Within the great arena, the contest grew fierce as Krishna and Balarama faced their formidable opponents. Each pair—youths and wrestlers alike—strove with all their might, lifting, raising, shaking, and holding, each determined to overpower the other. The air was thick with the intensity of their struggle. As this spectacle unfolded, the assembled women watched with anxious hearts. Whispering among themselves in clusters, they spoke words filled with compassion and concern. “Alas,” they cried, “what injustice is this, that such a contest of strength and weakness is desired before the king, as he himself looks on! How can these mighty wrestlers, with bodies as hard as thunderbolts and resembling mountain peaks, be matched against these two delicate youths, who have not yet reached full manhood?” They worried that the assembly would incur a breach of righteousness, for where unrighteousness arises, one should not remain. “A wise person should never enter an assembly where faults abound,” they said, “for whether one speaks or remains silent, ignorance brings sin.” Their eyes turned to Krishna, whose lotus-like face was now covered with sweat from exertion, glistening like a lotus bud moistened with water, as he faced his enemy. “Why do you not see Rama’s face?” they asked, “His eyes copper-red, adorned with a smile and the flush of anger, shining as he confronts Mustika!” They remembered the blessed land of Vraja, where this ancient Person, Krishna, concealed in human form and adorned with garlands of forest flowers, would tend the cows with Balarama, playing his flute, his feet worshipped by the beloved of the mountain lord, delighting in many pastimes. “What austerities did the cowherd women perform,” they wondered, “that they could gaze upon his form—the very essence of beauty, ever fresh and unique, difficult to attain, the sole abode of fame, fortune, and majesty?” They praised the fortune of the women of Vraja, whose hearts were devoted to the mighty Lord, who, with voices choked by tears, sang of him as they worked—milking cows, gathering dung, churning, smearing floors, swinging their children, or sweeping. Every morning and evening, as Krishna left for the pastures or returned with the cows, flute in hand, 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 Hari, master of yoga, resolved in his heart to slay his enemy. The words of the women also reached the parents of Krishna and Balarama, who, overwhelmed by affection and grief for their sons, suffered greatly, not knowing the true extent of their strength. Meanwhile, with all the techniques of wrestling, Krishna and his opponent, and Balarama and Mustika, fought on. The Lord’s blows, harsh as thunderbolts, battered Chanura’s body until he was exhausted. Then, with the speed of a hawk, Chanura leapt up and struck Krishna on the chest with both fists. But Krishna did not move, as if an elephant had been struck by a garland. Seizing Chanura by the arms, Krishna spun him around many times and dashed him violently to the ground. Chanura’s hair and garland scattered, and he fell like Indra’s banner collapsing. In the same way, Balarama struck Mustika forcefully with his fist and then with his palm. Blood pouring from his mouth, Mustika trembled and collapsed, his life leaving him like a tree felled by the wind. Then Rama, best among fighters, effortlessly slew Kuta with a contemptuous blow of his left fist. At that moment, Sala, his head struck by Krishna’s foot, and Toshalaka, both split in two, fell to the ground. With Chanura, Mustika, Kuta, Sala, and Toshalaka slain, the remaining wrestlers, seeking to save their lives, fled in terror. Krishna and Balarama gathered their cowherd friends, and together they played joyfully as the musical instruments sounded and their anklets rang while they danced. All the people rejoiced at the deeds of Rama and Krishna. Except for Kamsa, the foremost brahmanas and the virtuous exclaimed, “Well done! Well done!” But when the best of the wrestlers were slain and the king of the Bhojas, Kamsa, became agitated, he silenced his musicians and proclaimed, “Expel from the city those two wicked sons of Vasudeva! Seize the wealth of the cowherds! Bind Nanda, that evil-minded man! Let Vasudeva be killed at once, along with the best of horses, and Ugrasena, my father, who sides with the enemy, along with his followers!” As Kamsa thus raged, the imperishable Lord, enraged, swiftly leapt onto the high platform. Seeing Krishna, his destined death, Kamsa sprang up from his seat, seizing his shield and sword. He moved about swiftly, like a hawk circling in the sky, but Krishna, of irresistible and fierce energy, seized him forcefully, as Garuda would seize a serpent. Grabbing Kamsa by the hair, his crown shaking, Krishna threw him down from the high platform onto the arena, and the lotus-naveled Lord himself fell upon him from above. Hari dragged Kamsa’s lifeless body across the ground, as one would drag an elephant, while all the world looked on. A great cry of “Alas! Alas!” arose from the people. Throughout his life, Kamsa’s mind had been anxious, seeing the Lord with the discus weapon before him in every moment—eating, speaking, moving, sleeping, or breathing. Thus, at the end, he attained that very form of the Lord, difficult to attain. Kamsa’s eight brothers—Kanka, Nyagrodhaka, and the rest—rushed forward, enraged, seeking revenge. But Rohini’s son, Balarama, struck them down with his club, as a lion would beasts. Drums resounded in the sky, and the divine powers, led by Brahma and Shiva, delighted, showered flowers upon the Lord, praised him, and the women danced in joy. Yet, the wives of the slain, overwhelmed by grief, approached, beating their heads, their eyes filled with tears. Embracing their husbands as they lay upon the heroes’ beds, the women lamented in sweet voices, again and again releasing their sorrow.