the same devotion he felt for Vāsudeva. After offering him the finest food and seating him comfortably on a soft couch, Nanda, seeing that Uddhava’s fatigue was gone, inquired after his well-being, offering foot massages and other services. “O fortunate one,” Nanda asked, “is our friend, the son of Śūra, well? Is he surrounded by his family and children, free from troubles, and steadfast in his friendship? By good fortune, the wicked Kaṃsa, who always hated the virtuous Yadus, has been slain along with his followers by his own evil. Does Kṛṣṇa still remember us—his mother, his friends, the cowherds, the village, his dear ones, the cows, Vṛndāvana, and the hill? Will Govinda return, even once, to see his own people? Then we shall behold his face, with its fine nose and beautiful, smiling eyes. From forest fires, storms and rain, wild bulls and serpents, and dangers impossible to cross—even from death itself—we were protected by Kṛṣṇa, that supremely great soul. When we remember his heroic deeds, his playful glances, his laughter and speech, O dear one, all our activities come to a halt. Our minds become absorbed in those places—rivers, mountains, and forests—marked by Mukunda’s footsteps, where we saw him play. I think Kṛṣṇa and Rāma, the best among the gods, have come here for some great purpose, just as Garga said. Kamsa, whose strength was like ten thousand elephants, the wrestlers, and the lord of elephants—he destroyed them all effortlessly, as a lion does other beasts. He broke the three mighty palm trees, strong as a great bow, with one hand, and for seven days he held up the mountain. Pralamba, Dhenuka, Arishta, Trinavarta, Baka, and others—these demons, conquerors of gods and demons, were slain by him here as if in play.” As Nanda remembered again and again, his mind devoted to Kṛṣṇa, he became overwhelmed with longing and sat silent, overcome by the surge of love. Yaśodā, too, as she listened to the stories of her son’s deeds, found her eyes filling with tears, and her breasts, flowing with affection, grew moist. Witnessing such supreme love for Kṛṣṇa in Nanda and Yaśodā, Uddhava was filled with joy and spoke to Nanda: “You two are surely the most praiseworthy among all beings, O bestowers of honor, for your minds are fixed in this way upon Nārāyaṇa, the teacher of all. For these two—Rāma and Mukunda—are the seed and womb of the universe: the Person and the Primal Matter. In all beings, they are the ancient lords of knowledge and mastery, distinct from all else. He, in whom even an impure mind fixed for a moment at the time of death, swiftly removes the store of karma—he, radiant as the sun and full of Brahman, leads one to the supreme path. In him, Nārāyaṇa, cause of all, who has taken a mortal form for the sake of all souls—since you have set your hearts so deeply, O great ones, what greater merit could there be for you? Within a short time, Acyuta, the Lord of the Sātvatas, will come to Vraja and bring joy to his parents. Having slain Kamsa, the enemy of all the Sātvatas, in the midst of the arena, whatever Kṛṣṇa promised you when he met you, he will surely fulfill. Do not grieve, O greatly fortunate ones; you will see Kṛṣṇa nearby. He dwells within the hearts of all beings, like a light within the ether. For him who exists in reality, there is no one dear nor anyone disliked; neither superior nor inferior, nor equal nor unequal, for he is the same to all. He has neither mother nor father, nor wife nor sons and others; neither his own nor another, nor body nor birth at all. Nor does he have any action in this world among the mixed sources of good and bad; even so, for the sake of play, he appears for the protection of the virtuous. Though beyond qualities, he assumes the modes of goodness, passion, and darkness; playing with them, he creates, maintains, and destroys, though unborn. Just as, by the vision of the bee, something appears to whirl and be greatly agitated, so, in the mind, the self is remembered as the doer by the notion of agency. Indeed, he is not your son alone, O blessed ones; the Lord Hari is the son, the self, the father, and the mother of all, he is the ruler. Whatever is seen, heard, past, present, or future; stable or moving, great or small—apart from the true substance of the infallible, nothing is worth speaking of; he alone is everything, the Supreme Self.” Thus, as they spoke, the night passed for Nanda, Kṛṣṇa’s companion. The cowherd women arose, examined the lamps, worshipped the household deities, and began to churn the curds, as a new day dawned in Vraja.