Viśvanātha glosses the definition-words of L1–L2. 'Even the birds' he widens: it covers even decent people who have been brought down to a bird-like condition [as renunciates]. Because these too end up pained, the gopī speaks 'sānuśayaṁ' — which he glosses as sānutāpa, with rueful remorse.

Viśvanātha frames the gopī's move. 'That we, who were his own intimate friends, ended up broken — no wonder there. But even the mere talk of his doings scorches the entire world.' To say that, she speaks the verse. 'Whose every-moment activity is his līlā; that līlā is the nectar of the ears — sweet by its bare sound alone, and far more so by its meaning.' That is the drift: his story is dangerously delightful, sweet at the first syllable.

Viśvanātha walks down the chain word by word. Of that ear-nectar, take just a droplet; of the droplet, just one taste, the barest sampling. Even that much shakes something off — 'vidhuta,' he glosses, means thoroughly smashed. And what is smashed is the 'dvandva-dharma': the whole make-up of mutual man-and-woman pleasure. One drop, one taste, and the mating-nature is broken to bits — that is the claim the gopī builds.

Viśvanātha makes 'the pairing-nature is broken' concrete. Let a wife so much as hear Kṛṣṇa's story — instantly her love for her husband is gone. Let a husband hear it — his love for his wife is gone. The story dissolves the very bond between the couple; that is how it 'breaks the dvandva-dharma.'

He extends the list. So too a son casts off love for his parents; a mother, for her son. Each abandons the other, and by that mutual desertion the family is wrecked. And here is the sharp turn: the sorrow of losing a relative to death is nothing beside the sorrow of losing him to renunciation. A dead kinsman is gone; a renunciate kinsman walks away from you while alive. That, the gopī says, is the crueler loss Kṛṣṇa's story inflicts.

And what is her evidence that renunciation grieves more than death? Just common worldly experience — everyone knows a family mourns a renouncer harder than a corpse. She needs no scripture; the plain fact of the world is proof enough. That, Viśvanātha says, is the underlying idea.

A further charge. These once-tender people, by hearing the story of 'hard-hearted Kṛṣṇa' [her jab], turn hard, pitiless, and ungrateful themselves. So she says 'sapadi' — at once, the very moment of hearing. The household, right down to old father and sister, is left destitute: with the sole breadwinner gone there is no other earner, and they are stripped of even tomorrow's meal. This is Viśvanātha's gloss of 'gṛha-kuṭumbaṁ dīnam' — the family made pitiable.

Viśvanātha offers a second reading of 'dīnam utsṛjya,' and leaves it standing beside the first. On this reading, the renouncer abandons a family that is frantic with grief at losing him — and it is as though he hands them over to death itself, by the renunciant's rite of kuśa-grass and water [the libation by which he becomes dead to his kin]. He does not decide between the two readings; both are held open.

The mock-lament sharpens. 'Alas — grant that their wives and children die of it; but the deserters get no happiness for themselves either!' To say this she speaks the word 'dīnā' [of the renouncers]. Wretched, they quit home and wander off, and their wits are so scattered by Kṛṣṇa that they will not tuck even a single cowrie-shell into a knot of their cloth for a rainy day. This is Viśvanātha's gloss of the second 'dīnā': the deserters are as ruined as the family they left.

Viśvanātha notes a variant reading: some texts have 'dhīrāḥ' ('steadfast') where others have 'dīnā' ('wretched'). On that reading the sense flips to another reproach: these renouncers stand unmoved even as their wives and family weep before them — not steady but stone-cruel. He records the variant and its meaning without choosing between the readings.

Viśvanātha glosses 'bahavaḥ' (many). These ruined renouncers are not one, not two or three, not four or five — but many: hundreds on hundreds, thousands on thousands. The wreckage the story causes is on a vast scale, she implies.

An objection is raised: if they keep back not even a cowrie, what do they live on? The gopī answers with 'vihaṅgāḥ' — like birds. They subsist only on a bird's regimen: pecking up scattered grains of wheat and the like. They do not even get proper, substantial alms handed to them by anyone. Their whole living is that of foraging birds, and that is the force of comparing them to 'vihaṅgas.'

On the reading 'iha' ('here'), Viśvanātha draws out another sense of the word. These renouncers come to this very place, Vṛndāvana — the seat of the gopīs' own grief — and even the company of the gopīs, far from consoling them, only makes them more wretched. He leaves this reading of 'iha' standing alongside his earlier one.

Now Viśvanātha names the hidden layer running under the whole verse — its dhvani, what it insinuates without saying. Three barbs: Kṛṣṇa's story is heavily sugared dhattūra powder, sweet to taste but poison within; the man who recites it is a swindler dressed as a sādhu; and the Purāṇa book is a snare set to catch you. This is the same 'sugar-coated poison' image Jīva used at s6, now spread to the teller and the text as well.

And this is why, Viśvanātha adds, you see these reciters carry the book everywhere: even roaming from forest to forest they are never without it, always with the volume clamped under one arm. The 'snare' goes wherever they go — the ironic picture continues.

The insinuation climbs higher. If the book is a snare, then Vyāsa and the other scripture-authors are the net-makers who wove it — and Kṛṣṇa himself, precisely as the Supreme Lord, is the one who put in the order for every one of those nets. The gopī's mock-charge now reaches all the way up to God.

And the barb reaches its point: Kṛṣṇa took on the very office of Supreme Lord only for this — to run the trapping scheme. That is the gopī's most outrageous mock-accusation, that godhood itself is his device for snaring the world through his story.

The imputed motive is spelled out: 'Let the whole world, just as the gopīs did, be plunged into an ocean of grief' — this, she charges, is exactly what Kṛṣṇa intends. Having drowned the gopīs, he means to drown everyone the same way, through his story.

Viśvanātha lands the whole thing. The surface charge peaks: seeing others suffer like this is Kṛṣṇa's very delight, so it is he — not Vyāsa and the scribes — who will bear the karmic fruit of inflicting it. Then the reversal: this passage carries well over a hundred such suggested meanings, and every last one of them, by the settled conclusion, works as vyāja-stuti — praise wearing the mask of blame. Each 'accusation' is secretly a hymn: it proves that nothing on earth can rival the power of bhakti to Kṛṣṇa. That is the verse's headline teaching — read the reproach and hear the praise.

A bare reference number carried over from the edition. It marks a source note and does nothing in the commentary's reasoning.