The gopīs, overwhelmed with longing and sorrow, gathered together with Yaśodā by the banks of the Yamunā. They declared, “We shall not return to Vraja unless the lord of serpents allows us. All of us, along with Yaśodā, will enter this great pool. How can we go back without Kṛṣṇa? What is a day without the sun, or night without the moon? What are cows without milk, or Vraja without Kṛṣṇa? Without him, we cannot return to Gokula.” Hearing the gopīs’ words, the mighty son of Rohiṇī, Balarāma, observed the cowherds, silent and stricken with grief. He saw Nanda, deeply afflicted, his gaze fixed on his son’s face, and Yaśodā, faint with distress, her mind consumed by thoughts of Kṛṣṇa’s greatness. Balarāma addressed Kṛṣṇa, “O Lord of gods, why do you display this human nature? Reveal your true self; do you not know who you truly are? You are the navel of the universe, the refuge of the gods, the creator, destroyer, and protector of the three worlds, the embodiment of the three Vedas.” He continued, “Here, Kṛṣṇa, only the cowherds are your kin, since you have descended among us. The gopīs are sitting here—why do you neglect your own relatives? You have shown human nature and childish behavior; now subdue this wicked, sharp-toothed serpent, Kṛṣṇa.” Reminded thus, Kṛṣṇa smiled, his lips parting gently. With strength and grace, he struck the serpent’s coils and freed himself from its bondage. Bending down, Kṛṣṇa, of great might, climbed with both hands onto the central hood of the serpent. Bowing his head, he began to dance upon it. Wherever Kṛṣṇa’s feet pressed, wounds appeared on the serpent’s hood, and the mighty head bent low under the force. Stunned by Kṛṣṇa’s blows and the force of his strikes, the serpent became dazed and unconscious, blood pouring from his mouth. Seeing their husband thus, with neck and head bent, blood flowing freely, the wives of the serpent approached Madhusūdana, seeking refuge. They prayed, “O Lord of gods, supreme ruler of all, the highest light, inconceivable, a portion of the Supreme Lord—you are known to us. Even the gods cannot praise that Lord whose nature is beyond all else; how then could we, as women, describe your true form? The entire universe—earth, sky, water, fire, and air—is but a small portion of you. How could we possibly praise you? Therefore, O Lord of the universe, show mercy to this one who is fainting; this serpent is giving up his life. Grant him your favor.” When they had spoken, the serpent, exhausted in body, was reassured and slowly addressed Kṛṣṇa: “Be gracious, O God of gods. Your eightfold sovereignty is supremely natural and beyond comparison; what praise could I possibly offer you? You are the Supreme, the origin and essence of the Supreme; you are higher than the highest—what praise could I offer? Just as I was created by you, O Lord, with my birth, form, and nature, so too have I acted in this way. If I had acted otherwise, O God of gods, then it would be just for you to punish me according to your command. Still, whatever punishment you, Lord of the universe, have inflicted upon me, I have endured. Let there be no other boon for me than this punishment from you. My strength is destroyed, my venom is gone, and I am subdued by you, O Acyuta. Grant me life—command me, what shall I do?” Kṛṣṇa replied, “You must not remain here, O serpent, at any time in the waters of the Yamunā. With your attendants and followers, go to the ocean’s waters. And when you see my footprints, O serpent, on your head in the ocean, Garuḍa, the enemy of serpents, will not attack you.” Having spoken thus to the king of serpents, the blessed Hari released him. Bowing to Kṛṣṇa, the serpent departed for his watery abode. In the sight of all beings, he left his pool with his attendants, children, kin, and all his wives. When the serpent had gone, the cowherds embraced Govinda, as if he had returned from the dead, and sprinkled him with tears of joy. Their minds astonished, they joyfully praised Kṛṣṇa, the doer of flawless deeds, for the river had been restored to auspicious waters. Then, as the cowherd women sang of his deeds and charming exploits, and the cowherds praised him, Kṛṣṇa entered Vraja, surrounded by love and adoration. Once again, Rāma and Keśava, tending the cows together, wandered through the forest and came to the delightful Tāla grove. In that forest always dwelled a demon named Dhenuka, who, taking the form of a donkey, constantly fed on the flesh of men and cattle. When the cowherds saw the Tāla forest, abundant with ripe fruit, they were filled with longing and spoke among themselves about gathering the fruit. “O Rāma, O Kṛṣṇa,” they said, “this land is always guarded by Dhenuka; that is why these fruits remain here, abandoned. See the fruits of the palm trees, fragrant and ripe; we desire them—let them be brought down, if you are willing.” Hearing the words of the cowherd boys, Saṅkarṣaṇa and Kṛṣṇa began to bring the palm fruits down to the ground. The sound of falling fruit roused Dhenuka, the wicked-hearted Daitya in donkey form. Angered, he rushed to the spot. With great force, he struck Baladeva on the chest with both his hind legs. But Baladeva seized him by those very legs, whirled him around in the air, and, lifeless, hurled him with force onto the top of a palm tree.