In the heart of Gokula, a remarkable event unfolded. The villagers saw the young child, Kṛṣṇa, crying and striking the ground with his foot; nearby, the cart lay overturned. No one else could have caused this, and all were astonished. The cowherds, their minds filled with wonder, sat down in amazement, and Nanda, bewildered, gently lifted the child up. Yaśodā, overwhelmed by the mysterious power of her son, performed a humble worship. She offered curds, flowers, fruits, and grains of rice to the broken potsherds and the overturned cart, seeking to honor the unseen forces at play. Meanwhile, in secret, Garga, prompted by Vasudeva, performed sacred rites for the two boys, away from the gaze of the cowherds. With great wisdom, he named the elder one Rāma and the younger Kṛṣṇa, bestowing these names with discernment. Soon, the two boys grew mighty in strength. Their knees were rubbed raw from constant play, and their energetic exploits became well-known among the brāhmaṇas. Smeared with cow-dung ash, they wandered everywhere, and neither Yaśodā nor Rohiṇī could restrain their restless spirits. Playing in the midst of the cow-pen, they would wander to the calves’ enclosure, and on that very day, they became intent on pulling the tails of the newborn calves. Whenever Yaśodā found Rāma and Kṛṣṇa playing together in one place, she could not halt their lively games. At last, out of impatience, she bound blameless Kṛṣṇa to a mortar with a rope and spoke firmly, “If you are able, go now, with your excessively restless behavior!” Then, leaving him thus, she went about her household tasks. But Kṛṣṇa, the lotus-eyed one, began to drag the mortar behind him. He moved between two tall yamalārjuna trees, pulling the mortar sideways. Suddenly, the trees, with their lofty branches, were broken by him, and a loud cracking sound echoed, frightening everyone. The people of Vraja rushed to the scene. They saw the two great trees fallen, their trunks broken and branches shattered. There stood the boy, Kṛṣṇa, with only a few teeth and a smiling face, bound tightly around his waist with a rope, between the two trees. From that day, because of being tied with a rope, he was called Dāmodara. All the elders, led by Nanda, gathered, disturbed and greatly frightened by these ominous signs. They consulted together, saying, “We should not stay here; let us go to another great forest.” For they had witnessed many portents of destruction: the death of Pūtanā, the overturning of the cart, and now the falling of the trees without wind or apparent cause. So, they resolved to leave Gokula for Vṛndāvana, lest a great calamity befall Vraja. With urgency, they instructed everyone to return quickly to their own families. In a moment, the cowherds set out with their carts and herds of cows. In groups, the boys and girls called out to one another, leaving behind all their possessions in haste. The place of Vraja was soon filled with crows and she-crows, as the people departed. Meanwhile, the Blessed Kṛṣṇa, whose deeds never wearied, contemplated Vṛndāvana. With a pure mind, desiring the well-being and increase of their cows, he meditated upon the new land. Even in that season of great virtue, Vṛndāvana flourished, becoming lush as the rainy season, with fresh grass everywhere. Thus, all of Vraja settled in Vṛndāvana. The carts and enclosures were arranged in a half-moon shape, and there, Rāma and Dāmodara grew up together. They remained in the cowherd settlement, wandering about in childish play, adorned with peacock feathers and forest flowers. The two boys played music with cowherds’ flutes and leaf-instruments, their hair dark as crow’s wings, shining like twin fires in their youthful vigor. Laughing and delighting, they roamed the great forest, sometimes laughing together, playing with each other and with their friends. Along with the sons of the cowherds, they herded the calves and wandered freely. As time passed, Rāma and Kṛṣṇa reached the age of seven years. The two herders of calves became the protectors of the whole world in Vraja. Then came the rainy season, with the sky thickly covered by masses of clouds. Rain poured down, uniting all the directions. The earth was resplendent, covered with fresh-blooming flowers and the red insects known as Indra’s cows. Rivers, like emeralds adorned with rubies, flowed out of their courses, carrying everything away. The minds of the undisciplined, having attained new fortune, were like those rivers—overflowing and restless. In that season, as they wished, the two mighty ones, accompanied by their equals among the cowherds, played in Vraja like immortals. One day, Kṛṣṇa went to Vṛndāvana without Rāma. Surrounded by cowherds and radiant with garlands of wild flowers, he wandered through the forest. He came to the Yamunā, whose waves danced playfully, and whose banks were adorned with clusters of foam, as if she were laughing everywhere. There, he beheld a most dreadful pool, tainted by drops of poisonous fire, exceedingly terrifying—the abode of the serpent Kāliya. The poison-fire had scorched the great trees on the riverbank, and birds were singed by the wind-driven spray of the water. Witnessing that terrifying scene, like another mouth of Death, the blessed Madhusudana, Kṛṣṇa, began to reflect.