As the women cried out in distress, calling, “Krishna! Rama!” and as their companions were seized, Krishna and Rama, deeply moved, rushed after the culprit like brothers pursuing a thief who has stolen their cows. With voices full of reassurance, they called, “Do not fear!” The two powerful brothers, armed with clubs, swiftly pursued the wicked Yaksha. The Yaksha, seeing Krishna and Rama approach like Death and Time themselves, was overcome with terror. In his desperate attempt to save his own life, he abandoned the women and fled. Krishna, determined to retrieve the jewel from the Yaksha’s head, chased him relentlessly wherever he ran, while Balarama stayed behind to protect the women. Soon, Krishna caught up to the Yaksha. From not far off, the mighty Krishna struck the wicked Yaksha’s head with his fist, taking both the crest jewel and its companion jewel. Having slain Shankhachuda, Krishna took the radiant jewel and, with loving affection, presented it to his elder brother, Balarama, as the women watched. Meanwhile, Shuka continued his narration. The gopīs, their hearts following Krishna as he ventured into the forest to graze the cows, spent their days in sorrow, singing of Krishna’s wondrous pastimes. They spoke amongst themselves: “Where Mukunda plays his flute, holding it to his lips with his left hand, his left cheek pressed against his left arm, his brows dancing, and his delicate fingers tracing the path, there he calls us.” The wives of the celestial beings, together with the Siddhas, listened in astonishment. Overwhelmed by the arrows of love, bashful and bewildered, they forgot their garments, their minds surrendered to Krishna’s charm. “Ah, wondrous girls,” the gopīs exclaimed, “when the son of Nanda, the giver of delight to the suffering, plays the flute, a necklace and a smile shine on his chest like a steady lightning flash.” In groups, the bulls of Vraja, the deer, and the cows, captivated by the distant sound of Krishna’s flute, stood motionless, as if painted, with mouthfuls held between their teeth and ears attentive, lost in a trance as if asleep. Sometimes, Mukunda adorned himself with peacock feathers, colored minerals, and leaves, imitating the garb of a wrestler. Together with the cowherd boys, he would call the cows. The rivers, their currents broken, carried by the breeze bearing dust from Krishna’s lotus feet, longed for him as the gopīs did. Blessed by many merits, their waters stilled, their arms trembling with love. When Krishna, the original person, praised by his companions for his valor, wandered the forest and called the cows with his flute along the mountain slopes, the forest creepers and trees, abundant with flowers and fruits, seemed to manifest Vishnu within themselves. Their branches bowed with honey streams, bodies thrilled with love, producing blossoms. Adorned with tilaka, a garland of forest flowers, divine fragrance, and honey-laden tulasi, Krishna played his flute, and the bees, intoxicated, sang their desired song in honor of him. In the lakes, cranes, swans, and other birds, captivated by the beautiful melody, approached Hari, their minds restrained, eyes closed, maintaining silence as they worshipped him. With his companions, adorned with garlands and ornaments, Krishna delighted the cowherd women with the sound of his flute on the slopes of the hills, filling the world with joy. The cloud, mindful not to exceed its bounds, softly rumbled and, as a friend, showered flowers and provided shade, forming a canopy for Krishna. Expert in tending various cows and skilled in flute playing, Krishna brought forth melodies of his own creation. Hearing these, the lords of the gods—Indra, Shiva, Brahma, and others—together with the sages, bowed their necks and minds, bewildered, unable to discern the truth. The cows, with the marks of flag, thunderbolt, lotus, and goad on their hooves, delighted by the flute, soothed the earth of Vraja, covering the wounds made by their hooves. As Krishna passed by, the gopīs, overcome by the playful glances he cast and the force of desire awakened in their hearts, wandered about, not knowing whether their hair or garments were in disarray, lost in confusion. Sometimes, adorned with a garland fragrant with tulasi, Krishna counted the cows, placing his arm on the shoulder of a dear companion, singing as he walked. Deceived by the sound of his flute, the wives of Krishna followed him, their hearts absorbed in him. Even the deer, like the cowherd women freed from attachment to their homes, followed after Krishna, drawn by the ocean of his virtues. Welcomed with garlands of jasmine and festive attire, surrounded by cowherds and cattle on the Yamuna’s banks, Nanda’s son delighted the hearts of his loving friends with playful pastimes. A gentle breeze, fragrant with sandalwood, blew to honor him. Groups of celestial singers encircled him with music, song, and offerings as they praised him. Affectionate to the cows of Vraja and honored by the elders along the path, Krishna led all the cattle home at day’s end, his fame sung by the sound of his flute. His face shone from exertion, his garland dusted with earth kicked up by hooves, as he returned, wishing to grant blessings to his friends—this king who arose from Devaki’s womb. His eyes slightly rolled from joy, the garland-wearing giver of honor to his friends, his lips pale like the jujube fruit, his soft cheeks adorned by the splendor of golden earrings. The lord of the Yadus, sporting among the king of elephants, at day’s end came like the lord of the night; his face radiant with joy, he approached the village, relieving the cows of Vraja from the day’s heat. In this way, O King, the women of Vraja, singing of Krishna’s pastimes, spent their days absorbed in him, their minds and hearts wholly devoted, filled with great joy. Thus concludes the thirty-fifth chapter, “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. Then, Śuka continued: 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 mounds, lifting them with the tips of his horns. Releasing dung bit by bit and urinating, his eyes fixed and unblinking, his fierce, harsh bellowing terrified both cows and people. Out of fear, pregnant women miscarried before their time, and the clouds, mistaking his hump for a mountain, scattered away. Seeing his sharp horns, the cowherd women and men were struck with terror; the cattle, frightened, fled the settlement, abandoning Gokula. All cried out, “Krishna! Krishna!” and took refuge in Govinda. Seeing Gokula panic-stricken with fear, the Lord noticed and comforted them with the words, “Do not be afraid.” Then, calling out to the bull-demon while the cowherds and cattle trembled with fear, Krishna challenged him: “What is this, O worst of creatures?