The housewife, exasperated by the child’s endless restlessness, finally said, “If you are able, go now, with your excessively restless behavior!” With these words, she turned to her household tasks, leaving him to his own devices. While she was busy, the boy began to drag the heavy mortar behind him. The lotus-eyed Krishna, mischievous and determined, slipped between the two yamalārjuna trees, pulling the mortar sideways. In that moment, the tall trees with their lofty branches were broken by his passage. A loud cracking sound echoed through the air, frightening everyone nearby. The people of Vraja, alarmed by the commotion, came running and found the two great trees fallen to the ground, their trunks shattered and branches scattered. Standing between them was the young boy, Krishna—his face bright and smiling, though he had only a few teeth, and his waist tightly bound with a rope. From that day, because he had been bound with a rope, he came to be known as Dāmodara. The elders of the cowherds, led by Nanda, gathered together, greatly disturbed and frightened by these ominous events. They consulted among themselves, saying, “We should not stay here; let us go to another great forest.” They recalled the many troubling signs: the death of Pūtanā, the overturning of the cart, and now the falling of the trees without any wind or apparent cause. Convinced that danger was near, they resolved, “Let us quickly leave this place for Vṛndāvana. Before any great calamity overtakes Vraja, we must depart.” With urgency, the elders instructed everyone, “Let each return quickly to his own family, let there be no delay.” In a moment, the people of Vraja set out, loading their carts and gathering their herds of cows. The cowherd boys and girls, calling out to one another, left behind all their possessions, departing in groups. Soon, the old place of Vraja was left to the crows and she-crows, while Vṛndāvana was contemplated by the Blessed Krishna, whose deeds never tire. With a pure mind and desiring the prosperity of their cows, Krishna meditated upon Vṛndāvana. Thus, even in that season of virtue, the land became as lush as the rainy season, with fresh grass everywhere. All the people of Vraja settled in Vṛndāvana. Their carts and enclosures were arranged in the shape of a half-moon, and there, the two boys—Rāma and Dāmodara—grew up together. They remained in the cowherd settlement, wandering about in childish play, adorned with peacock feathers and forest flowers. They played music with cowherds’ flutes and leaf-instruments, their hair dark and glossy like crow’s wings, shining like twin fires in their youthful vigor. Laughing and delighting, the two boys roamed the great forest, sometimes laughing together, playing with each other and with their friends. Alongside the sons of the cowherds, they herded the calves and wandered about, and as time passed, the two reached the age of seven years. These herders of calves became the protectors of the whole world in the great Vraja. Then came the rainy season, the sky thick with masses of clouds. Rain poured down, uniting all directions in its embrace. The earth was covered with fresh-blooming flowers, and the red insects called Indra’s cows made it resplendent. Just as an emerald is adorned with rubies, so the rivers, overflowing their banks, carried all before them. The minds of the undisciplined, newly fortunate, were like those rivers—overflowing, restless. In that season, as they wished, the two mighty ones, Krishna and Rāma, played in Vraja with their companions, like immortals. One day, Krishna went to Vṛndāvana without Rāma, surrounded by cowherds and radiant with garlands of wild flowers. He wandered through the forest and came to the Yamunā river, whose waves danced playfully and whose banks were adorned with clusters of foam, as if laughing everywhere. There, Krishna saw 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. Beholding this terrible scene, like the gaping mouth of Death, the blessed Madhusudana began to reflect. “Here dwells that wicked-hearted Kāliya, armed with poison, whom I once defeated and who, having been expelled, vanished into the ocean. By him, this entire Yamunā, which flows to the sea, has been polluted; neither men nor cattle, nor even the thirsty, can make use of it. Therefore, I must subdue this serpent king, so that the people of Vraja, who are always fearful, may live in happiness. For this purpose, I have taken birth in the world of men: to discipline those evil ones who stray from the right path. So, I will climb this kadamba tree, with its great branches, not far from here, and leap into this deadly pool.” Thus resolved, Krishna fastened his garment tightly and leapt swiftly into the pool of the serpent king. By his very fall, the pool was agitated, and water splashed onto the distant trees. Those trees, scorched by the serpent’s poisonous flames and the burning water, blazed up at once, their flames filling all directions. Krishna struck the serpent’s pool with his arms, and hearing that sound, the serpent king approached. His eyes were reddened with anger, his hoods blazing with streams of poison, and he was surrounded by other great, red, wind-devouring serpents.