The minds of the people of Vraja often wandered back to the sacred places—the rivers, mountains, and forests—where Krishna, whom they fondly called Mukunda, had played. These places, adorned by his footsteps, became the focus of their hearts, drawing them into memories of his divine pastimes. Nanda, the father of Krishna, reflected deeply. He believed that Krishna and Rama, the greatest among the gods, had come to Vraja for a profound purpose, just as the sage Garga had foretold. He remembered how Krishna had vanquished Kamsa, whose strength was said to rival ten thousand elephants, along with the mighty wrestlers and the lord of elephants. Krishna had destroyed them all with effortless grace, like a lion subduing lesser beasts. Nanda recalled further feats: Krishna had broken three powerful palm trees, strong as a great bow, with just one hand. He had lifted an entire mountain and held it aloft for seven days to protect the villagers. Demons like Pralamba, Dhenuka, Arishta, Trinavarta, Baka, and others—each conquerors of gods and demons—had fallen to Krishna in playful sport. As Nanda remembered these events again and again, his mind, wholly devoted to Krishna, became overwhelmed with longing. Silently, he sat, overcome by a surge of love. Yaśodā, Krishna’s mother, listened to tales of her son’s deeds; tears filled her eyes, and her breasts, overflowing with affection, became wet. Seeing the supreme love that Nanda and Yaśodā felt for Krishna, Uddhava, Krishna’s dear companion, was filled with joy and spoke to Nanda. He praised them, saying, “You two are surely the most praiseworthy among all embodied beings, for your minds are so firmly fixed upon Nārāyaṇa, the teacher of all.” Uddhava explained that Krishna and Rama 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 spoke of Krishna’s divine power: even if a person fixes their mind, however impure, upon him for a moment at the time of death, Krishna swiftly removes the store of karma and leads one to the supreme path, radiant as the sun and full of Brahman. He continued, “In Nārāyaṇa, the 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?” Uddhava reassured them that within a short time, Acyuta, the Lord of the Sātvatas, would return to Vraja and bring joy to his parents. Having slain Kamsa, Krishna would fulfill every promise he had made to them. “Do not grieve, O greatly fortunate ones,” Uddhava said. “You will see Krishna nearby. He dwells within the hearts of all beings, like a light within the ether.” He explained that Krishna, who exists in reality, is the same to all—he has no one dear or disliked, no superior or inferior, nor equal or unequal. He has neither mother nor father, nor wife, sons, or others; neither his own nor another, nor body nor birth at all. Uddhava described how Krishna has no action in this world among the mixed sources of good and bad, yet, for the sake of play, he appears to protect the virtuous. Though beyond qualities, he assumes the modes of goodness, passion, and darkness, playing with them to create, maintain, and destroy, though he is unborn. Just as, by the vision of a bee, something appears to whirl and be agitated, so, in the mind, the self is remembered as the doer by the notion of agency. He reminded them, “He is not your son alone, O blessed ones; Lord Hari is the son, the self, the father, and the mother of all, he is the ruler. Whatever is seen or 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 they spoke, the night passed for Nanda, Krishna’s companion. 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 Krishna, their voices seemed to reach the heavens. Mingled with the sound of churning curds, their songs dispelled all inauspiciousness from the directions. When the sun rose and the Lord appeared, the residents of Vraja gathered at Nanda’s door. They saw a golden chariot and wondered, “Whose is this?” They asked if Akrura had arrived, or someone else fulfilling Kamsa’s purpose—the one by whom Krishna, the lotus-eyed one, had been taken to Mathura. They wondered what atonement he might accomplish for them, for the pleasure of their master. As the women spoke, Uddhava, having performed his morning rites, arrived. Seeing Krishna’s companion, the women of Vraja 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 beloved Krishna to do something dear for his parents. They could not imagine any other reason for Krishna to be remembered in Vraja, for 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, lasting only as long as that purpose, just as men with women or bees with flowers. The destitute are abandoned by prostitutes; subjects forsake a powerless king; students leave a teacher once their 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 all 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. One gopī, seeing a honeybee and meditating on union with Krishna, imagined it as a messenger sent by her beloved and spoke thus: “O bee, companion of the deceitful, do not touch the feet of my rival. Her garland, smeared with the pollen from her breasts, stains your whiskers. Let the lord of bees carry the favor of those proud women, for you are his messenger, fit to be mocked in the assembly of the Yadus. After giving us but once the nectar of his lips, enchanting us, he abandoned us like a flower is left behind. How does Padmā serve his lotus feet, whose mind is stolen by the praises of the glorious one? Why do you, six-legged one, sing here of the lord of the Yadus, who is the ancient master of our homes? Go sing of his exploits among his friends in victory, for he has healed the pain of their breasts, granting them their desires.” Thus, in the dawn of Vraja, the love and longing for Krishna filled every heart, every song, and every tear, as the people remembered his divine presence and awaited his return.