After speaking with Arjuna, the Supreme Lord, accompanied by the Lord of all, ascended his divine chariot and set forth toward the western direction. Their journey was extraordinary—they crossed the seven continents, the seven oceans, and the seven mountains, traversing even the great boundary of Lokāloka, and entered within. But as they pressed onward, O best of the Bharatas, the noble horses—Śaibya, Sugrīva, Meghapuṣpa, and Balāhaka—lost their way, becoming engulfed in impenetrable darkness. Witnessing their plight, the Blessed Lord Kṛṣṇa, master of yogic power, sent forth his own discus, the Sudarśana, shining with the brilliance of a thousand suns, to lead the way. Swift as thought, Sudarśana entered the vast, dense, and terrifying darkness, its radiance splitting the gloom apart, much like Rāma’s arrow would pierce an opposing army, freed from its limiting qualities. Following the path cleared by the discus, Arjuna beheld a supreme, boundless light beyond the darkness. Struck by its brilliance, he was compelled to close his eyes. Carried onward by the wind, Arjuna entered waters adorned with mighty waves, and there he saw a wondrous, radiant palace, shining with thousands of columns made of brilliant gems. Within that palace lay the infinite, great serpent—Ananta—with a thousand heads, each hood crowned with luminous gems. Its form shone brilliantly, its fierce eyes white as a mountain, and its tongue blue-black. Upon the comfortable seat of that serpent, Arjuna beheld the all-pervading Lord, of supreme majesty, highest among persons. His form was dark as a dense raincloud, clothed in yellow garments, with a serene face and beautiful, wide eyes. He was adorned with a crown and earrings of great jewels, his thousand curling locks surrounded by a radiant aura. Eight long, graceful arms bore the Kaustubha gem, marked with Śrīvatsa, and he was garlanded with a wreath of forest flowers. Overwhelmed with awe, Acyuta bowed to the infinite Self, and Arjuna followed, bowing deeply. Then the Lord of the great lords, smiling and with joined palms, addressed them in a powerful voice: “Desiring to see you both, I brought the brāhmaṇa’s sons here to preserve righteousness on earth. You, who are incarnations of My portion, should quickly return after destroying the burden of evil on earth. Though your desires are fulfilled, you two—Nara and Nārāyaṇa, foremost sages—practice righteousness for the stability of the world and the welfare of its people.” Thus instructed by the Supreme Lord, the two Kṛṣṇas, bowing with ‘Om,’ took the brāhmaṇa’s sons and the great Lord, and departed. Filled with joy, they returned to their abode as before, restoring the sons to the brāhmaṇa, each in his proper form and age. Hearing of that celestial Vaiṣṇava realm, Pārtha was utterly amazed, considering all human prowess to be the result of Kṛṣṇa’s compassion. Displaying many such wondrous deeds, Arjuna enjoyed worldly pleasures and performed sacrifices surpassing all others. He bestowed blessings upon brāhmaṇas and others at the proper times, just as Lord Indra, in his supremacy, showers rain upon the earth. Having slain the unrighteous kings and caused their destruction through Arjuna and others, Kṛṣṇa promptly established dharma by means of the sons of Dharma and their kin. Śuka then spoke: Dwelling happily in his own city, Dvārakā, the Lord of fortune enjoyed a place abundant with every prosperity, surrounded by the foremost of the Vṛṣṇis. The women of Dvārakā were adorned in splendid attire, radiant with youthful beauty, playing games and shining in the palaces like flashes of lightning. The streets were always bustling, filled with intoxicated elephants, warriors, horses, and chariots gleaming with gold, all splendidly decorated. Dvārakā’s gardens and groves were rich with blossoming trees, resounding everywhere with the songs of bees and birds. In this paradise, Kṛṣṇa enjoyed himself as the sole beloved of sixteen thousand wives, each in her magnificent home, displaying wondrous forms. He sported in pure waters scented by the pollen of fully bloomed lotuses, lilies, and blue water-lilies, surrounded by the chirping of flocks of birds. Entering the waters of lakes, his body smeared with saffron from their breasts and embraced by the women, Kṛṣṇa was sung to by Gandharvas, accompanied by joyful drums, cymbals, and kettledrums. Bards, genealogists, and singers played the lute. Acyuta was sprinkled by those women, laughing with playful gestures, and he sported as they sprinkled him, like the lord of the Yakṣas among Yakṣīs. Their garments soaked and broad breasts exposed, the women sprinkled him with handfuls of flowers, embracing their beloved with playful intent, their faces radiant with smiles born of awakened longing. Kṛṣṇa’s chest was adorned by garlands smeared with saffron, his hair loosened from the play and embraces. Repeatedly sprinkled by the young women, he enjoyed himself, surrounded like an elephant by female elephants. He gave ornaments and garments for play to the dancers, singers, musicians, and women. As Kṛṣṇa enjoyed thus—with smiles and glances that responded to their movements, playful jokes and embraces—the minds of the women were utterly captivated. Their hearts fixed solely on Mukunda, they spoke incoherently, like those intoxicated or dull-witted, thinking of the lotus-eyed one. Hear now their words as I recount them. The queens said: “O kurarī, you lament, sleepless, not resting; the Lord of the world sleeps at night, hidden from our awareness. Are you, friend, pierced deeply in heart by the generous glances and smiles of the lotus-eyed one, as we are? You close your eyes at night, unseen by your companion, and cry out plaintively, O cakravākī. We, too, have attained servitude at Acyuta’s feet; or do you long for a garland to wear in your hair? O, you always groan by the waters, sleepless and awake through the night; is it because Mukunda has taken away the mark of your soul, that you, too, have reached this state, so difficult to endure? O Moon, you have been seized by a powerful consumption; your light is waning, unable to dispel the darkness with your own rays. Like us, bewildered and speaking in broken words, have you too forgotten, and thus remain silent, unnoticed by us? O wind from the Malaya mountains, have we done something to displease you? Pierced by the sidelong glances of Govinda, you stir in our hearts the pain of longing. O splendid cloud, you must surely be dear to the chief of the Yadus; like us, you are bound by love, constantly meditating on him who bears the Śrīvatsa mark. Overwhelmed with longing, your heart agitated like ours, you shed streams of tears again and again, remembering him—such is the pain of his association.” Thus, the queens of Dvārakā, lost in love for Kṛṣṇa, expressed their longing through the world around them, their minds and hearts forever captivated by the Lord.