Halāyudha, the mighty Balarāma, wandered joyfully through the forests, his heart light with intoxication, his eyes unsteady from delight as the women sang of his glorious deeds. He was a sight to behold: adorned with a garland, a single earring, and the famed Vaijayantī wreath, his lotus-like face radiant with a gentle, smiling glow, and drops of sweat glistening on his brow like morning frost. In this mood of revelry, Balarāma called for the Yamunā to come, wishing to sport in her waters. Overcome by intoxication, he summoned her aloud, but when the river goddess did not immediately heed his call, he grew angry. With the tip of his plough, he began to draw her toward him, declaring, “Sinful one! Though I have called you, you ignore me. You wander as you please, but I will lead you with the tip of my plough.” Frightened by his rebuke and display of power, the goddess Yamunā appeared before the son of Yadu, trembling and falling at his feet. With hands folded, she pleaded, “O Rāma, mighty-armed one! I did not know your true might, O Lord of the world, by whose single portion the earth is sustained. Please forgive me, O soul of the universe, friend of devotees. I have taken refuge in you.” Appeased by her submission, Balarāma released Yamunā. He then bathed in her waters with the women, like a king elephant among his mates. After enjoying himself, he emerged from the river and, standing in the open air, presented the women with splendid ornaments and a beautiful garland. Clad in blue garments and a golden wreath, his body anointed and adorned, he rested in majesty, resembling Indra among elephants. Even today, the path carved by Balarāma’s plough as he drew Yamunā near remains visible, a testament to his boundless strength. Thus, the night passed with Balarāma delighting in Vraja, his heart enchanted by the sweetness of the Vraja women. Meanwhile, as Balarāma was in Nandavraja, a curious turn of events unfolded elsewhere. Śuka continued his narration: The king of Karūsha, unaware of Krishna’s true identity as Vāsudeva, sent a messenger to Dvārakā, boldly claiming, “I am Vāsudeva.” When the boys addressed Krishna as the Lord descended, ruler of the world, Krishna, ever self-aware, considered himself the infallible Self. But the deluded king, childish and lacking understanding, sent his messenger to Krishna, whose ways are inscrutable, just as a boy might send a message to another in jest. The messenger entered Dvārakā’s assembly and, before Krishna with lotus eyes, delivered his master’s message: “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.” Upon hearing these boastful words of Paundraka, who was blinded by ignorance, Ugrasena and all the assembled nobles burst into laughter. Krishna, the Blessed Lord, replied with a touch of humor, “Fool, I will indeed relinquish the emblems by which you boast in this way. You shall lie slain, your face covered, surrounded by vultures, crows, and jackals; then, your refuge will be among the dogs.” The messenger returned and reported all these words to Paundraka. Krishna then mounted his chariot and set out for Kāśi. Hearing of Krishna’s advance, Paundraka, a mighty chariot-warrior, swiftly departed the city with two divisions of troops. The king of Kāśi, his ally, followed with three divisions. There, before them, stood Paundraka, adorned with conch, discus, mace, bow, the mark of Śrīvatsa, the Kaustubha gem, and a garland of forest flowers. He wore yellow silk, a banner bearing Garuda, a priceless crown, shining ornaments, and makara-shaped earrings. Seeing Paundraka dressed as a false Vāsudeva, like an actor on stage, Krishna laughed heartily. The enemy kings attacked Hari with a rain of weapons—spears, maces, clubs, javelins, lances, darts, swords, sabres, and arrows. But Krishna, wielding his mace, sword, discus, and arrows, struck fiercely at Paundraka’s and the Kāśi king’s forces—elephants, chariots, horses, and infantry—like fire at the end of an age consuming all beings. The battlefield became a ghastly sight, littered with the bodies of elephants, horses, camels, donkeys, and men, broken by the warriors’ fury. It shone like a cremation ground, a place of delight for the bold, as fearsome as the playground of the Lord of beings. Then Krishna called out to Paundraka, “Ho, Paundraka! Since you have spoken to me through your messenger, I will now relinquish these weapons to you. I will abandon the name you have falsely assumed, O fool. Today I will seek refuge with you, if I do not desire battle.” With sharp arrows, Krishna struck down Paundraka, deprived him of his chariot, and severed his head with a discus, as Indra might cleave a mountain with his thunderbolt. In the same way, he beheaded the king of Kāśi and cast his head into the city, as the wind drops a lotus bud. Having slain the envious Paundraka and his ally, Hari returned to Dvārakā, accompanied by the songs of the perfected beings, who sang nectar-like tales of his deeds. Paundraka, constantly meditating on the Blessed Lord, was freed from all bonds and, bearing the form of Hari, was absorbed into Him. When the people of Kāśi saw the severed head, adorned with earrings, at the royal gate, they wondered, “What is this? Whose face could this be?” Recognizing it as their king, his queens, sons, relatives, and the citizens wailed in grief, “Alas, the king is slain! Our protector is gone!” Sudakṣina, the king’s son, performed the funeral rites for his father and resolved with determination, “I will destroy my father’s killer and thus honor my father.” With this resolve, Sudakṣina, together with his priest, began to worship Maheshvara, Lord Śiva, with supreme concentration.