By the wondrous deeds of Krishna, the demoness Pūtanā met her end, and the fierce Cakravat was slain. Arjuna, the Guhyaka, and other terrible beings such as Keśī and Dhenuka were also destroyed by him. Time and again, Krishna rescued the cows and their herders—once, he saved them all from a raging forest fire. He subdued the venomous serpent Kāliya and humbled even mighty Indra, stripping him of his pride. When torrential rains and thunderbolts threatened Gokula, Krishna, with the effortless strength of one hand, held aloft the great Govardhana mountain for seven days, shielding all from storm and calamity. The cowherd women, gazing upon his ever-smiling, glancing face, found all their hardships and weariness transformed into joy. It was said everywhere that, through Krishna’s protection, the illustrious Yadu dynasty—already famed throughout the world—would attain even greater prosperity, renown, and greatness. Beside him stood his elder brother, the glorious, lotus-eyed Rāma, by whose might the demon Pralamba was slain, as well as Vatsaka, Baka, and others of evil intent. As the people spoke thus among themselves and the air rang with the sounds of festive instruments, the mighty wrestler Cāṇūra approached Krishna and Rāma, addressing them: “O sons of Nanda, O Rāma, you are both renowned as powerful heroes and skilled in wrestling. 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, the opposite is true.” He continued, “The cowherds, ever joyous, are known to play at wrestling in the forests as they tend their cows. So, my friends, let us please the king, for when he is satisfied—all beings, embodied in him, are pleased as well.” Hearing this, Krishna responded with words fitting the moment, gladly welcoming the challenge, for he himself desired the contest. “We, subjects of King Bhoja, and we who dwell in the forests, are always eager to do what pleases him; this is our greatest favor. Yet, we are but boys—let us play with those of equal strength, as is proper. Let the wrestling match be fair, so that no fault may be found in us by the assembly of wrestlers.” But Cāṇūra replied, “You are neither a mere child nor just a youth—you are the foremost among the strong. By your play alone, you slew the mighty elephant, whose strength was like a thousand. Therefore, you two must contend with the strongest among us. There is no evasion here. Let Muṣṭika wrestle with Balarāma, and let me, O descendant of Vrishni, match my strength with yours.” Thus concludes the forty-third chapter, “The Slaying of Kuvalayapida,” in the first half of the Tenth Book of the Śrīmad Bhāgavatam, the great Purāṇa, the scripture for the paramahamsas. Śuka continued: With their resolve firm, Lord Madhusudana and the son of Rohini, Balarāma, approached Cāṇūra and Muṣṭika. They locked hands and feet, dragging one another with force, each eager for victory. Fists, knees, heads, chests, and shoulders struck again and again as they circled, feinted, embraced, threw, advanced, and retreated—each move met with a counter, each seeking to overpower the other with all their might. As the wrestling match unfolded, the women in the assembly, O King, watched with compassion and spoke among themselves: “Alas, what injustice is this before the king! How can these mighty wrestlers, with bodies hard as thunderbolts and like mountain peaks, be matched against these two delicate youths, not yet fully grown? Surely, this assembly will incur a breach of righteousness; where unrighteousness appears, one should never remain.” They reflected further, “A wise person should not enter an assembly when aware of its faults, for whether he speaks or remains silent, an ignorant man incurs sin. See Krishna’s lotus-like face, beaded with sweat as he faces his foe, like a lotus bud glistening with water. Why do you not see Rāma’s face—his eyes copper-red, adorned with a smile and the flush of anger, shining as he confronts Muṣṭika?” They praised, “Blessed indeed are the lands of Vraja, where this ancient Lord, hidden 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 countless pastimes. What great austerities did the cowherd women perform, that they may behold his form—the very essence of beauty, ever fresh and unique, 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, who, even while milking cows, gathering dung, churning, smearing floors, swinging their children, or sweeping, sing of him with voices choked by tears. Morning and evening, as he leaves for pasture or returns with the cows, playing his flute, the blessed young women rush out to the path to see his smiling face and compassionate glances.” As the women thus spoke, O best of the Bhāratas, the Lord Hari, master of yoga, resolved in his heart to slay his enemy. The parents of Krishna and Balarāma, hearing the fearful words of the women, were overcome with grief and affection for their sons, not knowing their true strength. With every technique of wrestling, Acyuta and his opponent fought, as did Balarāma and Muṣṭika. Cāṇūra’s body was battered by the Lord’s limbs, harsh as thunderbolts, and he became exhausted. With the speed of a hawk, Cāṇūra leapt up and, with both fists clenched, struck Vāsudeva fiercely on the chest. Yet Krishna did not move, as an elephant does not stir when struck by a garland. Seizing Cāṇūra by the arms, Hari spun him around again and again, then dashed him violently to the earth. His life nearly gone, hair and garland scattered, Cāṇūra fell like Indra’s banner collapsing to the ground.