As the wicked Yaksha attempted to flee with the stolen women, Krishna and Balarama, mighty and resolute, called out with reassuring voices, “Do not fear!” Club in hand, the two brothers swiftly pursued the wrongdoer. Sensing their approach, the Yaksha—realizing they advanced like Death and Time themselves—abandoned the women in terror and ran for his life. Krishna chased the Yaksha wherever he fled, determined to seize the precious jewel from his head, while Balarama remained behind to protect the rescued women. Not far from his quarry, Krishna overtook the Yaksha, struck him powerfully on the head with his fist, and claimed both the crest jewel and its companion. Having slain Shankhachuda, Krishna took the radiant gem and, with affectionate regard, presented it to his elder brother Balarama while the women looked on. Meanwhile, as Krishna ventured to the forest to graze the cows, the gopīs—whose hearts were ever drawn to him—spent their days in longing and sorrow, singing of his wondrous deeds. They recounted among themselves, “Where Mukunda plays his flute, holding it to his lips with his left hand, his cheek pressed against his arm, his eyebrows dancing, and his delicate fingers tracing the melody, there he calls us with his enchanting music.” Even the wives of the celestial beings, together with the Siddhas, were astonished as they listened. Overwhelmed by love’s arrows, they became bashful and bewildered, forgetting even their garments. The gopīs marveled, “When the son of Nanda, the giver of delight to the suffering, plays his flute, a necklace and a smile shine on his chest like a steady flash of lightning.” In the pastures, the bulls of Vraja, the deer, and the cows, captivated by the distant sound of Krishna’s flute, would sit motionless, as if painted, with mouthfuls of grass forgotten and ears intent, as though asleep. Adorned with peacock feathers, colored minerals, and leaves—sometimes dressed as a wrestler—Mukunda, together with the cowherd boys, would call the cows. The rivers themselves, their currents stilled and carried by breezes bearing dust from Krishna’s lotus feet, longed for him as the gopīs did, their waters trembling with love and halting in devotion. As the original person, praised by his companions for his valor, Krishna wandered the forest slopes, calling the cows with his flute. The forest creepers and trees, abundant with blossoms and fruits, seemed to manifest Vishnu within themselves; their branches bowed low, dripping honey, their bodies thrilled with love, they produced countless flowers. Adorned with tilaka, garlands of forest blooms, divine fragrance, and honey-laden tulasi, Krishna played his flute, and intoxicated bees sang in joyous homage. At the lake, cranes, swans, and birds, entranced by his song, approached Hari, their minds stilled, eyes closed in silent worship. On the hillsides, garlanded and ornamented, Krishna delighted the cowherd women with his flute, and joy spread throughout the world. The clouds, gentle and mindful, rumbled softly, showering flowers and providing shade as a canopy for him. Expert in tending the cows and playing the flute, Krishna brought forth new melodies, enchanting all. Upon hearing these divine tunes, even the lords of the gods—Indra, Shiva, Brahma—and the sages bowed in awe, their minds bewildered by his mystery. The cows, delighted by the flute’s song, soothed the earth of Vraja with the marks of flag, thunderbolt, lotus, and goad on their hooves, covering the tracks they made. As Krishna passed by, the gopīs, overcome by his playful glances and the awakening of desire in their hearts, lost themselves, not knowing how they wandered, or if their hair and garments were in disarray. Sometimes, garlanded with fragrant tulasi, Krishna would count the cows, placing his arm on a dear companion’s shoulder and singing as he walked. The wives of Krishna, deceived in mind by the flute’s sound, followed after him, their hearts absorbed in his virtues. Even the deer, like the cowherd women, followed Krishna, abandoning all else. Welcomed with garlands of jasmine and festive attire, surrounded by cowherds and cattle on the banks of the Yamuna, Nanda’s son delighted the hearts of his friends with playful pastimes. A gentle breeze, fragrant with sandalwood, honored him, while celestial singers encircled him with music, song, and offerings. Affectionate to the cows of Vraja and honored by the elders along the path, Krishna led the cattle home at dusk, his fame sung by the sound of his flute. His face shone from exertion, his garland dusted with the earth kicked up by hooves, as he returned to bless his friends—the king who arose from Devaki’s womb. His eyes, rolling slightly with joy, his lips pale like the jujube fruit, his cheeks adorned with golden earrings, Krishna, the garland-wearing giver of honor, delighted his companions. The Lord of the Yadus, moving among the king of elephants, returned at day’s end like the lord of night, his face radiant, relieving the cows of Vraja from the day’s heat. In this way, O King, the women of Vraja spent their days, singing of Krishna’s pastimes, their hearts and minds absorbed in him, filled with great 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, scripture for the supreme renunciates. Then, another trial befell the cowherd settlement. Ariṣṭa, the bull-demon, arrived, shaking the earth with his massive hump and tearing up the ground with his hooves. He bellowed harshly, scraping the earth, raising his tail, and tossing mounds of earth with his horns. Releasing dung and urine, his fierce, unblinking eyes and terrifying bellowing struck fear into cows and people alike. So great was the terror that pregnant women miscarried before their time, and even the clouds, mistaking his hump for a mountain, scattered away. The sharp horns of Ariṣṭa filled the cowherd men and women with dread; the cattle, frightened, fled the settlement, abandoning Gokula. All cried out, “Krishna! Krishna!” and took refuge in Govinda. Seeing Gokula panic-stricken, the Lord took notice. He comforted them, saying, “Do not be afraid,” and called out to the bull-demon while the trembling cowherds and cattle watched: “What is this, O worst of creatures?” Achyuta struck the ground with his palm, provoking Ariṣṭa with a resounding slap, and declared, “I am the destroyer of the pride of the wicked, like you, O evil-minded one.