The cowherds of Vṛndāvana, reflecting on Krishna’s wondrous childhood, his extraordinary strength, and his birth among them, found themselves filled with awe and uncertainty. “O Krishna, unfathomable one,” they said, “when we ponder these things, doubts arise in our hearts. Whether you are a god, a demon, a yakṣa, or a gandharva—what does it matter to us? You are our kinsman, and to you we offer our salutations.” For a moment, Krishna listened in silence, showing a hint of affectionate displeasure. Then, addressed thus by the cowherds, he spoke gently: “O cowherds, if your connection with me does not bring you shame, or if I am not worthy of your respect, then what is the purpose of your deliberation? If you hold affection for me, if I am worthy of your regard, then let your understanding of me be as of a true kinsman. I am not a god, nor a gandharva, nor a yakṣa, nor a demon; I am born as your kinsman—there is no need to think otherwise.” Hearing these words of Hari, the cowherds fell silent, their hearts touched by his affectionate displeasure, and went to the forest. Meanwhile, Krishna gazed upon the clear autumn sky, bright as the moon, and the blooming kumudini flowers that filled all directions with fragrance. He admired the beautiful rows of trees and the charming swarms of humming bees, his mind turning toward delight, especially in the company of the cowherd women. Together with Rāma, Krishna sang melodious notes, sweet and pleasing to the women, accompanied by various instruments. Drawn by the enchanting music, the cowherd women quickly left their homes and hurried to where Madhusūdana was. One woman softly sang in time with Krishna, another listened attentively, and yet another remembered him in her heart. Some, saying “Krishna, Krishna,” became bashful; others, blinded by love, went to his side without shame. One remained within her house, seeing her elders outside, but absorbed in him, she meditated on Govinda with closed eyes. Their joy from thoughts of Krishna swelled, and as their store of merit was exhausted, all sins dissolved in the great sorrow of his absence, leaving them bereft. Among them, one maiden, contemplating the creation of the universe and the Supreme Brahman in Krishna’s true form, attained liberation, her breath stilled. Surrounded by the gopīs, Govinda honored the night, delightful as the autumn moon, eager for the joy of beginning the rāsa dance. The gopīs, in groups, imitated Krishna’s actions, their forms shaped by his playful ways. When Krishna went elsewhere, they wandered through the inner parts of Vṛndāvana, their hearts restrained, speaking to one another: “I am Krishna—see this charming gait of mine!” Another said, “Listen to my song, the song of Krishna!” Yet another, imitating Krishna, declared, “Wicked Kāliya, stay here! I am Krishna!” Striking her arm, she took on all the playful airs of Krishna. Another proclaimed, “O cowherds, do not fear—stay here without worry! I have held up Govardhana; there is no need to fear the rain.” Yet another said, “I have cast down Dhenuka; now I roam as I please.” Thus, as the gopīs busied themselves with various imitations of Krishna’s deeds, they wandered together through the lovely groves of Vṛndāvana. Suddenly, one gopī, foremost among the cowherd women, her whole body bristling with joy and her lotus eyes wide, exclaimed, “Look at these footprints, marked with the banner, thunderbolt, goad, and lotus—these are the steps of Krishna, adorned by his playful gait. Some fortunate, graceful maiden has gone with him; these are her footprints, close and slender, beside his. Here, Damodara surely picked flowers for her, for only the front part of his great footprints are seen here. Here she sat with him, adorned with flowers; in a former birth, she had worshipped Viṣṇu, the soul of all. Having honored her with a garland of flowers, the son of Nanda went on this path—look!” Another gopī, unable to keep up in the procession, slowed by the weight of her hips, hastened as best she could, her toes barely touching the ground. “See, friend!” she said, “This one is led by the hand, her hand placed in his; her footprints show she is not walking on her own. By the mere touch of his hand, this clever one has slighted her; her footprints show she walks slowly, disheartened and hopeless. Surely, she said, ‘Let me hurry and return to you soon.’ It was by Krishna that this path was hastened.” Then Krishna entered the thicket, and his footprints vanished from view. “Turn back,” said the gopīs, “the moonlight does not reach this place.” Disappointed in not seeing Krishna, they turned back and came to the bank of the Yamuna, singing in their longing. Afterwards, the gopīs saw Krishna approaching, his lotus-like face radiant, the protector of the three worlds, acting effortlessly. One, seeing Govinda coming, was overwhelmed with joy and exclaimed, “Krishna, Krishna!” uttering nothing else. Another, arching her brow and marking her forehead, gazed at Hari, and with her bee-like eyes drank in the lotus of his face. Yet another, seeing Govinda, closed her eyes, meditating on his form, appearing as if absorbed in yoga. Then, Mādhava won over some with loving words, others with glances from arched brows, and yet others with the touch of his hand. Thus, the night in Vṛndāvana blossomed with the divine play of Krishna and the gopīs, filled with longing, joy, and the sweet fragrance of devotion.