In the quiet of Vraja, Nanda and Yaśodā sat with hearts full of longing, wondering if Krishna still remembered them—his mother, his friends, the cowherds, the village, his beloved ones, the cows, Vrindavana, and the sacred hill. They yearned for Govinda’s return, even if only once, so they might again behold his face, with its fine nose and beautiful, smiling eyes. They recalled how Krishna, the supremely great soul, had protected them from countless dangers: forest fires, storms and rains, wild bulls, serpents, and even death itself. Whenever they remembered Krishna’s heroic deeds, his playful glances, laughter, and sweet speech, all their activities seemed to fade away, and their minds became absorbed in the places—rivers, mountains, and forests—adorned by Mukunda’s footsteps, where they had watched him play. Nanda mused that Krishna and Rama, the best among the gods, had surely come to Vraja for some great purpose, just as Garga had foretold. He remembered how Krishna had effortlessly destroyed Kamsa—whose strength was like ten thousand elephants—along with his wrestlers and the lord of elephants, just as a lion overpowers beasts. Krishna had broken the three mighty palm trees with one hand and held up the mountain for seven days. Pralamba, Dhenuka, Arishta, Trinavarta, Baka, and other powerful demons—conquerors of gods and demons—had all been slain by Krishna in his playful pastimes. As these memories flooded Nanda’s mind, he became overwhelmed with longing and sat silent, overcome by the surge of love for Krishna. Yaśodā, listening to the stories of her son’s deeds, wept with tears of affection, her breasts wet with motherly love. Witnessing such supreme love in Nanda and Yaśodā, Uddhava, Krishna’s dear companion, was filled with joy and spoke to Nanda: “You two are surely the most praiseworthy among all embodied beings, for your minds are fixed 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 is swiftly freed from karma—he, radiant as the sun and full of Brahman, leads one to the supreme path. In Nārāyaṇa, cause of all, who has taken a mortal form for the sake of all souls—since you have set your hearts so deeply, 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 arena, whatever Krishna promised you when he met you, he will surely fulfill. Do not grieve, O greatly fortunate ones; you will see Krishna 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.” As the night passed with these words, Nanda, Krishna’s companion, sat quietly, while the cowherd women arose, examined the lamps, worshipped the household deities, and began to churn the curds. They shone with bracelets and garlands as they pulled the ropes, their hips, breasts, necklaces, and earrings moving, their cheeks radiant, faces adorned with red kumkum. As the women of Vraja sang of the lotus-eyed one, their voices seemed to touch the heavens; mingled with the sound of churning curds, it dispelled all inauspiciousness from the directions. When the sun rose and the Lord appeared, the residents of Vraja at Nanda’s door saw a golden chariot and wondered whose it was. They asked, “Is Akrura arrived, or someone else, who fulfills Kamsa’s purpose, by whom Krishna, the lotus-eyed one, was taken to Mathura? What atonement will he accomplish for us, for the pleasure of our master?” As the women spoke thus, Uddhava, having performed his morning rites, arrived. Seeing Krishna’s companion, the Vraja women beheld him—long-armed, with fresh lotus eyes, clad in yellow, adorned with a garland of lotuses, his face like a blooming lotus, his earrings shining. They recognized him as the attendant of the Yadu lord, sent by their master to do something dear for his parents. Otherwise, they could not imagine any reason for Krishna to be remembered in Vraja; the bond of affection among kin is hard to renounce, even for a sage. They reflected that friendship with others is made for some purpose, as long as the purpose lasts—just as men make with women, and as bees do with flowers. The destitute are abandoned by prostitutes; subjects forsake a king who is powerless; students leave a teacher once the knowledge is learned; priests depart after receiving their fee. Birds leave a tree once its fruit is gone; guests depart from a house after eating; deer abandon a forest when it is burned; lovers leave a woman after enjoying her. Thus, the gopīs, whose words, bodies, and minds were absorbed in Govinda, renounced worldly concerns when Krishna’s messenger, Uddhava, arrived. They sang of his beloved deeds and wept, unashamed, recalling again and again the acts of his childhood and youth.