In the great wrestling arena, Krishna and Balarama faced the mighty wrestlers with unwavering determination. Their contest was fierce and skillful—each move met with a counter, as they circled, feinted, embraced, threw, advanced, and retreated, never giving their opponents a moment’s rest. They lifted, raised, shook, and held each other, each striving to overpower the other with all their strength. As this intense struggle unfolded, the assembled women looked on with compassion. Whispering among themselves in groups, they lamented, “Alas, what injustice is this, taking place right before the king himself! How can such a contest of strength and weakness be permitted in his presence?” They saw with pain how the wrestlers, their bodies as hard as thunderbolts and as imposing as mountains, were pitted against Krishna and Balarama, two delicate youths not yet in their full manhood. “Surely,” they said, “this assembly is courting unrighteousness. Where such injustice arises, one should not remain.” They spoke of the wise, who would avoid such gatherings, knowing the faults of those present—whether speaking out or remaining silent, an ignorant man would incur sin here. Their eyes were drawn back to Krishna’s lotus-like face, now glistening with sweat from exertion, radiant like a dew-kissed lotus bud as he faced his foe. “Look at Rama’s face,” they urged, “his eyes copper-red, his lips curved in a smile, yet flushed with anger as he confronts Mushtika—how it shines!” Their hearts turned to the blessed land of Vraja, where this ancient Lord, disguised in human form and adorned with forest garlands, tended cows with Balarama, played his flute, and delighted in countless pastimes. They wondered, “What austerities did the cowherd women perform, that they alone could behold his ever-fresh, peerless beauty—the very essence of fame, fortune, and majesty—drinking it in with their eyes?” Fortunate indeed, they said, were the women of Vraja, whose hearts were devoted to the mighty Lord, singing of him with voices choked by tears, whether milking cows, gathering dung, churning, smearing floors, swinging their children, or sweeping—whatever their task. Morning and evening, as Krishna left for the pastures or returned with the cows, playing his flute, the young women would rush to the path, eager to catch his smile and compassionate glance. Even as the women spoke thus, Krishna, the master of yoga, resolved in his heart to slay his enemy. Hearing the women’s anxious words, Krishna and Balarama’s parents were filled with distress and grief for their sons, unaware of their true strength. The battle continued, with Krishna and his opponent, as well as Balarama and Mushtika, employing every wrestling technique. When Krishna’s limbs, hard as thunderbolts, struck Chanura, the wrestler’s body was battered again and again until exhaustion overcame him. Then, with hawk-like speed, Chanura leapt up, fists clenched in fury, and struck Krishna on the chest. Yet Krishna did not move, as if he were an elephant struck by a garland. Seizing Chanura by the arms, Krishna spun him around repeatedly, then dashed him violently to the ground. Chanura’s hair and garland scattered, and he fell like Indra’s banner collapsing, his life nearly spent. In the same way, Balarama’s mighty fist and palm struck Mushtika with terrible force. Blood poured from Mushtika’s mouth as he trembled and collapsed, his life fleeing like a tree felled by the wind. Then Rama, the best of fighters, effortlessly slew Kuta with a contemptuous blow of his left fist. At that moment, Shala, struck by Krishna’s foot, and Toshalaka, both split in two, fell to the ground. With Chanura, Mushtika, Kuta, Shala, and Toshalaka all slain, the remaining wrestlers, fearing for their lives, fled the arena. Gathering their cowherd friends, Krishna and Balarama danced with joy as the instruments played and their anklets rang. The people rejoiced at the heroic deeds of Rama and Krishna. Except for Kamsa, the foremost brahmanas and the virtuous cried out, “Well done! Well done!” But Kamsa, king of the Bhojas, agitated at the defeat of his champions, silenced his musicians and commanded, “Expel those two wicked sons of Vasudeva from the city! Seize the wealth of the cowherds and bind Nanda, that evil-minded man. Kill Vasudeva at once, along with the best of horses, and slay Ugrasena, my father, with his followers, for siding with the enemy!” As Kamsa raged, Krishna—the imperishable one—leapt swiftly onto the high platform in fury. Seeing Krishna approach, Kamsa, recognizing his death had come, sprang from his seat, seizing shield and sword. He moved about swiftly, like a hawk circling in the sky, but Krishna, irresistible and fierce, seized him as Garuda would seize a serpent. Grabbing Kamsa by the hair, his crown shaking, Krishna hurled him from the platform onto the arena, then leapt upon him from above. Dragging Kamsa’s lifeless body across the ground as one would drag an elephant, Krishna stood as the people cried out in shock and sorrow. Kamsa, whose mind had always been anxious, whether eating, speaking, moving, sleeping, or breathing, was ever haunted by visions of the Lord with the discus. In death, he attained that very form of the Lord, so difficult to attain. But Kamsa’s eight brothers—Kanka, Nyagrodhaka, and the rest—rushed forward in rage, seeking vengeance. Rohini’s son, Balarama, struck them down with his club as a lion fells wild beasts. At that moment, drums resounded in the heavens, and the divine powers led by Brahma and Shiva, delighted, showered flowers upon the Lord, praising him as the women danced with joy. Yet the wives of the slain, overwhelmed by grief for their beloveds, approached, beating their heads and weeping, their eyes streaming with tears.