O King, listen to the tale of the people of Vraja, whose hearts were wholly given to Krishna, the very Nārāyaṇa—the source of all, who had taken on a human form for the sake of all souls. What greater merit could there be for them, for their love was set so deeply upon him? It was foretold that soon Acyuta, the Lord of the Sātvatas, would return to Vraja and bring joy to his parents. After slaying Kamsa, the enemy of the Sātvatas, in the midst of the arena, Krishna would fulfill every promise he had made when he last met them. The elders of Vraja were urged not to grieve, for they were truly blessed. They would see Krishna again, for he dwells nearby, within the hearts of all beings, shining like a lamp in the vast ether. In reality, Krishna has no one whom he holds dear or despises; he is neither superior nor inferior, nor equal nor unequal—he is the same to all. He has no mother or father, no wife or sons, no sense of “mine” or “another,” nor body or birth. He performs no action in this world, untouched by the play of good and bad; yet, out of his divine playfulness, he appears for the protection of the virtuous. Though he is beyond the qualities of nature, he assumes the modes of goodness, passion, and darkness, and through them, while remaining unborn, he creates, maintains, and destroys the worlds. Just as a bee’s whirling flight may seem to agitate what is still, so the mind—mistakenly thinking itself the doer—remembers the self as engaged in action. Truly, Krishna is not the son of Nanda and Yashoda alone; he is the son, the self, the father, and the mother of all; he is the ruler of all. Whatever is seen or heard, past, present, or future, whether stable or moving, great or small—apart from the true substance of the infallible Lord, none of it is ultimately real. He alone is everything, the Supreme Self. As these sacred truths were spoken, the night passed for Nanda, Krishna’s companion. With the coming of dawn, the women of Vraja arose to begin their daily tasks. They examined the lamps, worshipped the household deities, and began to churn the curds. Their bracelets and garlands shone as they pulled the ropes; their hips and breasts, necklaces and earrings swayed, their cheeks glowed, and their faces were adorned with red kumkum. As they sang of Krishna, the lotus-eyed one, their voices seemed to touch the heavens, mingling with the sound of churning and dispelling all inauspiciousness from the directions. When the sun rose and the Lord appeared, the people of Vraja gathered at Nanda’s door and beheld a golden chariot. “Whose chariot is this?” they wondered aloud. “Has Akrura come, or someone else sent by Kamsa, the one who took Krishna to Mathura?” They questioned what atonement such a visitor might offer to please their master. As the women spoke among themselves, Uddhava, Krishna’s dear companion, arrived, having completed his morning rites. The women of Vraja gazed upon Uddhava—long-armed, with fresh lotus eyes, clad in yellow, adorned with a garland of lotuses, his face blooming like a lotus, his earrings shining. “We know you,” they said, “as the attendant of the Yadu lord, sent here by our master to do something dear for his parents. Otherwise, what reason could there be for him to be remembered in Vraja? The bond of kinship is hard to renounce, even for a sage.” They reflected that friendships are often formed for some purpose, and last only as long as that purpose endures—like the bond between man and woman, or the bee and the flower. The destitute are abandoned by prostitutes; subjects forsake a powerless king; students leave their teacher once knowledge is gained; priests depart after receiving their fee. Birds leave a tree once its fruit is gone; guests depart after eating; deer abandon a burned forest; lovers leave a woman after enjoying her. Thus, the gopīs, whose words, bodies, and minds were absorbed in Govinda, set aside all worldly concerns at the arrival of Krishna’s messenger, Uddhava. They sang of his beloved deeds and wept openly, remembering again and again the acts of his childhood and youth. One gopī, seeing a honeybee and thinking of union with Krishna, imagined it as a messenger sent by her beloved. She spoke to it: “O bee, companion of the deceitful, do not touch the feet of my rival. The garland she wears, with 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 Yadus’ assembly.” She lamented, “After giving us but once the nectar of his lips and enchanting us, he abandoned us like a flower left behind. How does Padmā serve his lotus feet, whose mind is stolen by his praises? 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 their desires.” She wondered, “What women, in heaven, on earth, or in the underworld, are unattainable to him, whose charming smile and playful brows deceive? We, whose only fortune is to worship the dust of his feet, are but humble—even among the wretched, his name is heard. Leave his foot from your head; I know his sweet words. He sends you, skilled in persuasion, as his messenger. He has abandoned his wives and children here, whom he himself created, and left without concern. What trust can be placed in him?” She continued, “Like hunters pursuing the king of monkeys, he wounded women who were unprotected and deformed by love, conquered by desire. Even Bali, though powerful, was bound like a bird. Enough of friendship with the dark one; yet, the stories of his deeds are hard to abandon. Those who once tasted the nectar of his playful acts, even hearing them just once, were freed from all dualities and abandoned their homes and families, though destitute. Many here, like birds, wander as mendicants.” “We, trusting his crooked words as nectar, ignorant as chicks listening to their mother, are Krishna’s wives, like deer. Again and again, we recall the pain from his touch. Let other news be told, O messenger. Dear friend, have you returned, sent by the beloved? Tell me, what do you seek? You are worthy of honor, gentle one. How will you bring us to the side of the one who cannot be abandoned, when Lakshmi herself always dwells upon his chest?” She pleaded, “Is the noble son now in Mathurā? Does he remember his father’s house, his kin, and the cowherds? Does he ever speak of us, his servants? When will he place his mighty, fragrant arm upon our heads?” Then, Śrī Śuka said, Uddhava, hearing the gopīs’ longing for Krishna, comforted them with loving messages. He spoke: “Truly, you are fulfilled and honored in this world, for you have devoted your minds entirely to Vāsudeva, the Lord. By vows, austerity, sacrifice, recitation, study, self-restraint, and many other means, devotion to Krishna is sought. But by your good fortune, you have attained the supreme devotion to the Lord of exalted fame—a devotion difficult even for sages to attain.