Krishna, addressing his companions, spoke of Banasura, the son of Virocana, an asura. “This son of Virocana,” he said, “cannot be slain even by me, for I have granted a boon to Prahlada: neither he nor his descendants shall be killed by me.” Krishna explained that he had broken Banasura’s arms to humble his pride, and had destroyed his vast army, which had become a burden upon the earth. Despite his defeat, Banasura was not left powerless. Four of his arms remained, and Krishna declared that he would be ageless and immortal, chief among Shiva’s attendants, and, O asura, would have nothing to fear from any quarter. Thus, having received the boon of fearlessness, Banasura bowed his head to Krishna in gratitude. He then placed Pradyumna, Krishna’s son, upon his chariot, along with Pradyumna’s wife, and brought them forward. Adorned in splendid garments and ornaments, with his wife beside him and surrounded by his army division, Banasura departed, honored by Rudra himself. He entered his royal city, resplendent with fluttering flags, grand gateways, and guarded crossroads. The air was filled with the sounds of conch shells, trumpets, and drums, and he was welcomed by citizens, friends, and the twice-born Brahmanas. Whoever remembers Krishna’s victory and his battle with Shankara, especially upon rising in the morning, shall never know defeat. Thus concludes the sixty-third chapter, “The Bringing of Aniruddha,” in the tenth canto, second half, of the holy Bhagavata Mahapurana, the scripture of the supreme swan. Later, Śrī Śuka continued: O best of the Kurus, Lord Balarama, eager to see his beloved friends, mounted his chariot and journeyed to Nanda’s Gokula. There, he was embraced for a long time by the cowherds and cowherd women, who had yearned for his return. Rama bowed to his parents, who, overjoyed, blessed him and lifted him onto their laps, embracing him and bathing him with tears of happiness. They said, “May you and your brother, O Lord of the universe, always protect us, O Dāśārha.” Rama then respectfully greeted the elder cowherds, each according to their age, friendship, and relationship to him. Sitting at ease, the cowherd men approached him with laughter, handshakes, and gestures of affection, asking after his well-being. Balarama, his voice choked with affection, inquired after their welfare and that of their families, for all their burdens had been placed in Krishna, whose eyes are like lotus petals. The cowherds asked, “O Rama, are all your relatives well? Do you, with your wives and children, still remember us? By good fortune, wicked Kamsa has been slain; by good fortune, your friends have been freed; by good fortune, you have defeated your enemies and found shelter.” The cowherd women, delighted by Rama’s presence, laughed and asked, “Is Krishna, beloved of the city women, living happily? Does he remember his relatives, his father and mother? Will he ever come, even once, to see his mother? Or does that mighty-armed one remember our service to him?” They continued, “For whose sake, O Dāśārha, did you, O Lord, abandon your mother, father, brothers, husbands, sons, and even sisters—your dearest kin? He left us suddenly, severing our bonds of affection. How, then, could such a one be trusted by women to keep his word? How could the women of the city, wise as they are, accept the words of one so inconstant and ungrateful? Yet, enchanted by his charming stories, smiles, glances, and sighs, they do accept him, lovesick as they are. What use is there for us, O cowherd women, in talking of him? Let us speak of other things. Time passes for us in his absence, if it passes for him as it does for us.” Remembering Krishna’s playful words, his lovely glances, his movements, and his loving embraces, the women wept. Lord Sankarshana, skilled in many ways of persuasion, comforted them with heartfelt messages from Krishna. Balarama remained in Gokula for two months—Madhu and Madhava—bringing delight to the gopis during the nights. Bathed in the light of the full moon, with the fragrance of night-blooming lotuses carried by the breeze, he enjoyed himself in the groves along the Yamuna, surrounded by groups of women who served him. One night, sent by Varuna, the goddess Varuni emerged from the hollow of a tree, her fragrance filling the entire forest. Bala inhaled the scent of the honey-stream carried by the wind, and approached, drinking together with the women. As Gandharvas sang, in a circle adorned by beautiful women, the lord of the elephant herd enjoyed himself, like Indra among his elephants. Drums resounded in the sky, flowers rained down in joy, and Gandharvas and sages praised Rama for his deeds. The women sang of his exploits, and Halayudha wandered through the forests, intoxicated, his eyes unsteady from delight. Adorned with a garland, a single earring, intoxicated, wearing the Vaijayanti wreath, his lotus-like face smiled and glistened with drops of sweat like frost. Desiring water games, the lord summoned the Yamuna. Intoxicated, Bala called out to the river, but when she did not come, angered, he dragged her with the tip of his plough. “O sinful one, you have disregarded me though I called you; I will lead you with the tip of my plough, you who wander as you please,” he declared. Frightened and rebuked, Yamuna approached the son of Yadu, trembling and falling at his feet. She pleaded, “O Rama, Rama, mighty-armed, I did not know your prowess, O lord of the world, by whose single portion the earth is sustained. O Lord, forgive me, who did not know your supreme nature. O soul of the universe, friend of devotees, I have taken refuge in you.” At her request, the blessed Bala released Yamuna, and then bathed in her waters with the women, like a king elephant with his female elephants. After enjoying himself, he emerged from the water and, in the open air, bestowed splendid ornaments and a beautiful garland upon the women. Clad in blue garments and a golden garland, well adorned and anointed, Balarama rested, resplendent as Indra among elephants.