As the people murmured among themselves and the sound of musical instruments filled the air, Cāṇūra stepped forward to address Kṛṣṇa and Rāma. “O sons of Nanda, O Rāma,” he called out, “you two are famed as heroes and skilled wrestlers. The king himself has summoned you, eager to witness your prowess.” He continued, “When the king’s wishes are fulfilled, his people surely prosper in thought, word, and deed; when his desires are neglected, the opposite follows. The cowherds and herders, always joyful, often wrestled playfully in the forest while tending their cows. So, my friends, let us do what pleases the king. When the king, who is the embodiment of all beings, is satisfied, all creatures are pleased with us.” Hearing this, Kṛṣṇa replied with words befitting the time and place, gladly accepting the challenge of wrestling, which he himself desired. “We are subjects of King Bhoja, and we forest-dwellers as well, always do what pleases him; that is our greatest fortune. Yet, 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 finds no fault with us.” But Cāṇūra countered, “You are neither a child nor a mere youth; you are the foremost among the strong. By your play, you have slain the mighty elephant who bore the strength of a thousand. Therefore, you two must wrestle with the strongest among us—there is no evasion. Let Muṣṭika contend with Balarāma, and let me, O descendant of the Vṛṣṇis, match my strength with yours.” Thus concludes the forty-third chapter, “The Slaying of Kuvalayāpīḍa,” in the first half of the tenth book of the Śrīmad Bhāgavatam, the great Purāṇa for the paramahaṁsas. Śuka continued: With his resolve honored, Lord Madhusūdana, along with Balarāma, approached Cāṇūra and Muṣṭika. They locked hands and feet, dragging each other forcefully, each eager for victory. They struck one another with fists, knees, heads, chests, and shoulders, circling, feinting, embracing, throwing, advancing and retreating, ever countering each move. Lifting, raising, shaking, and holding, each sought to overpower the other with all their strength. As the contest raged, all the women gathered there, O King, spoke among themselves with deep compassion. “Alas, what great injustice is this in the king’s assembly, that such a contest of strength and weakness is desired before the king’s very eyes! How can these wrestlers, with bodies hard as thunderbolts and like mountain peaks, be matched against these two youths, so delicate and not yet men? 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, recalling its faults; whether he speaks or remains silent, an ignorant man incurs sin. See Kṛṣṇa’s lotus-like face, covered with sweat from exertion as he faces his enemy, like a lotus bud moistened with water. 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 sighed, “Blessed indeed 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 worshipped by the beloved of the mountain lord, delighting in endless pastimes. What austerities did the cowherd women perform to see his form—the very essence of beauty, ever fresh, unique, and 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, 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 hurry to the path to see his smiling face and compassionate glances.” As the women spoke thus, O best of the Bhāratas, Hari, the master of yoga, resolved in his heart to slay his enemy. Meanwhile, hearing the fearful words of the women, the parents, overwhelmed by affection and anxiety for their sons, suffered greatly, unaware of their children’s true strength. The match intensified. With every wrestling technique, Acyuta and his opponent struggled mightily, as did Bala and Muṣṭika. Cāṇūra’s body was battered by the Lord’s blows, as harsh as thunderbolts, and he became exhausted. With the speed of a hawk, Cāṇūra leapt up, clenched both fists, and struck Vāsudeva angrily on the chest. But the Lord did not move, as if an elephant had been struck by a garland. Seizing Cāṇūra by the arms, Hari spun him around again and again, then dashed him violently to the ground. His life nearly gone, his hair and garland scattered, Cāṇūra fell like Indra’s banner collapsing. In the same way, Muṣṭika was struck forcefully by Balarāma’s mighty fist, then hit severely with his palm. Blood poured from Muṣṭika’s mouth as he trembled, tormented; his life departed, and he collapsed to the ground like a tree felled by the wind. Then Rāma, best among fighters, effortlessly slew Kūṭa, who had approached, with a contemptuous blow of his left fist. At that very moment, Śala, his head struck by Kṛṣṇa’s foot, and Tośalaka, both split in two, fell down. With Cāṇūra, Muṣṭika, Kūṭa, Śala, and Tośalaka slain, the remaining wrestlers, desperate to save their lives, fled from the arena. Gathering their cowherd friends, Kṛṣṇa and Balarāma joyfully played and danced with them as the musical instruments resounded and their anklets rang out in celebration.