Once, in the enchanting forest of Vṛndāvana, you were seen together with the radiant Gopī, whose beauty glowed like the morning sun. In a mysterious turn, the very radiance that illumined her form was seen to depart, merging into the brilliant orb of the sun itself. There was a time when, moved by love and tears, you distributed precious offerings—some to the sacred fire, some to mighty kings, some to bands of thieves, and even to serpents. You gave portions to women blessed with fortune and to those celebrated for their virtue. Again, in the circle of the rāsa dance, you appeared with the peaceful Gopī, both of you enveloped in divine grace. Within a palace crafted of jewels and lit by jeweled lamps, you offered her fragrant betel, which she enjoyed with delight. Yet, at the mere mention of my name, you vanished from sight, leaving her transformed—her body now radiant with the highest qualities. To those devoted to your mantra and to the Vaiṣṇavas, you gave a portion as well. In earlier days, I saw you with the Gopī, both of you clothed in forgiveness. She was adorned with dazzling jewels and anointed with the finest sandalwood paste. After this new union, blissful sleep embraced him, so content was he. But then, your yellow garment and your enchanting flute were taken; only after the gentle words of friends were they lovingly returned. Out of deep shame, Kṣamā, the very embodiment of forgiveness, abandoned her body and entered the earth. Once more, you offered gifts, divided and shared with love and tears—these for the righteous, for the sake of dharma, and a little for the weak and helpless. All of this has now been told to you. What more do you wish to hear? Thus spoke Rādhā, her eyes reddened like lotus petals, filled with emotion. Gāṅgā, the accomplished yoginī, perceived the secret through her yoga, and Rādhā, too, by her yogic power, realized her presence everywhere. Gāṅgā, ever accomplished, knew the hidden truth by yoga. But throughout Goloka, Vaikuṇṭha, Brahmaloka, and all the higher realms, there was a strange dryness—no water, only withered lotuses. Then, Brahmā, Viṣṇu, Śiva, Ananta, Dharma, Indra, the Moon, and the Sun—all the great deities—journeyed to Goloka, their throats, lips, and palates parched with thirst. There, they beheld the supreme bestower of boons, the most excellent giver of blessings, the transcendent cause of all that is auspicious—desireless, formless, untouched, and without support, yet self-willed and graciously manifest in form for the sake of devotees. He stood as the supreme, transcendent Lord, the highest Self, ruler of all. The gods, overwhelmed, approached with trembling voices, tear-filled eyes, and bodies covered in goosebumps. Before them shone the radiant, supreme Brahman, the cause of all causes, served by cowherd boys and cooled by white yak-tail fans. He was surrounded by countless charming cowherds, numbering in hundreds of millions, each dressed with delightful care. His form was dark as a fresh raincloud, eternally youthful, clad in yellow garments. He radiated the splendor of millions of moons, his beauty dazzling and serene. In his playful grace and charm, he surpassed even millions of Cupids, the very embodiment of divine love and delight.