Alas, what grave injustice has descended upon the royal assembly! The elders and nobles, gathered before the king himself, now watch as a contest unfolds—a cruel match between strength and weakness, witnessed by the very ruler whose duty is to uphold righteousness. How can this be? The mighty wrestlers, their bodies as hard as thunderbolts and as imposing as mountain peaks, are set against two mere youths—delicate, not yet grown to full manhood. Is this not a travesty? Surely, such an assembly is tainted by unrighteousness. Where dharma is forsaken, no wise soul should linger. Indeed, a thoughtful person must avoid gatherings where faults are evident, for whether one speaks out or remains silent, the ignorant are stained by sin. Behold Krishna, his lotus-like face glistening with the sweat of exertion as he faces his foe—his countenance like a water-drenched lotus bud. And why do you not see Balarāma’s face, eyes copper-red with the flush of righteous anger and shining with a gentle smile, as he stands opposite Muṣṭika? Fortunate indeed are the lands of Vraja, where this timeless Person, hidden in human form and adorned with garlands of wild forest flowers, tends the cows with Balarāma. There, he plays his flute, his feet worshipped by the beloved of the mountain lord, delighting in countless playful pastimes. What great austerities must the cowherd women have performed, that they alone gaze upon his form—the very essence of beauty, unique and ever fresh, unattainable by others, the sole abode of all glory, fortune, and majesty—drinking it in through their eyes? Blessed are the women of Vraja, whose hearts are devoted to the mighty Lord. Even as they milk cows, gather dung, churn butter, smear the floors, cradle their children, or sweep their homes, their voices, choked with tears, sing his glories. Morning and evening, as Krishna departs for the pastures or returns with the cows, playing his flute, the young maidens hurry to the path, eager to see his smiling face and receive his compassionate glances. As the women thus spoke, O best of the Bhāratas, the Lord—Hari, master of yoga—resolved in his heart to destroy his enemy. Hearing the fearful words of the women, the parents of Krishna and Balarāma, overwhelmed by affection and sorrow, suffered deeply for their sons, unaware of their true strength. Then the contest began. Krishna and his opponent engaged in wrestling, employing every technique, just as Balarāma did with Muṣṭika. Struck by Krishna’s limbs—powerful as grinding thunderbolts—Cāṇūra’s body was battered again and again, until exhaustion overcame him. With the swiftness of a hawk, Cāṇūra leapt up, clenched his fists, and struck Krishna, the son of Vasudeva, fiercely on the chest. Yet Krishna did not move, as if an elephant had been struck by a garland. Seizing Cāṇūra by the arms, Hari spun him around repeatedly, then dashed him violently to the ground. Life nearly gone, his hair and garland scattered, Cāṇūra fell like Indra’s banner collapsing. In the same way, Muṣṭika was struck first by Balarāma’s mighty fist, then by a severe blow from his palm. Muṣṭika trembled, blood pouring from his mouth, tormented and lifeless, collapsing like a tree felled by the wind. Next, Rāma, the best among fighters, effortlessly slew Kūṭa, who had approached, with a contemptuous blow of his left fist. At that very moment, Śala, struck on the head by Krishna’s foot, and Tośalaka, were both split in two and fell down. With Cāṇūra, Muṣṭika, Kūṭa, Śala, and Tośalaka slain, the remaining wrestlers, desperate to save their lives, fled in terror. Gathering their cowherd friends, Krishna and Balarāma played joyfully, dancing as the musical instruments sounded and their anklets rang. All the people rejoiced at the deeds of Rāma and Krishna. Only Kaṃsa remained sullen, while the foremost brāhmaṇas and the virtuous exclaimed, “Well done! Well done!” But when the best of his wrestlers were slain and the king of the Bhojas was agitated, he halted his musicians and, in fury, commanded: “Expel those two wicked sons of Vasudeva from the city! Seize the wealth of the cowherds! Bind Nanda, that evil-minded man! Kill Vasudeva at once, along with the best of horses, and destroy Ugrasena, my father, who sides with the enemy, along with his followers!” As Kaṃsa thus boasted, the imperishable Lord, enraged, leapt swiftly onto the high platform. Seeing him approach—his very death—Kaṃsa sprang up from his seat, seizing his sword and shield. He moved about swiftly, like a hawk circling in the sky, but Krishna, irresistible and fierce, seized him forcefully, as Garuḍa would seize a serpent. Grabbing Kaṃsa by the hair, his crown shaking, Krishna threw him down from the high platform onto the arena. The lotus-naveled Lord, refuge of the universe, fell upon him from above. Hari then dragged Kaṃsa’s lifeless body across the ground, as one would drag an elephant, while the world looked on. A great cry of “Alas! Alas!” arose from all the people. Kaṃsa, whose mind was always anxious—whether eating, speaking, moving, sleeping, or breathing—had always seen before him the Lord with the discus. Thus, in death, he attained that very form of the Lord, which is difficult to attain. Kaṃsa’s eight brothers—Kaṅka, Nyagrodhaka, and the rest—now rushed forward, filled with rage, seeking vengeance. But Rohiṇī’s son, Balarāma, struck them down with his club, as a lion would strike down lesser beasts. Drums resounded in the sky, and the divine powers, led by Brahmā and Śiva, delighted, showered flowers, praised the Lord, and the celestial women danced. Meanwhile, the wives of the slain, grief-stricken, approached, beating their heads and weeping. Embracing their husbands as they lay on the heroes’ beds, the women lamented in sweet voices, pouring out their sorrow again and again: “Alas, lord, beloved, knower of righteousness, compassionate protector of the helpless! With you slain, we and our children and households are destroyed. Deprived of you, our husband, this city, O best of men, is bereft of all beauty, just as we are, with all festivals and auspiciousness ended.