By a stroke of great fortune, the wicked Kaṁsa had been slain, the bonds of imprisonment binding loved ones had been broken, and the Yadus, having conquered their enemies, now found safe shelter in a stronghold. In this time of relief, the cowherd women of Vraja, their hearts lightened by the sight of Lord Balarāma, laughed warmly and asked him, “Is Kṛṣṇa, beloved of the city women, living happily?” Longing for their dearest friend, they wondered aloud, “Does he remember his relatives, his father and mother? Will he ever, even once, return to see his mother? Or does that mighty-armed one recall the service we rendered him?” Their voices trembled with emotion as they questioned, “O Dāśārha, for whose sake did you, O Lord, abandon your mother, father, brothers, husbands, sons, and even sisters—your dearest kin?” They grieved, “He left us so suddenly, cutting the ties of affection. How, then, could such a one be trusted by women to keep his word?” Yet, despite their pain, they marveled, “How could the women of the city, wise as they are, accept the words of one so inconstant and ungrateful? Still, enchanted by his charming stories, his smiles, glances, and sighs, they do accept him, lovesick as they are.” Then, with a sigh, they said, “But what use is there, 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.” Yet, though they tried to turn their thoughts elsewhere, memories of Kṛṣṇa’s playful words, his lovely glances, his graceful movements, and his loving embraces overwhelmed them, and the women wept. Seeing their sorrow, Lord Balarāma, wise and skilled in gentle persuasion, comforted them with heartfelt messages from Kṛṣṇa. He remained in Vraja for two months—Madhu and Mādhava—bringing joy to the gopīs during the nights. One night, bathed in the light of the full moon and enveloped by the fragrance of night-blooming lotuses carried on the breeze, Balarāma delighted himself in the groves by the Yamunā, surrounded by groups of women who served him with devotion. At that time, sent by Varuṇa, the goddess Varuṇī emerged from the hollow of a tree, her divine fragrance filling the entire forest as she descended. Balarāma, breathing in the scent of the honeyed air, approached and drank with the women, savoring the nectar with his tongue. As Gandharvas sang, the Lord, encircled by beautiful women, enjoyed himself like Indra, lord of the elephants, among his herd. Drums resounded from the heavens, flowers rained down in celebration, and Gandharvas and sages praised Balarāma for his wondrous deeds. The women sang of his exploits, and Halāyudha wandered joyfully through the forests, intoxicated, his eyes unsteady with delight. Adorned with a garland, a single earring, the famed Vaijayantī wreath, and a lotus-like smiling face beaded with sweat like morning frost, he shone with radiant beauty. Desiring to play in the water, Balarāma summoned the Yamunā. Yet, intoxicated, he disregarded his own words and called out to the river. When she did not come, angered, he dragged the Yamunā toward him with the tip of his plough, declaring, “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.” Frightened by his power, the goddess Yamunā, trembling, approached and fell at his feet, saying, “O Rāma, mighty-armed one, I did not know your prowess, O lord of the world, by whose single portion the earth is sustained. O Lord, forgive me, for I did not know your supreme nature. O soul of the universe, friend of devotees, I take refuge in you.” Thus appeased, the blessed Balarāma released the Yamunā, and, like a king elephant among his herd, bathed and sported in her waters with the women. After their play, he emerged and, in the open air, bestowed splendid ornaments and a beautiful garland upon the women. Clad in blue garments and a golden garland, Balarāma rested, well adorned and anointed, shining like Indra among elephants. Even today, O King, the path drawn by Balarāma’s plough as he dragged the Yamunā is visible, a lasting testament to his endless strength. Thus, the night passed as Balarāma enjoyed himself in Vraja, his mind captivated by the sweetness of the Vraja women. Meanwhile, when Balarāma had gone to Nandavraja, the king of the Karūṣas, unaware of Kṛṣṇa’s true nature as Vāsudeva, sent a messenger to Kṛṣṇa, claiming, “I am Vāsudeva.” The boys addressed Kṛṣṇa, “You are Vāsudeva, the Lord descended, ruler of the world,” and Kṛṣṇa, ever the infallible Self, considered their words. Deluded and childish, the king sent his messenger to Kṛṣṇa, whose ways are inscrutable, as if one boy sent a message to another in Dvārakā. The messenger entered the assembly, where Kṛṣṇa, the lotus-eyed Lord, sat, and delivered the king’s words. “I alone am Vāsudeva incarnate; there is no other. Out of compassion for beings I have descended. You should abandon your false claim. The emblems you bear, which are mine, you wear out of ignorance, O Sātvata. Give them up and take refuge in me, or else, grant me battle.” Hearing these boastful and foolish words from Pauṇḍraka, Ugrasena and the other members of the assembly burst into loud laughter. The Blessed Lord, responding with jest, said to the messenger, “Fool, I will indeed relinquish the emblems by which you boast in this way. You will lie there slain, your face covered, surrounded by vultures, crows, and jackals; then, your refuge will be among the dogs.” The messenger returned to his master and reported all these words. Kṛṣṇa, mounting his chariot, set out for Kāśi. Pauṇḍraka, a mighty chariot-warrior, hearing of Kṛṣṇa’s approach, swiftly departed the city with two divisions of troops. The king of Kāśi, Pauṇḍraka’s ally, followed with three divisions of troops and beheld Pauṇḍraka, who was adorned with the conch, discus, mace, bow, and the mark of Śrīvatsa, as well as the Kaustubha gem and a garland of forest flowers.