As time passed peacefully in Vraja, a sense of foreboding began to settle among its people. The threat of a great terrestrial calamity loomed, and so, with heavy hearts yet resolute minds, the entire community of Vraja decided it was time to depart their beloved land. “Let each of us return quickly to our own families—let there be no delay,” they urged one another. Without hesitation, they gathered their carts, rounded up their herds of cows, and set out together. The cowherd boys and girls, calling and beckoning to each other, left behind all their possessions in an instant, forming groups as they hurried away. In their absence, Vraja became desolate, inhabited now only by crows and she-crows. Yet, the Blessed Krishna, tireless in his deeds, contemplated the forest of Vrindavana with a pure and loving mind, desiring above all the well-being and increase of their cows. By Krishna’s meditation and will, even during that auspicious season, Vrindavana flourished as if it were the rainy season: fresh grass sprouted everywhere, painting the earth with new life. All the people of Vraja settled there, arranging their carts and enclosures in the shape of a half-moon for protection and community. In this new home, the two divine boys, Rama and Damodara (Krishna), grew up together. They remained among the cowherds, wandering freely through the settlement, delighting in childish play, their hair adorned with peacock feathers and wild forest flowers. With flutes of bamboo and instruments fashioned from leaves, their hair black as crow’s wings, the two boys shone like twin fires, radiant in their youth. They laughed and played, wandering joyfully through the great forest—sometimes together, sometimes with others—always finding delight in each other’s company. With the sons of the cowherds, they herded the calves and roamed the land, and in the course of time, both Krishna and Rama reached the age of seven. Now, these two, once mere herders of calves, became the protectors of the whole world within the great Vraja. The rainy season arrived, the sky thick with rolling masses of clouds, and rain poured down as if uniting all the directions. The earth, resplendent with fresh-blooming flowers and dotted with red insects called Indra’s cows, shone with new beauty. The rivers, swollen and turbulent, overflowed their banks, carrying all before them, like emeralds adorned with rubies. In that season, the hearts of even the undisciplined were filled with new fortune and joy. Krishna and Rama, surrounded by their friends, played in Vraja like immortals, their happiness undiminished by the storms. One day, Krishna went to Vrindavana without Rama, accompanied by his cowherd friends and radiant with garlands of wild flowers. He wandered through the forest and soon came to the banks of the Yamuna, whose waves danced playfully and whose shores were adorned with clusters of foam, as if the river herself were laughing. There, Krishna beheld a dreadful sight—a pool of water tainted by drops of poisonous fire, exceedingly terrifying. This was the lair of the serpent king Kāliya. The poison-fire had scorched the great trees along the riverbank; birds had been singed by the wind-driven spray, and the very air seemed menacing. Seeing this scene, as terrifying as the open mouth of Death itself, the blessed Madhusudana paused to reflect. “Here dwells the wicked-hearted Kāliya, armed with deadly poison, whom I once defeated and who, when expelled, vanished into the ocean. Now, by his presence, this entire Yamuna has been polluted. Neither men nor cattle, nor even the thirsty, can safely approach her waters.” Krishna resolved, “I must subdue this serpent king, so that the people of Vraja, who live in constant fear, may find happiness. For this purpose I have taken birth among men: to discipline those who stray from the righteous path.” With this resolve, Krishna fastened his garment tightly, climbed a great kadamba tree by the pool, and leapt boldly into the deadly water. His very plunge agitated the pool, sending waves so high that distant trees were drenched. Trees already scorched by the serpent’s poison and the burning water burst into flames, their fire lighting up all directions. Krishna struck the water with his arms, and the sound echoed through the pool. Enraged, the serpent king Kāliya approached, his eyes red with fury, his many hoods blazing with streams of poison. He was surrounded by other great, red, wind-devouring serpents, and his hundreds of wives, adorned with splendid ornaments, came trembling, their earrings swinging. The serpents encircled Krishna with their coils, biting him with mouths streaming with poisonous flames. Krishna, crushed by the serpent’s embrace, lay motionless. The cowherd boys, witnessing this terrible sight, were struck with grief and ran back to Vraja, crying out in alarm, “Krishna has lost consciousness and is submerged in Kāliya’s pool—he is being devoured by the serpent king! Come quickly, do not delay!” Hearing these thunderous cries, the cowherds and the women of Vraja, led by Yashoda, hurried swiftly to the pool. Calling out, “Alas! Where is he?” the people, especially the cowherd women, rushed together with Yashoda, stumbling in their distress. Nanda, the chief of the cowherds, along with the other elders and the mighty Rama, eager to see Krishna, made their way quickly to the Yamuna. There, they saw Krishna, rendered motionless by the serpent king’s power, bound tight in his coils, unable to move. Nanda stood helpless, gazing intently at his beloved son’s face, while Yashoda, blessed among women, became overwhelmed with grief. The other cowherd women, weeping and distressed, called out to Keshava with trembling voices, their hearts full of fear and love for the divine child.