One day, as the gopīs of Vraja yearned for Krishna, one among them, lost in thoughts of union with her beloved, noticed a honeybee buzzing nearby. Imagining it to be Krishna’s messenger, she began to speak, her words colored by longing and pain. “O bee, companion of the deceitful,” she said, “do not touch the feet of my rival. The garland she wears, stained with the pollen from her breasts, has colored your whiskers. Let the lord of bees carry the favor of those proud women, for you are his messenger—fit to be mocked before the Yadus.” She continued, “After enchanting us with the nectar of his lips just once, Krishna abandoned us as one leaves a flower behind. How does Padmā serve his lotus feet, when his mind is stolen by the praises of the glorious one?” Addressing the bee as a six-legged singer, she said, “Why do you sing here of the lord of the Yadus, our ancient master? Go sing of his victories among his friends, for he has healed their pain and granted their desires.” Her voice grew heavy with resignation. “What women—whether in heaven, on earth, or in the underworld—are beyond his reach, with his charming smile and playful brows? We are humble, our fortune only to worship the dust of his feet. Even among the wretched, his name is heard.” She cautioned the bee, “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, whom he himself created, and left without concern. What trust can be placed in him?” Her grief spilled forth. “Like hunters chasing the king of monkeys, he wounded women who were unprotected, deformed by love, conquered by desire. Even mighty Bali was bound like a bird. Enough of friendship with the dark one, though the tales of his deeds are hard to abandon.” She reflected on the power of Krishna’s presence. “Those who once tasted the nectar of his playful acts, hearing them even once, were freed from all dualities and abandoned their homes and families, though destitute. Many here, like birds, wander as mendicants.” “We trusted his crooked words as nectar, ignorant as chicks listening to their mother’s call. We are Krishna’s wives, like deer. Again and again, we recall the pain from his nail’s touch. Let other news be told, O messenger.” Then, softening, she addressed the bee as a friend. “Have you returned, sent by the beloved? Tell me, what do you seek? You are worthy of honor, gentle one. How can you bring us to the side of the one who cannot be abandoned, when Lakshmi always dwells upon his chest?” Her heart overflowed with questions. “Is the noble son now in Mathurā? Does he remember his father’s house, his kin, and the cowherds? Does he speak of us, his servants? When will he place his mighty, fragrant arm upon our heads?” Śuka, the sage, narrates that at this moment, Uddhava, hearing the gopīs’ longing for Krishna, comforted them with loving messages. Uddhava spoke with reverence, “Ah, you are truly fulfilled and honored in the world, for you have devoted your minds entirely to Vāsudeva, the Lord. By vows, austerity, sacrifice, recitation, study, self-restraint, and other means, devotion to Krishna is attained. By your good fortune, you have established supreme devotion to the Lord of exalted fame—a devotion difficult even for sages to attain. By destiny, you have abandoned sons, husbands, bodies, relatives, and homes, and chosen that Supreme Person known as Krishna.” He praised their absorption. “The state of complete absorption in the Transcendent has arisen in you through separation; by this, you have bestowed a great favor upon me. Listen to the dear message, bringing you happiness, which I have brought in secret from your beloved husband.” Uddhava then conveyed Krishna’s words: “My separation from you is never complete, for I am present in all beings, just as the elements—space, air, fire, water, and earth—are present in all things. I am the foundation of mind, life-breath, elements, senses, and their qualities. By Myself, within Myself, I create, destroy, and sustain Myself, through My own power, as the essence of elements, senses, and their qualities.” He continued, “The Self is made of knowledge, pure, distinct, and not bound by qualities; yet, through illusion, it appears to move through deep sleep, dream, and waking states. By which one contemplates the objects of the senses—arising falsely like a dream—let one restrain the senses, remaining ever wakeful and self-possessed. This is the inner teaching, the yoga and discriminative wisdom of the wise: renunciation, austerity, self-control, and truth, like rivers flowing to the ocean.” Krishna’s message was clear: “Though I, your beloved, appear far away, it is to draw your minds closer to Me, out of longing for constant remembrance. Just as, when a beloved is far away, the mind dwells upon him, so too, for women, the heart is not as absorbed when he is near and visible. Fixing your entire mind on Me, freed from all other attachments, and remembering Me always, you will soon attain Me. Those blessed ones who, while I played at night in this forest of Vraja, could not join the dance, did not fail to attain Me, for they meditated on My heroic deeds.” Śuka describes how the women of Vraja, hearing these words from their beloved, were filled with joy and spoke to Uddhava, recalling the message he had brought. The gopīs said, “By fortune, wicked Kaṁsa, the enemy of the Yadus, has been slain; by fortune, Acyuta is now safe, having achieved all His aims with His kin. O gentle one, does the elder brother of Gadā, honored by the loving, bashful, smiling glances of the city women, bring them joy? How could He, who knows the subtleties of love and is dear to the women of the city, not be captivated by their words and playful gestures?” They wondered, “O noble one, does Govinda ever remember us, the village women, in the midst of the city ladies, during their intimate conversations? Do you remember those nights when he delighted with his beloveds in Vrindavan, amidst the beauty of lotus, jasmine, and moonlight, enjoying the rasa dance with the tinkling of anklets, and sometimes charming us with delightful stories?” Their longing deepened. “Will the descendant of Dasharha return here, afflicted by the sorrow caused by his own actions, and revive us with his touch, just as Indra rejuvenates the forest with rain? Why would Krishna come here, having attained his kingdom and destroyed his enemies, after marrying royal maidens and being surrounded by all his dear friends?” They reflected on their humble place. “What purpose could we forest dwellers or others serve for the great soul, the Lord of Lakshmi, who has fulfilled all desires and is accomplished within himself? Indeed, supreme happiness lies in freedom from expectation, as Pingala the courtesan declared; yet, even knowing this, our hope in Krishna remains difficult to abandon. Who could bear to give up communion with the glorified Lord, even unwillingly, when fortune never departs from his limbs?” Their memories were vivid. “These rivers, mountains, forests, cows, and the sound of the flute—all have been traversed by Krishna, accompanied by Sankarshana. Again and again, the abodes of Lakshmi remind us of Nanda's son; by those footprints, we are unable to forget him.” Thus, the gopīs of Vraja poured out their hearts, their love for Krishna undiminished by separation, their longing woven into the very landscape of their lives.