After vanquishing Shankhachuda, Krishna took the radiant jewel from the slain demon. With affection, he presented this luminous treasure to his elder brother, Balarama, while the women watched in awe and admiration. Meanwhile, as Krishna departed each day to the forest to tend the cows, the gopīs—the cowherd maidens—found their hearts and minds following him. Their days became filled with longing and gentle sorrow, and so they spent their time singing of Krishna’s enchanting pastimes, seeking solace in his stories. The gopīs would say to each other: “Wherever Mukunda, the bestower of liberation, plays his flute—holding it to his lips with his left hand, his cheek pressed to his arm, his eyebrows dancing with delight, his delicate fingers tracing the flute’s path—there he calls us. The wives of the gods, together with the Siddhas, are astonished as they listen; bashful and overcome by love’s arrows, they become bewildered and forget even their garments. “O friends, listen! When the son of Nanda, the giver of joy to the afflicted, plays his flute, a shining necklace and his radiant smile gleam on his chest like a steady flash of lightning. In groups, the bulls of Vraja, the deer, and the cows, captivated by the distant sound of his flute, stand motionless, with mouthfuls of grass still in their teeth and ears attentive, as if painted and lost in sleep. “Sometimes, adorned with peacock feathers, colored minerals, and leaves, Mukunda imitates a wrestler’s attire and, along with the cowherd boys, calls the cows. The rivers, their currents broken and carried by the breeze bearing dust from his lotus feet, long for him as we do. Blessed by many merits, their trembling arms—waves—still their waters, yearning for his touch. “When he, the original Lord, is praised by his companions for his valor and, as a wanderer in the forest, calls the cows with his flute along the mountain slopes, the forest creepers and trees, abundant with flowers and fruits, seem to manifest Vishnu within themselves. Their branches bow with honey streams, their forms thrilled with love, and they produce blossoms in devotion. “Adorned with tilaka, a garland of forest flowers, divine fragrance, and honey-laden tulasi, when he plays his flute, intoxicated bees sing their own songs, honoring him. In the lakes, cranes, swans, and other birds, captivated by the beauty of his song, approach Hari with restrained minds and closed eyes, maintaining silence as they worship him. “On the slopes of the hills, garlanded and ornamented, Krishna and his companions delight the cowherd women with the sound of his flute, and joy pervades the world. The clouds, careful not to disturb him, softly rumble and, as friends, shower flowers and provide shade, forming a canopy above him. “Expert in tending the cows and skilled in flute-playing, your son, when he places the flute to his lips, brings forth melodies of his own creation. Hearing these, the lords of the gods—Indra, Shiva, Brahma, and the sages—bow their heads and minds, bewildered and unable to discern the truth of his person. “The cows, delighted by the flute and bearing the marks of flag, thunderbolt, lotus, and goad on their hooves, soothe the earth of Vraja, covering the wounds made by their steps. As Krishna passes by, we are overcome by his playful glances and the desire he awakens in our hearts; we do not know how we wander, nor if our hair or garments are in disarray, lost in confusion. “Sometimes, adorned with a garland fragrant with tulasi, he counts the cows, and, placing his arm on a dear companion’s shoulder, sings as he walks. Deceived by the sound of his flute, the wives of Krishna follow him, their hearts absorbed in him. Even the deer, like the gopīs, freed from all attachment to home, follow after him, drawn by his ocean of virtues. “Welcomed with garlands of jasmine and festive attire, surrounded by cowherds and cattle on the banks of the Yamuna, O sinless one, Nanda’s son, your calf, delights the hearts of his loving friends with playful pastimes. A gentle breeze, fragrant with sandalwood, blows to honor him; groups of celestial singers encircle him with music, song, and offerings, praising his glory. “Affectionate to the cows of Vraja and honored by the elders along the path, he leads all the cattle home at day’s end, his fame sung by the sound of his flute. His face shines with exertion, his garland dusted by the earth kicked up by hooves, as he comes eager to bless his friends—this king who arose from Devaki’s womb. His eyes roll slightly with joy, his garland fragrant, his lips pale like the jujube fruit, his cheeks adorned by golden earrings. “The lord of the Yadus, sporting among the king of elephants, returns at day’s end like the lord of the night; his face radiant with joy, he approaches the village, relieving the cows of Vraja from the day’s heat.” Thus, O King, said Śuka, the women of Vraja spent their days singing of Krishna’s pastimes, their minds and hearts wholly devoted to him, filled with great joy. In this way concludes the thirty-fifth chapter, “The Song of the Gopīs in Pairs,” in the first half of the Tenth Book of the Śrīmad Bhāgavatam, the scripture for the supreme renunciates. Then, a new danger arose. Ariṣṭa, the bull-demon, arrived at the cowherd settlement, shaking the earth with his massive hump and tearing up the ground with his hooves. Bellowing harshly, scraping the earth with his feet, he raised his tail and tossed mounds of earth, lifting them with the tips of his horns. He released dung bit by bit, urinated, his eyes fixed and unblinking, and 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 of them cried out, “Krishna! Krishna!” and took refuge in Govinda. Seeing Gokula panic-stricken with fear, the Lord took notice. He comforted them, saying, “Do not be afraid,” and called out to the bull-demon while the cowherds and cattle, trembling with fear, looked on: “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.” Standing with his arm extended over his friend’s shoulder, Krishna waited. Ariṣṭa, enraged, scraped the earth with his hoof, whirled his raised tail like a storm cloud, and charged furiously at Krishna. With his sharp horns pointed forward, his eyes fixed and bloodshot, Ariṣṭa rushed swiftly at Achyuta, casting a sidelong glance, like a thunderbolt released by Indra. The Lord seized him by the horns, stepped back eighteen paces, and dragged him away, just as an elephant would pull back another elephant. Thrown aside by the Lord, Ariṣṭa quickly rose again, his whole body drenched in sweat, breathing heavily, and overcome by wrath, he charged once more.