On the gentle slopes of the Vraja hills, Krishna, adorned with garlands and ornaments, delighted in the company of his friends. The sound of his flute, sweet and enchanting, brought joy not only to the cowherd women but seemed to make the entire world rejoice. Even the clouds, careful not to intrude, softly rumbled and, like affectionate companions, showered flowers and cast their cool shade, forming a celestial canopy above him. Krishna was expert in tending the many cows of Vraja, and his skill with the flute was unmatched. Whenever he lifted the flute to his lips, melodies of his own invention would pour forth, captivating all who heard them. Such was the wonder of his music that even the great gods—Indra, Shiva, Brahma—and the sages themselves, bowed their heads and hearts in awe, bewildered and unable to grasp the true nature of what they witnessed. The cows, marked with the signs of the flag, thunderbolt, lotus, and goad on their hooves, were enchanted by the flute’s song. As they wandered, they soothed the earth of Vraja, covering over the very wounds their hooves had made in the soil. The cowherd women, too, were overcome by the playful glances Krishna cast their way. So powerful was the desire awakened in their hearts that, as he passed by, they wandered about in a daze, unaware of whether their hair or garments were in order, lost in a sweet confusion. At times, Krishna would be adorned with a garland fragrant with the beloved scent of tulasi. Counting the cows, he would rest his arm on the shoulder of a dear friend, singing as they walked together. The sound of his flute deceived the minds of all who heard it. The hearts of the cowherd women became absorbed in him, and, following the ocean of his virtues, even the deer—like the gopīs, freed from attachment to their homes—followed after him. By the banks of the Yamunā, garlanded with jasmine and clad in festive attire, Krishna was surrounded by cowherds and cattle. There, Nanda’s son, your darling calf, delighted the hearts of his loving friends with playful pastimes. A gentle breeze, fragrant with sandalwood, would rise to honor him, while groups of celestial singers circled, offering music and praise. Krishna’s affection for the cows of Vraja was evident to all, and he was honored by the elders as he led the cattle home at the day’s end, his fame sung by the ever-present sound of his flute. As he returned, his face shone with the beauty of exertion, his garland dusted with the earth kicked up by the cows’ hooves. He came, wishing to bestow blessings on his friends—the king who had arisen from Devakī’s womb. His eyes rolled slightly in joy; his lips, pale like the jujube fruit, smiled beneath cheeks adorned by the splendor of golden earrings. Wearing his garland, he honored his friends with every gesture. At dusk, the lord of the Yadus would frolic among the king of elephants, his face radiant with happiness as he approached the village, 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 wondrous pastimes, their minds and hearts wholly devoted to 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, the scripture for the supreme renunciates. But then, a new disturbance arose. Ariṣṭa, the fearsome 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, raising his tail and tossing mounds of earth with the tips of his horns. As he moved, he released dung and urine, his eyes fixed and unblinking, his fierce cries terrifying both cows and people. Such was the terror he spread that pregnant women miscarried before their time, and even the clouds, mistaking his hump for a mountain, scattered away. At the sight of his sharp horns, the cowherd men and women were struck with fear, and the cattle, panic-stricken, fled the settlement, abandoning Gokula. In their distress, all cried out, “Krishna! Krishna!” and took refuge in Govinda. Seeing Gokula so overcome with fear, the Lord was moved to act. He comforted them, saying, “Do not be afraid,” and 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’s attack. Enraged, Ariṣṭa scraped the earth, whirled his raised tail like a storm cloud, and charged furiously at Krishna, his sharp horns pointed forward, his bloodshot eyes fixed in anger, as if he were a thunderbolt hurled by Indra. The Lord seized Ariṣṭa by the horns, stepped back eighteen paces, and dragged him away, just as an elephant would pull back another elephant. Thrown aside, Ariṣṭa quickly rose again, his body drenched in sweat, breathing heavily, and, overcome by wrath, charged once more. Krishna seized him by the horns, pressed him down with his foot, and threw him to the ground. He squeezed the demon as one wrings out wet clothes, then struck him with his own horn, and Ariṣṭa collapsed. 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 Ariṣṭa was thus vanquished by Krishna’s wondrous deeds, the divine sage Nārada, who beholds the gods, went to inform Kaṃsa. He revealed that the daughter of Yaśodā, the boy Krishna of Devakī, and Rāma, the son of Rohiṇī, had all been entrusted for safekeeping by the fearful Vasudeva. Vasudeva had placed those two boys in the care of his friend Nanda, and now, by their hands, Kaṃsa’s men had been slain. Hearing this, the king of the Bhojas, his senses overcome by anger, seized a sharp sword, intending to kill Vasudeva. But Nārada restrained him, revealing that those two sons were destined to be his own death. Realizing this, Kaṃsa bound Vasudeva and his wife with iron chains. When the divine sage departed, Kaṃsa summoned the demon Keśin and commanded him, “Go and kill Rāma and Keśava; then send Muṣṭika, Cāṇūra, Śala, Tośala, and others.” He called together his ministers and the keepers of elephants, saying, “Listen, all of you: these are the mighty wrestlers Cāṇūra and Muṣṭika. In Nanda’s cowherd village reside the two sons of Ānakadundubhi, Rāma and Krishna; therefore, my death has been foretold at their hands. You two must kill them here in a wrestling match. Let various platforms be prepared, surrounded by the wrestling arena, so that all the citizens and country folk may witness their combat.