As the young woman mourned deeply, she followed her departed husband into the dense forest. Overcome with grief, she fell at his feet, her tears flowing freely and without restraint. With trembling hands and a sorrowful heart, she gathered wood and built a funeral pyre. Placing her husband’s body upon it, she made preparations to follow him in death, her mind fixed on her beloved even as she continued to lament. At that moment, a brāhmaṇa—an old friend from a distant past, wise and self-realized—appeared before her. With gentle words, he sought to console her as she wept, addressing her kindly: “Who are you? And to whom do you belong? Who is this for whom you grieve so deeply? Do you recognize me as your friend, with whom you once wandered in happier times? Do you remember yourself, O friend, as my companion, though you once left me, drawn away by the allurements of the world?” He continued, “O noble one, you and I were like two swans, friends dwelling together in the serene lake of the mind. For thousands of years, there was no separation between us. But you left me, O companion, drawn to the earth by worldly desires. Wandering, you came upon a place fashioned by a certain woman—a wondrous city with five gardens, nine gates, one guardian, three chambers, six families, five marketplaces, and a fivefold nature—an abode presided over by a woman. “In this city, the five sense objects are the pleasures enjoyed; the nine gates are the channels of life; the digestive fires and food are the inner compartments; and the family is the group of senses. The marketplaces represent the powers of action, while the elemental nature is imperishable. The lord of this city is the person who has entered, yet remains unaware of his true self. “There, you, touched by Rāma, became delighted and lost all memory and hearing. From that association, O master, you fell into this degraded condition. You are not the daughter of Vidarbha, nor is this hero your true friend; you are not the husband of Purañjanī, who was confined by her at the ninth gate. “All this is illusion, created by me, by which you see the man and the virtuous woman as real. Neither is true, just as the two swans observe the course of both of us, untouched by the illusion. I am you, and you are not different from me; you alone are I—understand this, O friend. The wise see no flaw or separation between us, not even the slightest. “Just as a person sees himself as one, yet as two in the mirror and in his own sight, so too is the inner nature of both of us. Thus, the swan of the mind, awakened by the swan, returned to his own state; by this correction, he regained his lost memory. “O Barhiṣmat, this story has been told in a spiritual, indirect manner, for the Lord who creates the universe delights in such indirect teachings.” As this narrative of spiritual wisdom concluded, the scene shifted to the enchanting nights of autumn. The Blessed Lord, seeing the jasmine blooming and the world bathed in moonlight, wished to delight in the season, invoking his yogic power. The moon, king of the stars, rose in the eastern sky, its gentle rays painting the heavens with a reddish hue, soothing the hearts of the virtuous like a beloved returning after a long absence. Krishna, seeing the full moon—radiant as a lotus face tinged with saffron—and the forest alive with the gentle cows, began to sing a sweet, enchanting melody, calling to the lovely-eyed women of Vraja. Hearing this song, which fanned the flames of love in their hearts, the gopīs, whose minds were utterly captivated by Krishna, left their homes one by one, unnoticed by each other, drawn irresistibly to where their beloved stood, his earrings swinging. Some gopīs left their milking unfinished, unable to wait. Others, leaving milk on the stove, hurried away without feeding their children. Some abandoned their duties of serving food; others left their infants, or departed from their husbands’ sides without finishing their meal. Some, in the midst of applying ointment, cleaning themselves, or painting their eyes, rushed away with their garments and ornaments askew, so eager were they to be with Krishna. Though their husbands, fathers, brothers, and other relatives tried to restrain them, the gopīs could not be held back; their hearts had been stolen by Govinda, and they were enchanted beyond all reason. Some, unable to leave their homes, stayed inside, but sat with closed eyes, meditating deeply on Krishna. Tormented by the unbearable pain of separation from their beloved, their intense longing washed away all inauspiciousness. Through meditation, they attained union with the infallible Lord, and by that bliss, all misfortune was dispelled. Having come together with the Supreme Self—even in the mood of lovers—they immediately cast off their bodies composed of the modes of nature, their bondage at once destroyed. At this point, King Parīkṣit, listening to this wondrous tale, asked the sage: “O sage, the women of Vraja knew Krishna as their supreme beloved, not as Brahman; how could the flow of the modes cease for those whose minds were fixed on qualities?” Śuka replied, “This has already been explained to you—how even the wicked Śiśupāla attained perfection. If one who hated Hṛṣīkeśa was liberated, how much more so those devoted to the transcendent Lord? For the highest good of all, the Supreme Lord—imperishable, immeasurable, beyond the modes, yet the soul of all qualities—manifests Himself. Those who constantly direct desire, anger, fear, affection, unity, or friendship toward Hari become absorbed in Him. Therefore, do not be astonished, for it is by Krishna, the unborn Lord of all yogic masters, that such liberation is attained.” Meanwhile, as the women of Vraja arrived before Him, Krishna, the foremost among speakers, addressed them with charming words, gently deluding their minds. He said, “Welcome, O most fortunate ones! What may I do to please you? Is all well in Vraja? Please tell Me the reason for your coming. “This night is fearsome, haunted by wild creatures; return to Vraja, O slender-waisted women, for it is not proper for you to remain here. Your mothers, fathers, sons, brothers, and husbands are searching for you, unable to find you; do not cause your relatives anxiety. You have seen the forest adorned with flowers, brightened by the moon, and the Yamunā, whose breeze plays among the beautiful budding trees. Now, do not delay—return to the cowherd village, serve your husbands faithfully; the calves and children are crying—go, feed and milk them. “Or perhaps, compelled by your deep affection for Me, you have come here; this is only natural, for all beings are drawn to Me.