O King, when the mighty elephant Kuvalayāpīḍa was felled, even the resolute Kaṁsa—long unshaken—felt his heart greatly disturbed. Into the arena strode those two unconquerable brothers, Kṛṣṇa and Balarāma, their powerful arms gleaming. They were adorned in splendid garments, ornaments, and garlands, their radiant presence captivating every eye, like expert actors assuming the highest roles upon a stage. The citizens and villagers, seated upon platforms, gazed upon the brothers with faces uplifted and hearts surging in delight. Their eyes drank in the sight, never satisfied, unable to turn away from the beauty of those divine faces. It was as if, through their senses, they sought to embrace the brothers entirely—drinking with their eyes, tasting with their tongues, inhaling with their noses, and embracing with their arms. They began to speak among themselves, recalling all they had seen and heard of these two—marveling afresh at their beauty, virtues, sweetness, and courage. Some whispered, “These two are not ordinary mortals. They are direct incarnations of the Lord—Hari, Nārāyaṇa himself—who have descended in part into the house of Vasudeva.” Others remembered, “He was truly born of Devakī, then brought to Gokula, where he lived in secret and grew up in Nanda’s house.” They recounted his wondrous deeds: “He brought an end to Pūtanā, slew the demon Cakravat, vanquished Arjuna the Guhyaka, Keśī, Dhenuka, and many others. He rescued the cows and herders from a raging forest fire, subdued the serpent Kāliya, and humbled the pride of Indra. For seven days, with one hand, he held up the great mountain, protecting Gokula from the fury of rain, wind, and thunderbolts. The cowherd women, always beholding his smiling and glancing face, crossed every hardship and fatigue in joy.” They spoke with admiration: “By him, the illustrious Yadu dynasty, already famed, will attain even greater prosperity and renown, being under his protection. And see, his elder brother, the glorious Rāma—lotus-eyed—by whom Pralamba, Vatsaka, Baka, and others were destroyed.” Amidst this wonder and the sound of resounding instruments, the wrestler Cāṇūra stepped forward and addressed Kṛṣṇa and Balarāma: “O sons of Nanda, O Rāma, you are esteemed as heroes, skilled in wrestling, and have been summoned by the king, eager to witness your strength. When the king’s wishes are fulfilled, the people surely prosper in thought, word, and deed; otherwise, the opposite is true. We have heard that you cowherds often play at wrestling in the forests while tending the cows. Therefore, let us do what pleases the king, for when the king—who embodies all beings—is satisfied, all creatures are pleased with us.” Kṛṣṇa, hearing this, replied with words fitting the moment, welcoming the challenge of wrestling that he himself desired: “We are subjects of King Bhoja, and as forest-dwellers as well, we always seek to please him; this is our greatest favor. We are but boys and will wrestle with those of equal strength as is proper. Let the match be fair, so that the assembly of wrestlers may not find fault with us.” But Cāṇūra countered, “You are no mere child or youth; you are the foremost among the strong. By your play, even the mighty elephant, with the strength of a thousand, was slain. Therefore, you two must wrestle with the strong; there is no evasion. Let Muṣṭika contend with Balarāma, and let me, O descendant of Vrishni, match my strength with yours.” Thus concludes the chapter of Kuvalayāpīḍa’s slaying. Śuka continued: With their resolve acknowledged, Lord Madhusudana and the son of Rohini approached Cāṇūra and Muṣṭika. They locked hands and feet, each forcefully dragging the other, eager for victory. Their contest was fierce—they struck with fists, knees, heads, chests, and shoulders, moving in circles, feinting, embracing, throwing, advancing, and retreating, always countering each other’s skill. They lifted, shook, and held each other, each striving to overpower his opponent with all his might. The assembled women, witnessing this spectacle of strength and weakness, spoke among themselves in groups, moved by compassion. “Alas!” they cried, “What injustice is this, that such a contest should take place before the king and his assembly? How can these wrestlers, with bodies hard as thunderbolts and like mountain peaks, be matched against these two youths, so delicate and not yet fully grown? Surely, this assembly incurs a breach of righteousness, for where unrighteousness arises, one should never remain. A wise person should not enter such an assembly, for whether he speaks or is silent, an ignorant man incurs sin.” They gazed with tender concern: “See Kṛṣṇa’s lotus-like face, covered with sweat from exertion as he faces his enemy, like a lotus bud moistened with water. And look at Rāma’s face, with copper-red eyes, adorned with a smile and the flush of anger, shining as he confronts Muṣṭika.” Their hearts turned to Vraja: “Blessed indeed are the lands of Vraja, where this ancient Person, disguised in human form and adorned with forest garlands, tends the cows with Balarāma, playing his flute, his feet worshipped by the beloved of the mountain lord, delighting in endless pastimes. What austerities did the cowherd women perform, that they could behold his form—the very essence of beauty, ever fresh, the sole abode of fame, fortune, and majesty—drinking it in with their eyes?” They continued, “Fortunate are the women of Vraja, whose hearts are given to the mighty Lord, who sing of him with voices choked by tears as they milk cows, gather dung, churn butter, smear floors, swing their children, or sweep—whatever their work. Morning and evening, as he leaves for the pastures or returns with the cows, playing his flute, the blessed young women rush to the path to see his smiling face and compassionate glances.” So, the memories and praises of Kṛṣṇa and Balarāma filled the hearts and words of all who beheld them, as the contest in the arena unfolded before the eyes of the world.