Desiring the wealth and splendor of Indra himself, Lord Vishnu once appeared in the guise of a humble Brahmin. He approached the mighty king of the Daityas and, though the king was fully aware and self-restrained, he nevertheless gave the earth itself to Vishnu. Such was the power of righteousness and the virtue of giving, even when the giver understands the consequences. Reflecting on the life of a kshatriya, one may ask: what value is there in a warrior’s body if it exists only to serve the Brahmins? For when a kshatriya’s body falls in sacrifice here, it brings great and lasting fame. With this noble spirit, the king addressed Krishna, Arjuna, and Bhimasena, saying, “O Brahmins, ask what you desire of me. I am prepared to give even my own head if you wish it.” Then the Blessed Lord Krishna replied, “O king, if you deem it proper, grant us battle. We have come not for riches or other desires, but seeking combat with the royal order. Let us fight in pairs.” Introducing each of his companions, Krishna said, “This is Bhimasena, O Partha, and his brother is Arjuna. Know me, Krishna, as their maternal uncle and your enemy.” Hearing this, the king of Magadha burst into loud laughter, angered by their challenge. “Fools,” he declared, “then I shall grant you battle!” Turning to Krishna with scorn, Jarāsandha said, “I will not fight you, coward, whose valor is uncertain. You abandoned your own city, Mathura, and took refuge by the sea. This one”—pointing to Arjuna—“is my equal in age, but not in strength. He is not fit to fight. But Bhima, he is my equal in might.” Having spoken thus, Jarāsandha handed a great mace to Bhimasena, took another for himself, and strode out from the city. On the battlefield, the two heroes met—Bhima and Jarāsandha—equally matched and wild for combat. They struck each other with their mighty maces, weapons as powerful as thunderbolts. Their fight was dazzling, as they circled each other left and right, moving with the grace and precision of dancers upon a stage. The sound of their maces crashing together was like thunder, echoing as if the tusks of two mighty elephants clashed in rage. With every swing, their maces struck shoulders, hips, feet, knees, and heads, shattering upon impact just as the sun’s branches shatter when two blazing elephants collide. When their maces were destroyed, the two warriors, still furious, battered each other with their iron-hard fists. The sound of their blows, fierce as thunderbolts, rang out as their palms met flesh. Both were matched in skill, strength, and vigor; neither’s speed diminished, and the battle seemed endless. For twenty-seven days, O great king, the two fought with unflagging energy, their friends standing by through the nights. At last, Bhima, known as Vṛkodara, turned to Krishna and confessed, “O Mādhava, I am unable to defeat Jarāsandha in battle.” Krishna, knowing the secret of Jarāsandha’s birth and the unique way his life was sustained by Jara, infused Bhima with his own divine energy and pondered the means to bring down their foe. Then, the Lord, whose vision never fails, gave Bhima a sign—he tore a branch in two, demonstrating the method. Understanding Krishna’s silent instruction, Bhima, the mightiest of warriors, seized Jarāsandha by the feet and hurled him to the ground. Placing one foot upon Jarāsandha’s leg and grasping the other with his arms, Bhima tore him apart from the base, just as a great elephant splits a massive branch. The people saw Jarāsandha’s body cleft in two—one part with a single leg, thigh, hip, back, breast, and shoulder; the other with one arm, eye, brow, and ear. A great outcry arose at the death of the king of Magadha. Bhima was embraced and honored by his companions, the victorious and infallible ones. Lord Krishna, creator of all beings and master of himself, anointed Sahadeva, Jarāsandha’s son, as king of the Magadhas, and released the many kings whom Jarāsandha had held captive. Thus concludes the seventy-second chapter, “The Slaying of Jarāsandha,” in the second half of the Tenth Book of the Śrīmad Bhāgavata Mahāpurāṇa, the scripture for the paramahaṃsas. Śuka continued: Sixteen thousand eight hundred kings, who had been defeated in battle and imprisoned by Jarāsandha, emerged at last from their mountain cave. Their bodies were dirty, their garments soiled, and they were emaciated from hunger, their faces dried and tormented by long confinement. But before them stood the dark-complexioned Lord, adorned in yellow silk. They beheld him marked with the Śrīvatsa, four-armed, with lotus-like reddish eyes, a beautiful, gracious face, and shining makara-shaped earrings. In his hands he held a lotus, mace, conch, and discus; he was adorned with a crown, necklace, bracelets, a girdle, and armlets. His neck shone with the finest jewels and was garlanded with forest flowers. The kings drank in his form with their eyes, as if tasting him with their tongues; they seemed to smell him with their noses and embrace him with their arms. Freed from sin, they bowed their heads at Hari’s lotus feet. The sight of Krishna filled them with such delight that all the fatigue of their captivity vanished. With joined palms, the kings praised Hṛṣīkeśa with heartfelt words: “Salutations to you, Lord of the gods, imperishable remover of distress! We have sought your shelter, O Krishna—protect us, weary as we are of this terrible cycle of birth and death. “O Madhusūdana, we do not blame you for the loss of our kingdoms at the hands of the Magadhan. For us, your favor is the true cause, O Lord. A king, swollen with pride in sovereignty and opulence, does not attain true welfare; deluded by your māyā, he mistakes impermanent riches for something unshakable. “Just as children imagine water in a mirage, so do the undiscerning mistake illusion for reality. Formerly, blinded by pride in our prosperity, we competed with one another, ruthlessly destroying our own subjects, O Lord, heedless of death before us. “But those very riches have been swept away by your profound and irresistible power—by time, by your form, and by your compassion, our pride is destroyed, and we remember your feet. Therefore, we no longer desire a kingdom, which is but a mirage, nor a body ever subject to decay and pain. O Lord, we long to worship you, for the fruit of such acts, in this life and beyond, is pleasing to the ear. Instruct us, we pray, in the means by which, even as we wander this world, our remembrance of your lotus feet may never cease.