In the quiet of Vraja, the women of the village found their hearts troubled and restless. They spoke among themselves, questioning how the women of the city—wise though they were—could ever accept the words of one so changeable and ungrateful. Yet, they admitted, even the cleverest among them had been enchanted by his sweet stories, his charming smiles, glances, and sighs. Despite their resolve, they found themselves lovesick and unable to let go. One of the cowherd women sighed, “What is the use, my friends, in speaking of him? Let us talk of other things. Perhaps time will pass for us in his absence, if only it passes for him as it does for us.” But memories overwhelmed them: the playful words, the lovely glances, the graceful movements, and the loving embraces of Śauri—Kṛṣṇa—returned to their minds, and tears welled up in their eyes. Witnessing their sorrow, Lord Saṅkarṣaṇa, Balarāma, who was skilled in many ways of consolation, spoke to them with heartfelt messages from Kṛṣṇa, comforting their aching hearts. Thus, Rāma remained in Vraja for two months, during the seasons of Madhu and Mādhava, bringing delight to the gopīs, especially during the moonlit nights. The full moon shone gently, the breeze carried the fragrance of night-blooming lotuses, and Balarāma wandered in the groves along the Yamunā, surrounded by groups of women who joyfully served him. One night, the goddess Varuni, sent by Varuna, emerged from the hollow of a tree, her divine fragrance filling the entire forest. Balarāma caught the scent of the honeyed air and, along with the women, drank from the stream, savoring its sweetness. As Gandharvas sang celestial songs, Balarāma, surrounded by beautiful women, enjoyed himself in a circle, like Indra among his elephants. Drums sounded from the heavens, flowers rained down, and Gandharvas and sages praised Rāma for his deeds. The women sang of his exploits as Halāyudha, intoxicated and delighted, wandered through the forests, his eyes unsteady with joy. Adorned with a garland, a single earring, and the Vaijayanti wreath, his lotus face radiant and glistening with drops of sweat like morning frost, Rāma shone with divine beauty. Desiring to play in the water, Balarāma summoned the Yamunā. Intoxicated, he called out to the river, but when she did not come, he grew angry. With the tip of his plough, he dragged her, rebuking her: “Sinful one! You have ignored my call. I will lead you with my plough, you who wander as you please.” Frightened, the Yamunā appeared before him, trembling and falling at his feet. She pleaded, “O Rāma, mighty-armed one, I did not know your power, O Lord of the world, by whose single portion the earth is sustained. Please forgive me, for I did not recognize your supreme nature. O soul of the universe, friend of your devotees, I take refuge in you.” Hearing her plea, the blessed Balarāma released the Yamunā. Then, along with the women, he bathed in her waters, like a king elephant with his herd. After enjoying himself, he emerged and, in the open air, adorned the women with splendid ornaments and a beautiful garland. Clad in blue garments and a golden garland, anointed and adorned, he rested, shining like Indra among the elephants. Even today, the path the Yamunā took when Balarāma dragged her can be seen, a lasting sign of his immense strength. Thus, the night passed with Rāma delighting in the company of the women of Vraja, his mind captivated by their sweet affection. Meanwhile, as Rāma stayed in Nandavraja, events unfolded elsewhere. Śuka continued: At that time, the king of the Karūṣas, ignorant of Kṛṣṇa’s divine nature, sent a messenger to Dvārakā. Claiming himself to be Vāsudeva, the king’s message declared, “I am Vāsudeva.” When the boys addressed Kṛṣṇa, saying, “You are Vāsudeva, Lord descended, ruler of the world,” Kṛṣṇa, ever the infallible Self, understood their words. But the deluded king, acting like a child, sent his messenger to Kṛṣṇa, whose ways are inscrutable, much as a boy might send a message to another in Dvārakā. The messenger entered the assembly and addressed Kṛṣṇa, the lotus-eyed Lord, delivering the king’s message: “I alone am Vasudeva 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 words from Paundraka, who lacked true understanding, Ugrasena and the others in the assembly burst into laughter. The Blessed Lord, with a playful smile, replied to the messenger, “Fool! I will indeed relinquish these emblems by which you boast. You will lie slain, your face covered, surrounded by vultures, crows, and jackals; then, your only refuge will be among the dogs.” The messenger returned and reported all this to his master. Then Kṛṣṇa, mounting his chariot, set out for Kāśi. Paundraka, a mighty chariot-warrior, hearing of Kṛṣṇa’s advance, swiftly departed the city with two divisions of troops. The king of Kāśi, his ally, followed with three divisions, and together they beheld Paundraka, O King! He was dressed as an imitation of Kṛṣṇa himself—bearing the conch, discus, mace, bow, and the mark of Śrīvatsa, adorned with the Kaustubha gem and a garland of forest flowers, clad in yellow silk, with the Garuḍa banner, a priceless crown and ornaments, and makara-shaped earrings. When Hari saw Paundraka dressed as a mimic, like an actor on stage, he laughed heartily. The enemy kings attacked Hari with a rain of weapons—spears, maces, clubs, javelins, lances, darts, swords, sabres, and arrows. But Kṛṣṇa struck at the forces of Paundraka and the king of Kāśi—those with elephants, chariots, horses, and infantry—using his mace, sword, discus, and arrows, just as fire at the end of an age consumes all beings. The battlefield became a terrible sight, strewn with the bodies of elephants, horses, camels, donkeys, and men, broken by the fierce warriors. It shone like a cremation ground, a place of delight for the bold, as fearsome as the playground of the Lord of beings.