Sankarshana, the noble-minded Balarāma, warmly embraced Akrura, who had come and bowed before him. Taking Akrura’s hand in his own, and together with his brother Krishna, he led their honored guest into the house. There, after inquiring about Akrura’s well-being and offering him a seat of respect, they followed the sacred customs of hospitality: washing his feet and presenting him with a honey-mixture as a welcoming gift. Their care did not end there. They gifted Akrura a cow, massaged his weary limbs with reverence, and set before him pure, abundant food, all offered with loving devotion. When Akrura had eaten his fill, Balarāma, the supreme knower of dharma, honored him again with fragrant scents and garlands used in holy rites, expressing deep affection. Nanda, head of the cowherds, having duly honored Akrura, asked with concern, “O Dāśārha, how do you fare in that place where kindness is lacking, while Kamsa still rules? Are we not like cowherds under a cruel master? How can there be well-being for you and your people, when that wicked one—who slew his own nephews as their mothers cried in anguish—still lives?” Thus, spoken to with heartfelt respect by Nanda, Akrura felt the fatigue of his long journey melt away. Śuka tells us that Akrura, comfortably seated on a fine couch and honored by Balarāma and Krishna, found all his cherished hopes fulfilled. For what could be unattainable when the Lord, the very abode of fortune, is pleased? Yet, O King, those devoted to Him desire nothing for themselves. After the evening meal, Krishna, the blessed son of Devakī, gathered with his friends and inquired about Kamsa’s behavior and his latest plans. Krishna greeted Akrura: “Dear one, gentle Akrura, welcome! May all be well with you. Are your relatives and kin free from illness and misfortune?” Then, with a sigh, he added, “How can I ask about our own welfare, when our family is suffering under Kamsa, our maternal uncle, who rules over us and our people? So much pain has come to my noble parents because of us—on our account, their sons were killed, and they were imprisoned. Yet, by good fortune, today I see my own people as I have longed, O gentle one. Tell me, dear Akrura, the reason for your coming.” Thus invited, Akrura explained everything to Krishna—the longstanding enmity among the Yadus, Kamsa’s intent to kill Vasudeva, and the message he himself bore. He recounted what Nārada had told Kamsa concerning the birth of Anakadundubhi’s son. Hearing all this, Krishna and Balarāma, destroyers of enemy heroes, exchanged knowing smiles and informed Nanda of the king’s command. Nanda then instructed the cowherds: “Gather all the milk and dairy products. Collect gifts, and yoke the wagons. Tomorrow we will go to Mathurā, offer our produce to the king, and witness the great festival, for it is said that people from the countryside are going.” Thus, Nanda announced it throughout the settlement. When the cowherd women heard this, a great sadness overcame them, for they understood that Akrura had come to take Krishna and Balarāma to the city. Some, their hearts heavy, grew pale with sighing; others let their garments, bangles, and braids fall loose in grief. Many, lost in thoughts of Krishna, abandoned their daily tasks, oblivious to the world around them, as though absorbed in their own inner realms. Some, recalling Krishna’s loving smiles and sweet words, were overwhelmed, his charming phrases echoing in their hearts and leaving them bewildered. They remembered his graceful walk, his playful gestures, his affectionate glances and smiles, his jokes that dispelled all sorrow, and the delightful games he played. Thinking of Mukunda, fearful and distressed by the thought of separation, the gopīs gathered in groups, their faces streaked with tears, and spoke with hearts fixed on Acyuta. They cried out, “O Creator, how merciless you are! You unite embodied beings in friendship and love, only to separate them before their desires are fulfilled, like a child’s playthings snatched away. You showed us Mukunda’s lovely face, framed by dark curls, with beautiful cheeks and a raised nose, his smile dispelling all sorrow—and now you make him distant from us. This is not right. “And you, Akrūra—your name means ‘not cruel,’ but you are truly cruel! You gave us sight, only to take it away, for through you we beheld the beauty of the enemy of Madhu, the perfection of all creation, gathered in one place. “The son of Nanda, whose affection is fleeting, no longer looks upon us, though we are tormented by our own actions. We left home, family, and husbands to serve him, but now he has found new beloveds. “Surely, the women of that city will rejoice tonight, for their wishes will come true—they will drink in the sight of the Lord of Vraja as he enters, savoring the nectar of his sidelong, smiling glances. Captivated by their sweet words, Mukunda—though strong-willed—will be under their sway. How will he ever return to us village women, bashful and bewildered by love? “Today, there will be a great festival for the Daśārhas, Bhojas, Andhakas, Vṛṣṇis, and Sātvatas; those on the road will see the beautiful Lord, the son of Devakī, the abode of all virtues. “Let Akrūra be named so for his pitilessness! How cruel, that he, without comforting us in our sorrow, will take our dearest friend far away. He, with a heart of stone, has mounted the chariot, and the reckless urge him on. The cowherds, neglected by their elders, follow with their carts, while fate itself turns against us today. “Let us go and stop Mādhava! What can our elders do for us, when, by fate, our hearts—unable to bear even a half-blink’s separation from Mukunda—are now shattered? “We, whose hearts were stolen by his smiles, enchanting words, playful glances, embraces, and the joys of the rāsa dance—how can we endure this endless darkness of separation, even for a moment, without him? “When, at day’s end, the friend of Ananta returns to Vraja, surrounded by cowherds, his hair dusted by their hooves, playing his flute, glancing with smiling eyes—how could we live if we were deprived of him?” Thus did the women of Vraja, their minds absorbed in Krishna and tormented by the pain of separation, cast aside all shyness and weep aloud, crying, “Govinda! Dāmodara! Mādhava!” As the women lamented and the sun rose, Akrura, having fulfilled his duties as a friend, readied the chariot and urged it onward. The cowherds, led by Nanda and others, followed with their carts, bearing many gifts—jars filled with the rich products of their cows—on the road to Mathurā.