When the gopīs heard that enchanting song, they became overcome with emotion, losing all awareness of themselves. In their rapture, their garments slipped from their shoulders, their hair and garlands fell loose, and they stood entranced, heedless of their appearance. Immersed in joy, they played and sang freely, their hearts completely absorbed in delight. At that very moment, Shankhachuda, a Yaksha renowned as a follower of Kubera, approached the scene. As Krishna and Balarāma looked on, Shankhachuda saw the gopīs gathered together, their voices raised in cries of alarm. Without hesitation, he began to drive them northward. The gopīs, seized by fear, called out desperately, “Krishna! Rama!” Witnessing his own beloved companions being taken away, Krishna and Balarāma rushed after them, just as brothers would pursue a thief who has stolen their cows. With reassuring voices, the two powerful brothers called out, “Do not fear!” Armed with clubs, they swiftly chased after the wicked Yaksha. Seeing Krishna and Balarāma approach like Death and Time themselves, Shankhachuda, foolish and terrified, abandoned the women and fled, desperate to save his own life. Govinda, intent on retrieving the jewel from Shankhachuda’s head, chased after him wherever he ran, while Balarāma stayed behind to protect the gopīs. Not far off, Krishna caught up with the Yaksha, struck his head with his mighty fist, and seized both the crest jewel and its companion jewel from the fallen demon. Having slain Shankhachuda, Krishna took the radiant jewel and, with great affection, presented it to his elder brother Balarāma, as the gopīs looked on. In the days that followed, as Krishna went to the forest to tend the cows, the gopīs’ hearts and minds followed him. They spent their days in sorrow, singing of Krishna’s wondrous pastimes. They would recall: “Where Mukunda plays the flute, holding it to his lips with his left hand, his left cheek pressed against his arm, his brows dancing, and his delicate fingers tracing the notes, there he calls us.” Even the wives of the celestial beings, together with the Siddhas, were astonished as they listened to Krishna’s flute. Overcome by bashfulness and surrendering to the arrows of love, they became bewildered, forgetting their own garments. The gopīs would say, “O friends, listen! When the son of Nanda, who brings delight to the suffering, plays his flute, a shining necklace and a gentle smile light up his chest like a steady flash of lightning. The bulls, the deer, and the cows of Vraja, captivated by the sound of his flute from afar, stand motionless and silent, as if painted, with mouthfuls of grass still between their teeth and ears pricked in attention.” Sometimes, Mukunda adorned himself with peacock feathers, colored minerals, and leaves, imitating the dress of a wrestler, and together with the cowherd boys, he would call the cows. The rivers, carried along by breezes bearing the dust from his lotus feet, longed for him as the gopīs did. Their currents slowed, their waters stilled, as if their arms trembled with love. When Krishna, the original person, was praised by his companions for his valor and wandered the mountain slopes, calling the cows with his flute, the forest creepers and trees, heavy with flowers and fruit, seemed to manifest Vishnu within themselves. Their branches bowed, honey streaming, their bodies thrilled with love, and they burst into blossoms. Adorned with tilaka, a garland of forest flowers, divine fragrance, and honey-laden tulasi, Krishna played his flute, and the bees, intoxicated by the scent, sang their own songs in his honor. In the lake, cranes, swans, and other birds, enchanted by the beautiful melody, approached Hari, closed their eyes, and fell silent in worship. On the slopes of the hills, garlanded and ornamented, Krishna delighted the cowherd women with his flute, and joy filled the world. The clouds, cautious not to outshine him, rumbled softly and showered flowers, forming a gentle canopy above him. Krishna, expert in tending the cows and skilled in flute-playing, brought forth melodies of his own creation. Hearing these divine notes, the greatest of gods—Indra, Shiva, Brahma, and others—together with the sages, bowed their heads and hearts in bewilderment, unable to fathom the truth of what they heard. The cows, their hooves marked with flags, thunderbolts, lotuses, and goads, soothed the earth of Vraja, covering its wounds as they walked, delighted by the flute’s music. The gopīs, overcome by Krishna’s playful glances and the awakening of desire in their hearts, wandered about in confusion, unaware of their disheveled hair or slipping garments. Sometimes, Krishna would count the cows, adorned with a garland fragrant with tulasi, his arm draped over a dear friend’s shoulder, singing as he walked. The sound of his flute deceived the minds of all, and even the wives of Krishna, their hearts absorbed in him, followed him, just as the deer, freed from attachment to home, followed him through the forest. Welcomed with jasmine garlands and festive attire, surrounded by cowherds and cattle on the banks of the Yamunā, Krishna, the beloved son of Nanda, delighted the hearts of his friends with playful pastimes. A gentle, sandalwood-scented breeze blew to honor him, and groups of celestial singers encircled him with music, song, and offerings of praise. Affectionate to the cows and honored by the elders along the path, Krishna led the cattle home at day’s end, his fame sung by the sound of his flute. His face glowed with exertion, his garland dusted with the earth kicked up by the cows’ hooves, and he returned, eager to bless his friends—the king born from Devakī’s womb. With eyes slightly rolling from joy, his garland shining, lips pale like the jujube fruit, and soft cheeks adorned with golden earrings, Krishna, the lord of the Yadus, entered the village at dusk. Like the lord of the night among elephants, his face radiant with joy, he relieved the cows of Vraja from the day’s heat. In this way, the women of Vraja, singing of Krishna’s pastimes, spent their days absorbed in him, their minds and hearts wholly devoted, filled with joy. Thus ends the thirty-fifth chapter, named “The Song of the Gopīs in Pairs,” in the first half of the Tenth Book of the Śrīmad Bhāgavatam Mahāpurāṇa, the scripture for supreme renunciates. But then, a new danger approached. Ariṣṭa, the bull-demon, arrived at the cowherd settlement, shaking the earth with his massive hump and tearing up the ground with his hooves. He bellowed harshly, scraping the earth with his feet, raising his tail, and tossing up mounds of dirt with the tips of his horns. As he moved, he released dung and urine bit by bit, his unblinking eyes fixed in fury. His fierce, harsh bellowing terrified both cows and people. Out of sheer terror, pregnant women miscarried before their time, and even the clouds, mistaking his hump for a mountain, scattered away in fear.