In the bustling city of Mathurā, the people spoke in awe of the wondrous deeds performed by Kṛṣṇa, the beloved son of Nanda. They recalled how he had once rescued the cows and their herders from a raging forest fire, subdued the venomous serpent Kāliya, and humbled even the pride of mighty Indra. With a single hand, he had held aloft the great Govardhana mountain for seven days, shielding all of Gokula from Indra’s furious rain, winds, and thunderbolts. The cowherd women, ever gazing upon his smiling, glancing face, found their hardships and weariness vanish, replaced by joy. People declared that, through him, the illustrious Yadu dynasty—already famed throughout the land—would attain even greater prosperity and renown, protected by his strength. Beside him stood his elder brother, the glorious, lotus-eyed Rāma, by whose power the demon Pralamba had been slain, as well as Vatsaka, Baka, and others who threatened the innocent. As the citizens spoke among themselves, and the festive sounds of instruments filled the air, Cāṇūra, the renowned wrestler, stepped forward and addressed Kṛṣṇa and Rāma. “O sons of Nanda, O Rāma,” he proclaimed, “you are esteemed as heroes, skilled in wrestling, and have been summoned by the king himself, eager to behold your prowess. When the king’s wishes are fulfilled, the people surely prosper in thought, word, and deed; the opposite brings only harm.” He continued, “The cowherds and herders, ever joyful, would play at wrestling in the forests while tending to their cows. Therefore, let us do what pleases the king, for when he, who embodies all beings, is satisfied, all creatures are pleased with us.” Hearing this, Kṛṣṇa replied with words fitting the moment, gladly accepting the challenge of wrestling, 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. Yet, we are mere boys, and will play with those of equal strength, as is proper. Let the wrestling match be fair, so that the assembly may not find fault with us.” But Cāṇūra countered, “You are neither a child nor a youth—you are the foremost among the strong! Did you not, in play, slay the mighty elephant who bore the strength of a thousand? Therefore, you two must wrestle with the strong; there is no evasion here. Let Muṣṭika contend with Balarāma, and let me, O descendant of Vṛṣṇi, match my strength with yours.” Thus ended the forty-third chapter, the tale of Kuvalayāpīḍa’s slaying, in the glorious Bhāgavatam, scripture for the paramahaṁsas. Śuka continued: With the challenge accepted, Lord Madhusūdana, together with the son of Rohiṇī, approached Cāṇūra and Muṣṭika. They locked hands and feet, each eager for victory, dragging one another with force. Fists, knees, and heads struck out; chests and shoulders clashed. They circled, feinted, embraced, threw, advanced, and retreated, countering each move with skill. Lifting, raising, shaking, and holding, each sought to overpower the other, exerting all their might. As the contest unfolded, the women gathered in the assembly watched with compassion and concern. They whispered among themselves, “Alas, what great injustice is this, that such a contest is allowed before the king? How can these wrestlers, with bodies hard as thunderbolts and like 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 lamented, “A wise person should not enter an assembly where faults abound, for whether he speaks or remains silent, an ignorant man incurs sin. See Kṛṣṇa’s lotus-like face, now covered with sweat from 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?” Their hearts turned to the blessed land of Vraja, where this ancient Person, concealed in human form and adorned with garlands of forest flowers, tended the cows with Balarāma, playing his flute, his feet worshipped by the beloved of the mountain lord, delighting in countless pastimes. “What austerities did the cowherd women perform,” they wondered, “that they could behold his form—the very essence of beauty, ever fresh and unique, the sole abode of fame, fortune, and majesty?” Fortunate indeed were the women of Vraja, whose minds were devoted to the mighty Lord. With voices choked by tears, they sang of him while milking cows, gathering dung, churning, smearing floors, swinging their children, or sweeping—whatever their work might be. Morning and evening, as he left for the pastures or returned with the cows, playing his flute, the blessed young women would hurry to the path, eager to see his smiling face and compassionate glances. As the women thus spoke, the Lord, master of yoga, Hari, resolved in his mind to slay his enemy. Meanwhile, the parents of Kṛṣṇa and Balarāma, hearing the fearful words of the women and overwhelmed by affection and grief, suffered greatly for the sake of their sons, unaware of their true strength. Acyuta and his opponent, as well as Balarāma and Muṣṭika, fought on with every wrestling technique they knew. Struck by the Lord’s limbs, as harsh as thunderbolts grinding stone, Cāṇūra’s body was battered again and again, until he became exhausted. With the speed of a hawk, Cāṇūra leapt up, clenched his fists, and struck Vāsudeva angrily on the chest. Yet the Lord did not move, like an elephant unshaken by a garland’s touch. Seizing Cāṇūra by the arms, Hari spun him around many times, then dashed him violently to the ground. His life nearly gone, hair and garland scattered, Cāṇūra fell like Indra’s banner collapsing to earth. In the same way, Muṣṭika was struck forcefully by the mighty fist of Balabhadra, and then severely hit with his palm, meeting his defeat at the hands of the Lord’s elder brother.