Assuming his own formidable form, as immense and solid as a great mountain, the powerful demon Vyomāsura attempted to flee. Yet, though he struggled mightily, he found himself utterly overpowered and unable to break free from his captor’s grasp. Acyuta—Krishna himself—subdued the demon with his strong arms, casting him down to the earth. As the gods looked on from the heavens, Krishna slew Vyomāsura, who had been a terror to the cattle. Afterward, Krishna broke open the entrance to the cave where the cowherd boys had been imprisoned. With great effort, he released them from their captivity. Both the gods above and the cowherds of Vraja below showered him with praise, and thus honored, Krishna returned to his beloved Vraja. Thus ends the thirty-seventh chapter, known as “The Slaying of Vyomāsura,” in the first half of the tenth book of the Śrīmad Bhāgavata Mahāpurāṇa, the scripture revered by the paramahaṃsas. Now, Śuka continued: That same night, Akrūra, wise and devout, spent his rest in Mathurā. As dawn broke, he mounted his chariot and set out upon the road leading to Nanda’s Gokula. As he traveled, his heart stirred with devotion for the Lord with lotus eyes, and he began to reflect deeply. “What great merit have I accrued, what austerities have I performed, or what worthy gifts have I given,” he wondered, “that today I am destined to behold Keśava? To gain the vision of the Lord, famed for his virtues, is exceedingly rare—just as chanting the Veda’s sacred syllables is rare for one born as a śūdra, attached to worldly pleasures. Yet, perhaps even for one as fallen as myself, the vision of Acyuta will not be denied; for sometimes, by fortune, even one swept away by the mighty river of Time is able to cross over. Today, my misfortune is ended, and my life finds its purpose, for I shall bow at the lotus feet of the Lord, which are the object of yogis’ meditation. Indeed, today Kaṁsa himself has done me the greatest favor, for I will see the radiant feet of Hari, whose nails once dispelled the darkness that even the ancients could not pierce. Those feet are worshipped by Brahmā, Śiva, and the gods, by the goddess Śrī, by sages, and by the Sātvatas. Those same feet wander the forests with his companions, tending the cows, and are marked with the saffron from the gopīs’ breasts. Surely, I will behold the face of Mukunda—his cheeks and nose so beautiful, his smile radiant, his glances gentle, his eyes red like lotus petals, framed by curling locks of hair, around which deer move as if in circumambulation. Perhaps today my eyes will finally attain their true fruit, beholding Viṣṇu, who, by his own will, has assumed a human form to lighten the earth’s burden, and who is the very embodiment of beauty. He, whom I am about to see, is free from ego and duality, yet dispels the darkness of ignorance by his own radiance. Through his māyā, he is perceived in the homes of living beings, enlivening their life, senses, and intellect. His words, filled with auspicious qualities, deeds, and birth, destroy all inauspiciousness, purify, and sanctify the world. Those who remain indifferent to him are like beautiful corpses—alive in form, but devoid of true life. He has descended in the line of the Sātvatas, delighting the best of the gods and spreading his fame; he dwells in Vraja, where the gods sing of his auspicious deeds. Today, surely, I will see him—the supreme goal of the great, the teacher, the delight of the three worlds, the festival for the eyes, bearing the form beloved by Śrī herself, with my own eyes at dawn. Then, when he descends from his chariot, I shall attain the feet that even yogis cherish in their hearts; I will bow to them, as will his friends and the dwellers of the forest. Perhaps the Lord will place his own lotus hand upon my head as I bow at his feet, granting fearlessness to those who are terrified by the serpent of Time and who seek his refuge. By that touch, Viśvāmitra and Bali, after their worship, attained lordship over the three worlds; or, in play, he removed the fatigue of the women of Vraja with his fragrant hand. Acyuta, the all-seeing, will not regard me with enmity, even though I come as Kaṁsa’s messenger, for he, the knower of all hearts, perceives with pure vision every act, within and without, of the mind. Perhaps, as I fall at his feet with folded hands, he will look upon me with a gentle, smiling, compassionate gaze, and in that instant, all my sins will be destroyed and I shall be filled with fearless joy. Then, the best of friends, my kinsman, my only deity, will embrace me with his broad arms; in that moment, he will sanctify me, and my bondage born of karma will be dispelled. When I, bowing with folded hands, attain the touch of his limbs and he speaks to me, then—even though we are born as mere humans—if we are not honored by him, such a birth is truly to be lamented. He has no one as dearest, no best friend, nor anyone unloved, hated, or neglected; yet, just as the wish-fulfilling tree grants boons to those who approach it, so does he favor his devotees. Furthermore, the eldest and foremost among the Yadus, smiling, embraced him who had bowed with folded hands, led him into the house where every honor had been prepared, and inquired about the troubles brought upon his kin by Kaṁsa. Thus, reflecting on Krishna as he journeyed, Akrūra, the son of Śvaphalka, arrived at Gokula by chariot, just as the sun reaches the western mountains at day’s end. There, in the cowherd settlement, he saw the footprints of the Lord—whose dust is honored by all the rulers of the worlds upon their crowns—distinguished by marks such as the lotus, barleycorn, and goad. Filled with joy and reverent excitement at this sight, Akrūra’s eyes overflowed with tears and his hair stood on end from love. He descended from his chariot and moved among the sacred footprints, exclaiming, “Ah! This is the dust of the Lord’s feet!” For embodied beings, the greatest blessing is to abandon pride, fear, and sorrow, which is first achieved by seeing, hearing, or otherwise coming into contact with the signs of Hari. Then, Akrūra saw Krishna and Rama in Vraja, returning from the milking of the cows. They wore yellow and blue garments, and their eyes shone like autumn lotuses. Youthful and radiant, one dark and one fair, they were abodes of beauty, with broad arms, handsome faces, splendid forms, and the strength and gait of young elephants. These great souls, with feet marked by banners, thunderbolts, goads, and lotuses, adorned Vraja, their glances smiling and full of compassion. Noble and charming in their play, adorned with garlands and forest wreaths, their bodies were anointed with sacred fragrances, bathed, and clad in spotless garments. These two, the primeval Purushas, the causes and lords of the world, had descended for the sake of the earth, as Balarama and Keshava, manifesting their own portions. O King, they dispelled the darkness in all directions with their own radiance, like an emerald mountain and a silver one adorned with gold. Overwhelmed with affection, Akrūra swiftly leapt from his chariot and fell prostrate at the feet of Rama and Krishna. Overjoyed at the sight of the Lord, his eyes streaming with tears and his body covered with goosebumps, he was so eager that he could not even utter his own name. The Lord, marked by the chariot wheel upon his hand, approached Akrūra, embraced him, and drew him near with affection—for he delights in those who bow before him.