In the enchanting land of Vraja, Krishna, the beloved son of Nanda, wandered the forest hills with his cowherd friends. Peacock feathers, colored minerals, and leaves adorned him, and he often dressed in the style of a wrestler, delighting in play as he called the cows with his companions. The very rivers, their currents slowed and caressed by the breeze carrying dust from Krishna’s lotus feet, yearned for him with trembling affection, their waters stilled in loving anticipation, much as the people of Vraja longed for his presence. As the original person, resplendent like a mountain lord, Krishna was praised by his friends for his valor. Roaming the forest, he called the cows with the music of his flute, his melodies echoing along the slopes. The forest responded in kind: creepers and trees, heavy with flowers and fruits, seemed to manifest Vishnu within themselves. Their branches bent low, dripping with honey, their bodies thrilled with love, and they blossomed anew in his presence. Krishna’s beauty was heightened by a tilaka on his forehead, a garland of forest flowers, and the divine fragrance of honey-laden tulasi. When he played his flute, the bees, intoxicated by the scent and sound, gathered to sing in harmony, honoring him with their buzzing chorus. In the peaceful lakes, cranes, swans, and other birds, captivated by the enchanting melody, approached Hari. With their minds stilled and eyes closed, they maintained a reverent silence, as if worshipping him. Garlanded and adorned, Krishna and his friends moved about the hills, and when the sound of his flute reached the ears of the cowherd women, joy arose within them and seemed to pervade the whole world. Even the clouds, mindful not to overshadow his glory, rumbled softly and gently showered flowers, forming a canopy and offering shade to their friend. Krishna was expert in tending the cows and skilled in playing the flute. When he brought the flute to his lips, he created new and wondrous melodies, the likes of which had never been heard. So enchanting was his music that even the greatest of gods—Indra, Shiva, Brahma, and the sages—bowed their heads and hearts in awe, bewildered and unable to fully grasp his divine nature. The cows of Vraja, their hooves marked with the signs of flag, thunderbolt, lotus, and goad, were soothed by the music and, in their delight, gently covered the wounds of the earth as they walked. As Krishna passed by, the women of Vraja were overcome by the playful glances he cast their way. Their hearts stirred with longing, they wandered in confusion, oblivious to their disheveled hair or garments, lost in the ecstasy of his presence. Sometimes, adorned with a garland fragrant with tulasi, Krishna would count the cows, his arm resting affectionately on a dear friend’s shoulder, singing as they walked together. The sound of his flute deceived the minds of all who heard it. The wives of Krishna, their hearts absorbed in him, followed him, drawn by the ocean of his virtues. Even the deer, like the cowherd women, left behind all attachment to home and followed after him. On the banks of the Yamuna, Krishna was welcomed with jasmine garlands and festive attire, surrounded by cowherds and cattle. There, Nanda’s son, your calf, delighted the hearts of his friends with playful pastimes. A gentle breeze, fragrant with sandalwood, blew in his honor, while groups of celestial singers encircled him with music, song, and offerings of praise. Krishna was ever affectionate to the cows of Vraja and honored by the elders along the path. As day ended, he led the cattle home, his fame sung by the music of his flute. His face shone with the exertion of play, his garland dusted with the earth kicked up by the cows. Wishing to bless his friends, this king, born from Devaki’s womb, returned to the village. His eyes, bright and slightly rolling with joy, his lips pale like the jujube fruit, and his soft cheeks adorned by golden earrings, Krishna was a sight of beauty, garland-wearing and ever honoring his friends. At day’s end, the lord of the Yadus, radiant with joy, entered the village like the lord of night, 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 minds and hearts wholly absorbed in him, filled with great joy. Thus ends 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 the supreme renunciates. But then, a new trial descended upon the peaceful cowherd settlement. Ariṣṭa, the bull-demon, arrived, shaking the very earth with his massive hump and tearing up the ground with his hooves. He bellowed harshly, scraping the earth, his tail raised high as he tossed mounds of earth with his horns. Bit by bit, he released dung and urine, his unblinking, fierce gaze terrifying both cows and people. So great was the fear he spread that pregnant women miscarried before their time, and the clouds, mistaking his hump for a mountain, scattered away. Seeing his sharp horns, the cowherd men and women were seized with terror, and 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 and comforted them with gentle words: “Do not be afraid.” He then called out to the bull-demon, while the trembling cowherds and cattle 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 over his friend’s shoulder, Krishna awaited the demon. Enraged, Ariṣṭa scraped the earth, whirled his tail like a storm cloud, and charged furiously at Krishna, his sharp horns lowered, eyes bloodshot, like a thunderbolt hurled by Indra. The Lord seized him by the horns, stepped back eighteen paces, and dragged him away as an elephant might another. Thrown aside, Ariṣṭa quickly rose again, his body drenched in sweat, breathing heavily, and overcome with wrath, he charged once more. Krishna seized him by the horns, pressed him down with his foot, threw him to the ground, and squeezed him as one wrings out wet clothes. Striking him with the horn, Krishna brought Ariṣṭa down. Vomiting blood, releasing urine and feces, flailing his legs, his eyes unsteady, Ariṣṭa suffered greatly and met his end at the hands of Nirṛti. The gods showered Krishna with flowers and sang his praises. Having slain the bull-demon Kukudmin in this way, Krishna, praised by the twice-born, entered the cowherd settlement with Balarama, a festival for the eyes of the gopīs. When the demon Ariṣṭa was slain by Krishna’s wondrous deeds, the divine sage Nārada, who beholds the gods, went to inform Kaṃsa. He told Kaṃsa that the daughter of Yaśodā, the boy Krishna of Devakī, and Rāma, the son of Rohiṇī, had been entrusted by the fearful Vasudeva. Vasudeva had placed the two boys in the care of his friend Nanda, and by them, Kaṃsa’s men had been slain. Hearing this, the king of the Bhojas, his senses overcome by anger, began to plot anew.