As the people gathered, they began to speak among themselves, recalling all they had seen and heard of Krishna and Balarama—their beauty, virtues, sweetness, and fearless deeds—so vividly that it was as if they were experiencing it all anew. They recognized these two brothers as none other than direct incarnations of the Supreme Lord, Hari, Nārāyaṇa himself, who had descended in part into the house of Vasudeva. They remembered how Krishna was truly born of Devakī, then secretly brought to Gokula, where he grew up in the house of Nanda. There, in that humble village, he had brought an end to the demoness Pūtanā, slain the monstrous Cakravat, vanquished Arjuna the Guhyaka, Keśī, Dhenuka, and many other fearsome beings. By his power, the cows and their herders were rescued from a raging forest fire; he subdued the mighty serpent Kāliya and humbled the pride of Indra himself. They spoke with awe of how, for seven days, Krishna had held aloft the great Govardhana Mountain with just one hand, shielding Gokula from the relentless rain, wind, and thunderbolts sent by Indra. The cowherd women, always beholding Krishna’s smiling, glancing face, found all their hardships and fatigue swept away by joy. It was said that, under Krishna’s protection, the illustrious Yadu dynasty—already renowned—would attain even greater prosperity, fame, and greatness. They did not forget Krishna’s elder brother, the glorious, lotus-eyed Balarama, by whose strength the demon Pralamba was slain, along with Vatsaka, Baka, and others. While these conversations and the sounds of festive instruments filled the air, the powerful wrestler Cāṇūra stepped forward and addressed Krishna and Balarama: “O sons of Nanda, O Rāma, you are celebrated as heroes and skilled wrestlers. The king himself has summoned you, eager to witness your prowess. When the king’s wishes are fulfilled, the people surely prosper in thought, word, and deed; otherwise, there is misfortune.” He continued, “The cowherds and herders, always joyful, would often play at wrestling in the forests while tending their cows. So, my friends, let us do what pleases the king. When the king, who embodies all beings, is satisfied, all creatures are pleased with us.” Krishna, hearing these words, replied with grace and readiness, welcoming the challenge—for he himself desired the contest. “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 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 objected, “You are neither a child nor a mere youth; you are the foremost among the strong. Did you not slay the mighty elephant, who possessed the strength of a thousand? Therefore, you must wrestle with the strong—there is no evasion here. Let Muṣṭika contend with Balarama, and let me, O descendant of Vrishni, test my strength against yours.” Thus ended the forty-third chapter, ‘The Slaying of Kuvalayapida,’ in the first half of the tenth book of the Śrīmad Bhāgavatam, the great Purāṇa, revered by the paramahamsas. Śuka continued: With his resolve honored, Lord Madhusudana, joined by Balarama, approached Cāṇūra and Muṣṭika. They locked hands and feet, forcefully dragging one another, each eager for victory. They struck with fists, knees, and heads, with their chests and shoulders as well. The contest was fierce, with circling, feints, embraces, throws, advances, and retreats—each move countered by the other. They lifted, raised, shook, and held, each striving with all their might to overpower their opponent. As this contest of strength and weakness unfolded, all the women assembled there, O King, spoke to each other with compassion in small groups: “Alas! What great injustice is this in the king’s assembly, that they desire such a contest between the strong and the weak before the king himself, as he watches? 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.” They reflected, “A wise person should not enter an assembly where there are faults, for whether he speaks or stays silent, an ignorant man incurs sin. Look at Krishna’s lotus-like face, covered in the sweat of exertion as he faces his enemy, like a lotus bud moistened with water. And why do you not see Rāma’s face, with copper-red eyes, adorned with a smile and the flush of anger, shining as he confronts Muṣṭika?” The women’s hearts turned to Vraja: “Blessed indeed are the lands of Vraja, where this ancient Person, disguised in human form and adorned with garlands of forest flowers, tends the cows with Balarāma, playing his flute, his feet worshipped by the beloved of the mountain lord, delighting in so many pastimes. What austerities did the cowherd women perform, that they could see his form—the very essence of beauty, peerless and ever fresh, difficult to attain, the sole abode of fame, fortune, and majesty—drinking it in with their eyes?” They praised the women of Vraja, “Fortunate are they, whose minds are devoted to the mighty Lord, who, with voices choked by tears, 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 thus spoke, O best of the Bhāratas, the Lord, master of yoga, Hari, resolved in his heart to slay his enemy. Hearing the fearful words of the women, Krishna and Balarama’s parents, distressed by affection and grief, suffered deeply for the sake of their sons, unaware of the true extent of their strength. With all the techniques of wrestling, Acyuta and his opponent fought with skill and vigor, as did Balarama and Muṣṭika. Struck by the blows of the Lord’s limbs, harsh as the grinding of thunderbolts, Cāṇūra’s body was battered again and again, and soon he became utterly exhausted.