Hearing the plea of Krishna and his companions, the mighty Ocean replied with humility, “O Lord, I did not take the teacher’s son. It was the great demon Panchajana who dwells in these waters, taking the form of a conch, who seized him, O Krishna.” Upon learning this, Krishna, swift and resolute, plunged into the depths of the ocean. There he confronted and slew the demon Panchajana, but even after searching the creature’s belly, he did not find the missing boy. From the slain demon’s body, however, a wondrous conch emerged. Krishna took this conch, returned to his chariot, and proceeded at once to the city of Samyamani, the domain beloved of Yama, the lord of death. Arriving at the city, Janardana—the Lord—sounded the newly won conch shell. Its thunderous blast echoed through the realm, drawing the attention of Yama, the restrainer of all beings. Recognizing the Lord, Yama came forth and offered him and his companion the highest honors, his worship full of devotion. Bowing before Krishna, the indweller of all hearts, Yama addressed him with reverence: “O Vishnu, who appears in human form, what may I do for you both?” Krishna replied, “O great king, the son of our teacher has been brought here by the bonds of his own deeds. By my command, bring him forth.” Yama bowed and said, “So be it.” He brought forth the teacher’s son and presented him to Krishna, the best of the Yadus. Krishna then returned the boy to their teacher and, as before, invited him to choose a boon as their gratitude. The venerable teacher, deeply moved, said, “My dear ones, you have fully repaid your teacher’s fee. What more could a teacher desire from such worthy students?” He blessed them, saying, “Return home, O heroes. May your fame be pure, and may the Vedas you have learned remain with you in this life and the next.” Thus permitted by their teacher, Krishna and his brother Balarama mounted their chariot, swift as the wind and resounding like thunderclouds, and returned to their city. The people rejoiced at their return, as if they had recovered lost treasure after long deprivation. Among the many arts and skills taught and celebrated in those days, the Śaiva Tantras enumerate sixty-four arts, including singing, playing musical instruments, dancing, acting, painting, making decorative cuttings, arranging rice and flowers, preparing flower beds, adorning teeth, clothing, and body, arranging jeweled floors, preparing beds, playing water instruments, splashing water, weaving garlands, preparing costumes and ornaments, blending fragrances, conjuring tricks, wrestling, sleight of hand, cooking, preparing drinks, needlework, string games, riddles, poetic puzzles, carpentry, architecture, metallurgy, knowledge of gems, trees, and animals, training birds, cleaning, hairdressing, reciting secret codes, mimicking languages and dialects, interpreting omens, making mechanical devices and magical diagrams, composing poetry, and many other creative and scholarly pursuits. Now, among the Vrishnis, there was Uddhava, foremost in wisdom—a wise counselor, beloved friend of Krishna, and a direct disciple of Brihaspati. He excelled in intelligence and devotion. One day, Krishna, remover of all distress for those who seek refuge, took Uddhava’s hand in his own and spoke to him with great affection: “O gentle Uddhava, go to Vraja. Bring joy to my parents and, with my messages, console the gopis who suffer in separation from me.” He continued, “Those women have fixed their hearts and very lives on me. For my sake, they have given up all bodily comforts and have come to me in their hearts, their beloved and very self. I uphold those who have abandoned the world for me. Though far from them, the women of Gokula are bewildered and constantly remember me, overwhelmed by the pain of separation. My cowherd maidens, joined to me in heart, somehow sustain their lives with great difficulty, holding on by the hope of my return and the messages I send.” Receiving these words, Uddhava, honoring his master’s command, mounted his chariot and set out for Nanda’s cowherd village. He arrived at Vraja as the sun was setting, his chariot veiled by the dust raised from the hooves of the returning cattle. The air resounded with the bellowing of bulls vying for the cows, and the cries of calves running to their mothers, heavy with milk. All around, white calves leapt about, the village filled with the sounds of milking and the melodies of flutes. The gopis, beautifully adorned, along with the cowherd men, sang the auspicious deeds of Balarama and Krishna, making the village radiant. The settlement was alive with rituals for fire, sun, guests, cows, brahmanas, ancestors, and gods, perfumed with incense, lit with lamps, and adorned with garlands. Flower-filled groves bloomed everywhere, echoing with the songs of birds, and ponds full of swans, cranes, and lotuses added to the beauty. When Uddhava arrived, Nanda, recognizing Krishna’s dear companion, embraced him joyfully and honored him with the same devotion he felt for Vasudeva. After offering him the finest food and seating him on a soft couch, Nanda, seeing Uddhava’s fatigue dispelled, inquired after his well-being, offering foot massages and other services. “O fortunate one,” Nanda asked, “is our friend, the son of Shura, well? Is he surrounded by his family and children, free from troubles, steadfast in friendship? By good fortune, the wicked Kamsa, who hated the virtuous Yadus, has been slain by his own evil, along with his followers. Does Krishna still remember us—his mother, his friends, the cowherds, the village, his dear ones, the cows, Vrindavana, and the hill? Will Govinda return even once to see his people? Then we shall again behold that face of his, with its fine nose and beautiful, smiling eyes.” Nanda continued, “From forest fires, storms and rains, wild bulls and serpents, and from dangers impossible to cross—even from death itself—we were protected by Krishna, the supremely great soul. When we remember Krishna’s heroic deeds, his playful glances, his laughter and speech, O dear one, all our activities become slack. Our minds are drawn to those places—rivers, mountains, and forests—graced by Mukunda’s footsteps, where we saw him play. I think Krishna and Rama, the best among the gods, have come here for some divine purpose, just as Garga said. Kamsa, whose strength was like ten thousand elephants, the wrestlers, and the lord of elephants—he destroyed them all effortlessly, as a lion does beasts. He broke the three mighty palm trees with one hand, and for seven days he held up the mountain. Pralamba, Dhenuka, Arishta, Trinavarta, Baka, and others—these demons, conquerors of gods and demons, were slain by him here in play.” As Nanda spoke, his mind absorbed in remembrance of Krishna, he became overwhelmed with longing and sat silent, overcome by the surge of love. Yashoda, too, as she listened to the stories of her son’s deeds, found her eyes brimming with tears, her motherly love overflowing.