As Krishna and Balarama entered the arena, the people gazed upon them with awe and joy. It was as if their eyes drank in the sight, their tongues tasted the sweetness, their noses savored the fragrance, and their arms longed to embrace them. Among themselves, they recalled and discussed everything they had seen and heard—the beauty, virtues, sweetness, and daring of these two brothers—speaking as if their memories had been freshly awakened. They recognized Krishna and Balarama as direct incarnations of the Lord himself—Hari, Nārāyaṇa—who had descended in part into the house of Vasudeva. Krishna had been born to Devakī, then secretly brought to Gokula, where he grew up in the house of Nanda. There, he had ended Pūtanā’s life, slain the demon Cakravat, defeated Arjuna the Guhyaka, Keśī, Dhenuka, and many others. He had rescued the cows and cowherds from the forest fire, subdued Kāliya the serpent, and humbled Indra’s pride. For seven days, Krishna had held up the great mountain with one hand, protecting Gokula from rain, wind, and thunderbolts. The cowherd women, seeing his smiling, glancing face, found joy that carried them through all hardships and fatigue. The people spoke of how, by Krishna’s protection, the illustrious Yadu dynasty—already famed—would attain even greater prosperity and renown. And there was his elder brother, the glorious Rāma, lotus-eyed, who had slain Pralamba, Vatsaka, Baka, and others. As the people spoke and the instruments sounded, Cāṇūra stepped forward and addressed Krishna and Rāma. “O sons of Nanda, O Rāma, you are esteemed as heroes, skilled in wrestling, and have been summoned by the king, who is eager to see your prowess. When the king’s wishes are fulfilled, the people surely prosper; otherwise, it is not so. The cowherds and herders, joyful, would play at wrestling while tending the cows in the forests. Therefore, let us do what pleases the king, for when the king, who embodies all beings, is satisfied, all creatures are pleased with us.” Krishna heard this and spoke words fitting the moment, welcoming the challenge, which he himself desired. “We, the subjects of King Bhoja, and we forest-dwellers as well, will always do what pleases him; that is our greatest favor. We are boys, and will play with those of equal strength as is proper; let the wrestling match be fair, so that the assembly of wrestlers may not find fault with us.” Cāṇūra replied, “You are neither a child nor a youth; you are foremost among the strong. By your play, the mighty elephant, bearing the strength of a thousand, was slain. Therefore, you two must wrestle with the strong; there is no evasion here. Let Mushtika contend with Balarama, and let me, O descendant of Vrishni, match my strength with yours.” Thus ended the chapter, ‘The Slaying of Kuvalayapida,’ in the Śrīmad Bhāgavatam. Śuka continued: With his resolve honored, Lord Madhusudana, along with the son of Rohini, approached Cāṇūra and Mushtika. Locking hands and feet, they forcefully dragged each other, eager for victory. They struck each other with fists, knees, heads, chests, and shoulders. They circled, feinted, embraced, threw, advanced, retreated, and continually countered each other. By lifting, raising, shaking, and holding, each sought to overpower the other, exerting their full strength. Observing this contest of strength and weakness, all the assembled women spoke among themselves, moved by compassion. “Alas, what injustice is this among the king’s assembly, that they desire such a contest of strength and weakness before the king, as he looks on! How can these wrestlers, with bodies hard as thunderbolts and resembling mountain peaks, be matched against these two youths, so delicate and not yet come to full manhood? Surely, this assembly will incur a breach of righteousness, for where unrighteousness arises, one should never remain. A wise person should not enter an assembly, remembering the faults of its members; whether he speaks or remains silent, an ignorant man incurs sin.” They gazed at Krishna’s lotus-like face, covered with sweat from exertion as he faced his enemy, like a lotus bud moistened with water. They admired Rāma’s face, with copper-red eyes, adorned with a smile and the flush of anger, shining as he confronted Mushtika. Blessed, they said, are the lands of Vraja, where this ancient Person, concealed in human form and adorned with garlands of forest flowers, tends the cows with Balarāma, playing his flute. His feet are worshipped by the beloved of the mountain lord, and he delights in various pastimes. What austerities did the cowherd women perform, that they could see his form—the very essence of beauty, peerless and unique, ever fresh at every moment, difficult to attain, the sole abode of fame, fortune, and majesty—drinking it in with their eyes? Fortunate are the women of Vraja, whose minds are devoted to the mighty Lord. With voices choked by tears, they sing of him while milking cows, gathering dung, churning, smearing floors, swinging their children, or sweeping—whatever their work. Morning and evening, as he leaves for the pastures or returns with the cows, playing his flute, the blessed young women quickly come out onto the path to see his smiling face and compassionate glances. As the women spoke thus, the Lord, master of yoga, Hari, resolved in his mind to slay his enemy. Hearing the fearful words of the women, the parents, distressed by affection and grief for their sons, suffered greatly for the sake of their two sons, unaware of their true strength. With all the various techniques of wrestling, Acyuta and his opponent fought each other, just as Bala and Mushtika did, displaying their prowess before all.