Adorned with the fragrant ointment she had offered, her skin now glowing with a radiance different from her own, Kubjā stood transformed beside Krishna. The two, their forms enhanced by the exchange, appeared even more attractive—grace and beauty shining forth. Pleased by her devotion, the Lord resolved to reward Kubjā, the lovely-faced hunchback, with the fruit of beholding Him. Gently placing His feet upon hers, Krishna lifted her chin with His upward-turned fingers. In that touch, He drew her upright, straightening her bent form. Instantly, by Mukunda’s divine touch, Kubjā’s body was made straight and beautiful. Her figure blossomed with broad hips and full breasts, and she became an exquisite woman, radiant and graceful. Endowed now with beauty, virtue, and generosity, Kubjā’s heart awakened with longing. Smiling, she drew Krishna’s upper garment and spoke to Him, desire shining in her eyes: “Come, O hero, let us go to my house. I cannot bear to let you go. My heart is stirred by you—please, best of men, show me your grace.” Krishna smiled at her earnest plea, as Balarama and the others looked on. He replied gently, “O lovely-browed one, captor of men’s hearts, I will come to your house. When our purpose here is fulfilled, you shall be the refuge for us wanderers.” With these sweet words, Krishna took His leave, continuing down the merchant’s road with Balarama. Along the way, townspeople honored them, offering gifts of betel, garlands, and fragrant perfumes. So enchanting was Krishna’s presence that the women of Mathura, seeing and remembering Him, became utterly distracted. They lost awareness of themselves, their clothing and ornaments slipping as if they were painted figures come to life, so absorbed were they in His beauty. Moving through the city, Krishna inquired about the location of the great bow and made His way there. Entering the hall, He beheld the wondrous bow, splendid as Indra’s own, guarded by many men and revered by all. Though the guards tried to restrain Him, Krishna, undeterred, seized the bow with playful ease. With His left hand, He lifted and strung it before the eyes of all. Then, with a mighty pull, He broke the bow in two, as effortlessly as an elephant snaps a stalk of sugarcane. The thunderous sound of the bow’s breaking echoed through the sky and earth, filling all directions and striking fear into the heart of King Kamsa. Enraged, the guards and their followers rushed at Krishna and Balarama, shouting, “Catch him! Kill him!” Sensing their hostility, the two brothers grew angry. Seizing the broken fragments of the bow, they struck down the attackers, slaying all who opposed them. Having vanquished Kamsa’s forces, Krishna and Balarama departed the hall joyfully, wandering through the city and marveling at its splendor. The citizens, witnessing their valor, brilliance, and confidence, regarded Krishna and Balarama as divine beings, foremost among the gods. As the sun set, the brothers, accompanied by their cowherd friends, left the city and returned to their wagon. The gopis, meanwhile, suffered in separation from Mukunda, offering heartfelt blessings from afar. So captivating was Krishna’s beauty that even Lakshmi abandoned all others, desiring only Him. That night, Krishna and Balarama, their feet washed and bellies filled with food mixed with milk, rested happily, fully aware of Kamsa’s intentions. Meanwhile, Kamsa, having heard of the bow’s destruction, the death of his guards, and the extraordinary exploits of Govinda and Rama, was seized by dread. Sleepless and anxious, he was haunted by evil omens—both real and imagined—heralding his impending doom. He saw his own head missing in reflections, or doubled when it did appear; he perceived duplicity in the stars. He noticed gaps in his shadow, could not hear his own breath, saw gold in trees, and his footprints vanished. In dreams, he embraced the dead, rode a donkey, felt sorrow, wore garlands of nalada grass, was smeared with oil, and wandered naked. Terrified by these portents, both waking and dreaming, Kamsa’s mind was consumed by the fear of death, and he could find no rest. When dawn broke, Kamsa arranged a grand festival of wrestling. The arena was decorated with garlands, flags, colorful cloths, and arches; the sound of drums and trumpets filled the air. People from the city and countryside, as well as Brahmin and Kshatriya leaders, entered and took their seats according to rank. Amidst his ministers and regional rulers, Kamsa sat on the royal platform, his heart agitated. As the music played, the wrestlers—Chanura, Mushtika, Kuta, Shala, and Toshala—entered the arena, proud and adorned, accompanied by their teachers. Nanda and the cowherds, summoned by Kamsa, brought their gifts and entered together upon a single platform. Thus concludes the forty-second chapter, the “Description of the Wrestling Arena,” in the first half of the tenth book of the Śrīmad Bhāgavatam, the great Purāṇa, scripture of the supreme renunciates. Śuka continued: Krishna and Balarama, having purified themselves, heard the booming sound of the wrestling drums and made their way to the arena. As they approached the entrance, Krishna saw the mighty elephant Kuvalayapida stationed there, urged on by its keeper. Fastening His belt and brushing aside His curly locks, Krishna spoke to the elephant-keeper in a voice deep as thunder: “O elephant keeper, give us passage and do not delay; otherwise, today I shall send you and your elephant to the abode of Yama.” Stung by these words, the elephant keeper, enraged, set the furious beast upon Krishna—a creature as dreadful as Death itself.