As the fierce contest raged in the wrestling arena, the hearts of the onlookers were drawn irresistibly to Krishna’s radiant form. His face, beautiful as a lotus, was now covered in beads of sweat from the intensity of battle—like a lotus bud freshly sprinkled with water. Nearby, Balarāma, known as Rāma, confronted the mighty Muṣṭika; his eyes shone copper-red with the flush of anger, yet his lips were adorned with a smile, making his face glow all the more as he faced his opponent. The minds of those watching drifted to the blessed land of Vraja, where this ancient, supreme Person—now appearing in human guise—once wandered through the forest garlanded with wildflowers, tending the cows alongside Balarāma. There, he played his enchanting flute, his feet worshipped even by the beloved of the mountain lord, and delighted the people with countless playful pastimes. The assembled women wondered, “What austerities did the cowherd girls perform, that they alone could behold his divine form—the very essence of beauty, ever new, unique and unattainable, the sole abode of fame, fortune, and majesty—and drink it in with their eyes?” Fortunate indeed were the women of Vraja, whose hearts were wholly devoted to the mighty Lord. Whether milking cows, gathering dung, churning butter, smearing floors, swinging their children, or sweeping the ground, they sang of him with voices choked by tears of love. Morning and evening, as Krishna set out with the cows or returned from the pastures, flute in hand, the blessed young women would hurry to the roadside, eager to catch a glimpse of his smiling face and compassionate glances. As the women thus spoke among themselves, O best of the Bhāratas, the Lord Hari, master of yoga, resolved in his heart to slay his enemy. Meanwhile, the parents of Krishna and Balarāma, hearing the anxious words of the women, were overcome with sorrow and affection for their sons, not knowing the extent of their strength. The wrestling match continued with all its skill and fury. Krishna and his opponent, just as Balarāma and Muṣṭika, engaged each other with every technique of the wrestler’s art. Under the blows of Krishna—whose limbs struck as hard as thunderbolts—Cāṇūra’s body was pounded again and again, until exhaustion overcame him. Suddenly, Cāṇūra sprang up with the speed of a hawk, fists clenched in rage, and struck Vāsudeva, the Lord, squarely on the chest. But Krishna did not flinch, standing firm as an elephant struck by a garland. Seizing Cāṇūra by the arms, Hari spun him around repeatedly, then dashed him violently to the ground. Almost lifeless, Cāṇūra’s hair and garland scattered, and he fell like Indra’s banner crashing to earth. In the same way, Muṣṭika was struck with tremendous force by the mighty fist of Balabhadra, then battered again with his open palm. Blood poured from Muṣṭika’s mouth as he trembled, tormented; his life fled, and he collapsed to the ground like a tree felled by the wind. Next, Rāma, best among fighters, dispatched Kūṭa with a single contemptuous blow of his left fist. At that moment, Śala was struck on the head by Krishna’s foot, and together with Tośalaka, both were split in two and fell to the ground. With Cāṇūra, Muṣṭika, Kūṭa, Śala, and Tośalaka slain, the remaining wrestlers, desperate to save themselves, fled in terror. Gathering their cowherd friends, Krishna and Balarāma joyfully played and danced, their anklets ringing, as the instruments resounded in celebration. The people erupted in praise at the valor of Rāma and Krishna. All, save Kaṃsa, and the foremost brāhmaṇas and virtuous souls, exclaimed, “Well done! Well done!” But Kaṃsa, king of the Bhojas, was thrown into turmoil. He halted his musicians and, his mind agitated, issued harsh commands: “Expel from the city those two wicked sons of Vasudeva! Seize the cowherds’ wealth! Bind Nanda, that evil-minded man! Kill Vasudeva at once, along with the best of horses! And slay Ugrasena, my father, who sides with the enemy, along with his followers!” As Kaṃsa thus raged, the imperishable Lord, angered, leapt swiftly onto the high platform. Seeing death itself approaching, Kaṃsa sprang up, seizing his shield and sword. He moved swiftly, circling like a hawk in the sky, but Krishna—irresistible and fierce—seized him as Garuḍa would seize a serpent. Grabbing Kaṃsa by the hair, his crown shaking, Krishna hurled him from the platform onto the arena floor, then leapt down upon him. Dragging the lifeless body across the ground, as one would drag an elephant, Krishna was watched by all, and a great cry of “Alas! Alas!” arose from the people. Kaṃsa, whose mind had been ever anxious—whether eating, speaking, moving, sleeping, or even breathing—had constantly beheld before him the Lord with the discus. Now, in death, he attained that very form, so difficult to achieve. Kaṃsa’s eight brothers—Kaṅka, Nyagrodhaka, and the others—rushed forward in fury to avenge him. But Balarāma, swift as the wind, struck them down with his club, as a lion fells beasts. Drums sounded in the heavens, and the divine powers led by Brahmā and Śiva, delighted, showered flowers upon Krishna and Balarāma, praising them as celestial women danced in joy. Yet in the palace, the wives of the slain, grief-stricken, approached their husbands’ bodies, beating their heads and weeping. Embracing their beloveds as they lay fallen on the heroes’ beds, the women lamented with sweet, sorrowful voices: “Alas, lord, beloved, knower of righteousness, compassionate protector of the helpless! With you slain, we, our children, and our households are destroyed. Deprived of you, O best of men, this city is bereft of beauty, just as we are, and all festivals and auspiciousness have ended. You committed a grievous wrong against innocent beings; O slayer of creatures, who, having brought us to this state, can find peace? For all beings, this is the very source of creation and dissolution; and as protector, one who neglects this can never find happiness anywhere.” Śuka said: The Lord, creator of the worlds, comforted the royal women and performed for the slain the proper funeral rites. Then, freeing his mother and father from their bonds, Krishna and Balarāma bowed before them, reverently touching their feet with their heads.