The gopīs, the cowherd maidens of Vraja, spoke among themselves with wonder and longing: "Wherever Mukunda, the giver of liberation, raises his flute to his lips, holding it gently in his left hand, his delicate left cheek pressed against his arm, his eyebrows dancing with playful delight, and his slender fingers tracing the holes of the flute—there he calls to us with that enchanting melody." Even the wives of the celestial beings, along with the Siddhas, were struck with astonishment as they listened to the music of Krishna's flute. Overcome with bashful love, their hearts surrendered to the arrows of desire, and in their bewilderment, they forgot themselves and their garments. "O friends, listen!" the gopīs continued. "Whenever the son of Nanda, who brings joy to all who suffer, plays his flute, a radiant necklace and his ever-charming smile shine on his chest, flashing like steady lightning." The magic of Krishna’s music did not spare the animals of Vraja. The powerful bulls, the gentle deer, and the cows, hearing the distant sound of his flute, were captivated. With mouthfuls of grass still between their teeth, their ears pricked in attention, they stood motionless, as if painted—completely still, as though asleep. Adorned with peacock feathers, colored minerals, and leaves, Krishna sometimes dressed as a wrestler and, together with his friends, called the cows with playful shouts and laughter. The rivers themselves seemed to long for Krishna. Their currents slowed and broke apart, carried by breezes filled with the dust from his lotus feet. Blessed by many merits, the rivers stretched out their trembling arms of water, stilled in ecstatic love, yearning for him just as the gopīs did. Whenever Krishna, the original person, wandered the forest slopes with his companions, praised for his valor and strength, he called the cows with his flute, echoing through the mountains like the lord of the hills. The very trees and forest creepers responded to his presence. Laden with flowers and fruits, their branches bowed low, honey streaming from their trunks, they seemed to manifest Lord Vishnu within themselves. Thrilled with love, they blossomed abundantly, offering their beauty to him. Krishna, adorned with a tilaka, a garland of forest flowers, and tulasi fragrant with honey, played his flute. Intoxicated bees, drawn by the divine scent, circled him, humming their own songs in honor of the Lord. In the lakes, cranes, swans, and other birds, enchanted by Krishna’s music, approached him. Their minds drawn to the beauty of his song, they closed their eyes and stood silent, as if worshiping him in meditation. With his companions, garlanded and ornamented, Krishna played his flute on the hillsides, delighting the cowherd women. Such joy arose and spread throughout the world at the sound of his music. Even the clouds, careful not to overshadow Krishna, rumbled softly and, as if in friendship, showered flowers and provided cooling shade, forming a canopy over him. Krishna was expert in tending the cows, skillful in flute playing, and creative in his melodies. Whenever he placed his flute to his lips, new and wondrous tunes emerged, enchanting all who heard them. The greatest of the gods—Indra, Shiva, Brahma, and all the sages—were themselves bewildered upon hearing Krishna’s music. Bowing their heads and hearts, they found themselves unable to fathom the mystery of his song. The cows, delighted by the flute, wandered the land of Vraja, their hooves marked with flags, thunderbolts, lotuses, and goads. Wherever they walked, they soothed the earth, covering the wounds made by their own steps. The gopīs confessed, "When Krishna passes by, his playful glances and the desire he stirs in our hearts leave us so bewildered that we do not know where we wander or whether our hair and garments are in disarray." Sometimes, Krishna would count the cows, his body adorned with a fragrant garland of tulasi. Placing his arm on the shoulder of a dear companion, he sang as he walked, filling the air with delight. The wives of Krishna, deceived by the sound of his flute, followed after him, their hearts absorbed in him alone. Just as the cowherd women were drawn from their homes, so too did the deer, free from attachment, follow Krishna, captivated by his virtues. On the banks of the Yamuna, Krishna was welcomed with garlands of jasmine and festive attire. Surrounded by his friends and the cows, he delighted the hearts of all with his playful pastimes. A gentle, sandalwood-scented breeze blew in his honor, and celestial singers gathered, encircling him with music, song, and offerings of praise. Krishna, always affectionate to the cows of Vraja and honored by the elders along his path, led the cattle home at the end of the day. The sound of his flute announced his fame and return. His face shone with the beauty of exertion, his garland dusted with the earth kicked up by the cows’ hooves. Wishing to bless his friends, this king—born from Devaki’s womb—returned home. His eyes rolled slightly in joy, his lips pale like the jujube fruit, his soft cheeks adorned with golden earrings, and he honored his friends with a garland around his neck. The lord of the Yadus, moving among the cows like a great elephant among his herd, returned at day’s end like the moon rising at night. His face radiant with joy, he relieved the cows from the heat of the day as he approached the village. Śrī Śuka said: In this way, O King, the women of Vraja, always singing of Krishna’s pastimes, spent their days wholly absorbed in him. Their minds and hearts were filled with devotion and great joy. Thus concludes the thirty-fifth chapter, named "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, Śrī Śuka continued: One day, Ariṣṭa, the bull-demon, arrived at the cowherd settlement. His massive hump shook the earth, and his hooves tore up the ground as he approached. He bellowed harshly, scraping the earth with his feet, his tail raised high and whirling. He tossed great mounds of earth with the tips of his horns, creating chaos. As he advanced, he released dung and urine, his eyes fixed and unblinking. His fierce, terrifying bellowing struck fear into the hearts of cows and people alike. So dreadful was Ariṣṭa’s presence that pregnant women miscarried in fright, and the clouds themselves, mistaking his hump for a mountain, scattered away. Seeing his sharp horns, the cowherd men and women were seized with terror. The cattle, frightened, fled the settlement, abandoning Gokula. All the people cried out, "Krishna! Krishna!" and sought refuge in Govinda. Krishna saw the panic and fear that had overtaken Gokula. He comforted everyone, saying, "Do not be afraid," and then called out to the bull-demon, while the cowherds and cattle, trembling, looked on. "What is this, O worst of creatures?" he challenged. Achyuta struck the ground with his palm, the sound provoking Ariṣṭa. He declared, "I am the destroyer of the pride of the wicked, like you, O evil-minded one." Standing with his arm over a friend’s shoulder, Krishna waited. Enraged, Ariṣṭa scraped the earth, his tail whirling like a storm cloud, and charged furiously at Krishna. With his sharp horns forward, eyes bloodshot and fixed, Ariṣṭa rushed at Achyuta, casting a sidelong glance like a thunderbolt hurled by Indra. The Lord seized Ariṣṭa by the horns, stepped back eighteen paces, and dragged him away, just as an elephant might pull back another elephant. Thrown aside, Ariṣṭa quickly rose again, his whole body drenched in sweat, breathing heavily, and overcome by wrath, he charged once more. Krishna caught him by the horns, pressed him down with his foot, and hurled him to the ground. He squeezed Ariṣṭa as one wrings out wet clothes, then struck him with a horn, and Ariṣṭa fell. Vomiting blood, releasing urine and feces, flailing his legs, his eyes unsteady, Ariṣṭa suffered terribly and met his end at the hands of Nirṛti. The gods showered Krishna with flowers and praised him in triumph.