The cowherd women of Vraja, hearts heavy with longing, gathered and spoke among themselves. “What use is there for us, O friends, in speaking of him?” they said, referring to Krishna. “Let us speak of other things. Time passes for us in his absence, if it passes for him as it does for us.” Yet even as they tried to turn their minds away, memories flooded in—his playful words, his enchanting glances, his graceful movements, and the warmth of his embraces. Overwhelmed by these recollections of Śauri, the women wept together. Seeing their sorrow, Lord Saṅkarṣaṇa—Balarama—who was skilled in comforting others, spoke to them with gentle words from Krishna, bringing solace to their aching hearts. Thus, Balarama remained in Vraja for two months, the months of Madhu and Mādhava, gladdening the gopīs during the nights with his presence. On nights bathed in the light of the full moon, with the fragrance of night-blooming lotuses carried on the soft breeze, Balarama delighted himself in the forest groves along the Yamunā. The women of Vraja gathered around him, serving him with devotion. At that time, the goddess Varuni—sent by Varuna—emerged from the hollow of a tree, her divine fragrance pervading the entire forest as she descended. Catching the scent of the honeyed nectar drifting on the wind, Balarama approached and, together with the women, drank of it, savoring its sweetness. As Gandharvas sang celestial songs, Balarama, surrounded by beautiful women, enjoyed himself in a circle, like Indra among the lordly elephants. Joyous drums resounded in the heavens, flowers rained down, and Gandharvas and sages praised Rama for his wondrous deeds. The gopīs sang of his exploits as Halayudha wandered through the forest, intoxicated, his eyes unsteady with delight. Adorned with a garland, a single earring, and the Vaijayanti wreath, his lotus-like face smiled radiantly, beads of sweat glistening like frost upon his brow. Desiring to play in the water, Balarama summoned the Yamunā. Intoxicated, he called out to the river, but she did not heed his call. Angered, Balarama dragged her toward him with the tip of his plough, chastising her: “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 rebuke, Yamunā trembled and, falling at his feet, pleaded, “O Rama, Rama, mighty-armed one, I did not know your power, O lord of the world, by whose single portion the earth is sustained. Forgive me, O soul of the universe, friend of devotees; I take refuge in you.” Moved by her supplication, Balarama released the river. Then, like a king elephant with his herd, he bathed and played in the Yamunā with the women. After their water-sports, Balarama emerged, and in the open air, he adorned the women with splendid ornaments and beautiful garlands. Dressed in blue garments and a golden wreath, anointed and well-adorned, he rested, shining like Indra among elephants. To this day, the path drawn by Balarama’s plough as he dragged the Yamunā is visible, a testament to his endless strength. Thus passed the night, with Balarama enjoying the sweetness of the Vraja women, his heart captivated. Meanwhile, as these events unfolded, Shuka continued his narration. When Rama had gone to Nandavraja, the king of Karusha, ignorant of Krishna’s divine identity, sent a messenger to Krishna, claiming, “I am Vāsudeva.” The boys of Dvaraka, however, recognized Krishna as the true Lord descended, ruler of the world, and Krishna himself knew his own infallible nature. But the deluded king, Paundraka, lacking understanding and behaving like a child, sent a messenger to Krishna in Dvaraka, as if one boy were sending a challenge to another. The messenger entered the royal assembly and addressed Krishna, the lotus-eyed Lord, delivering his master’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 all wisdom, Ugrasena and the other nobles of the assembly burst into laughter. Krishna, smiling at the jest, replied 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 and reported Krishna’s words to Paundraka. Without delay, Krishna mounted his chariot and set out for Kashi. Paundraka, a mighty chariot-warrior, hearing of Krishna’s advance, swiftly left the city with two divisions of troops. The king of Kashi, his ally, followed with three divisions of soldiers, and together they beheld Paundraka. Paundraka had dressed himself as an imitation of Krishna: he bore a conch, discus, mace, and bow; wore the mark of Śrīvatsa, the Kaustubha gem, and a garland of forest flowers. Clad in yellow silk, with a banner of Garuda, a priceless crown and ornaments, and shining makara-shaped earrings, he presented himself as a copy of the Lord. Seeing Paundraka’s theatrical imitation, Krishna laughed heartily, as one laughs at an actor on stage. The enemy kings attacked Krishna with a barrage of weapons—spears, maces, clubs, javelins, lances, darts, swords, sabres, and arrows. But Krishna struck back at the forces of Paundraka and the king of Kashi—destroying elephants, chariots, horses, and infantry with his mace, sword, discus, and arrows, like the fire at the end of an age consuming all beings. The battlefield became a gruesome sight, strewn with the bodies of elephants, horses, camels, donkeys, and men, broken by the warriors. It shone like a cremation ground, a place of delight for the bold and as fearsome as the playground of the Lord of beings. Then Śauri—Krishna—called out to Paundraka, “Ho, Paundraka! Since you have spoken to me through your messenger, I will now relinquish these weapons to you.