Hearing the enchanting sound of Krishna’s song, the cowherd women of Vraja were drawn from their homes, their hearts overflowing with longing. Some hurried eagerly toward Madhusūdana, compelled by the irresistible melody. One gopī softly sang in time with him, her voice blending with his; another listened with rapt attention, every sense attuned to his music; yet another simply held his image in her heart, lost in remembrance. One, overcome with shyness at the very thought of Krishna, whispered his name—“Krishna, Krishna”—and blushed deeply. Another, blinded by love, cast aside all hesitation and, without shame, went straight to his side. Some, seeing their elders nearby, remained within their houses, but even there, with eyes closed, they meditated deeply on Govinda, their minds absorbed in him alone. As their love and joy swelled with thoughts of Krishna, the merit of their past deeds was spent, and the sorrow of his absence burned away all their sins, leaving them empty and bereft. Among them was one gopī who, contemplating the creation of the universe and recognizing Krishna as the Supreme Brahman, attained liberation itself, her breath stilled in perfect peace. Meanwhile, surrounded by the gopīs, Govinda honored the night, a night as delightful as the autumn moon, eager to begin the joyous rāsa dance. The gopīs, grouped together, began to imitate Krishna’s playful actions, their movements shaped by his divine play. When Krishna slipped away elsewhere, they wandered through the inner groves of Vṛndāvana, searching for him. With Krishna gone, their hearts restrained but restless, they began to speak to one another, playfully imitating him: “I am Krishna—see this charming gait of mine!” said one, walking with his distinctive grace. Another sang, “Listen to my song, the song of Krishna!” Yet another, striking her arm, cried, “Wicked Kāliya, stay here! I am Krishna!” and mimicked his playful bravado. One reassured her friends, “O cowherds, do not fear—stay here without worry! I have held up Govardhana; there is no need to fear the rain.” Another boasted, “I have cast down Dhenuka; now I roam as I please,” and strutted about like Krishna himself. Thus, the gopīs busied themselves, imitating Krishna’s many deeds as they wandered together through the beautiful groves of Vṛndāvana. Suddenly, one gopī, foremost among them, noticed something on the ground. Her body bristled with joy, her lotus eyes wide as she exclaimed, “Look at these footprints! Marked with the banner, thunderbolt, goad, and lotus—these are the steps of Krishna, revealed by his playful gait.” She pointed out, “Some fortunate, graceful maiden has gone with him; see her slender footprints beside his.” She continued, “Here, Damodara must have picked flowers for her, for only the front part of his great footprints are seen here. Here she sat with him, adorned with flowers; surely, in a former birth, she worshipped Viṣṇu, the soul of all.” The gopīs traced the path, “Having honored her with a garland, the son of Nanda went this way—look!” Another gopī, unable to keep up, had moved slowly, her toes barely touching the ground, weighed down by her hips. “See, friend!” they said, “This one was led by the hand—her footprints show she is not walking on her own.” Yet another, by the mere touch of Krishna’s hand, had grown disheartened and walked slowly, her footprints betraying her hopelessness. “Certainly,” they said, “she must have promised, ‘Let me hurry and return to you soon,’ and Krishna hastened along this path.” But soon the footprints vanished into a thicket, swallowed by shadows where the moonlight did not reach. “Krishna entered here, and his footprints are no longer visible. Let us turn back; the moonlight cannot guide us further.” Disappointed at not finding Krishna, the gopīs turned back and came to the bank of the Yamuna, where, in their longing, they sang sweet songs of yearning. Then, Krishna reappeared before them, his lotus-like face radiant, the protector of the three worlds, moving with effortless grace. One gopī, upon seeing Govinda, was overwhelmed with joy and could only exclaim, “Krishna, Krishna!” uttering nothing else. Another, arching her brow and marking her forehead, gazed intently at Hari, her eyes like bees drinking the nectar of his lotus face. Another, seeing Govinda, closed her eyes in meditation, absorbed in his form as if in deep yoga. Krishna, Mādhava, won over some gopīs with loving words, others with glances from his arched brows, and yet others with the gentle touch of his hand. With their hearts delighted, Hari, noble and respectful, played with them in the circle of the rāsa dance. Even as the rāsa circle formed, the gopīs, eager to be near Krishna, could not remain still. Hari took each gopī by the hand, and as his touch closed their eyes in bliss, the circle of the rāsa was complete. The night resounded with the jingling of anklets, accompanied by waves of song and music. The gopīs sang of Krishna, of the autumn moon, the moonlight, and the lotus pond, but always, their voices returned to Krishna’s name. As they spun in the dance, one gopī, tired from turning and with jingling anklets, placed her vine-like arm on Krishna’s shoulder. Another, her arms shining, embraced and kissed him, skillfully praising Madhusūdana in song and hymn. As her cheek pressed against Hari’s, her arms became covered with goosebumps, and sweat gathered on her skin. As the rāsa song soared, the sound of “Krishna” rose ever higher, their voices harmonizing in threefold praise: “Krishna, Krishna!” When Krishna moved away, the gopīs moved with him, some against, some along the flow, but always drawn irresistibly toward Hari, their beloved.