After Krishna’s wondrous feat of lifting Govardhana mountain, Indra, the king of the gods, took a bell from his majestic elephant Airavata and filled it with pure water. With this, he performed a sacred anointing upon Krishna. As the ceremony unfolded, a miraculous sign appeared: streams of milk flowed from the cows, moistening the earth and sanctifying the moment. Once the anointing was completed, Indra, prompted by the cows’ words, addressed Krishna with affection and humility. He spoke again to Janardana, saying, “By the word of the cows, this blessing has been granted. Now listen to me, O greatly fortunate one, for I wish to relieve the earth’s burden. A portion of myself has descended as Arjuna, the mighty bearer of the earth. He must always be protected by you.” Indra continued, “In the task of relieving the earth’s burden, Arjuna will be your companion. Protect him, O Madhusudana, as you would your own self. I know that Partha, born of the Bharata lineage, is a portion of yourself. As long as I remain upon the earth, I will protect him. O destroyer of foes, while I am here, no one will defeat Arjuna in battle, O Indra of the gods.” He named the foes who would soon be vanquished: Kamsa, the mighty demon, Arishta, Keshi, Kuvalayapida, Naraka, and others besides. Indra declared, “When those are slain, there will be a great battle; know then, O thousand-eyed one, that the earth’s burden will have been lifted. You may go; do not grieve for your son, for no enemy of Arjuna will prevail before me. For Arjuna’s sake, I will return all the wounded, led by Yudhishthira, to Kunti when the Bharata war is over.” Having spoken thus, Indra embraced Krishna and mounted Airavata, returning to heaven. Krishna, accompanied by the cows and cowherds, made his way back to Vraja, along the path purified by the sight of the gopis. After Shakra’s departure, the cowherds, filled with affection, approached Krishna, marveling at his flawless deeds. They said, “O greatly fortunate one, you have saved us and the cows from great danger by holding up the mountain. This incomparable play of childhood, this cowherd role, is astonishing. Your deed is divine—what is the meaning of this, father? Please tell us. Kaliya has been subdued in the water, Pralamba has been cast down, and Govardhana has been held up—our minds are filled with wonder.” With reverence, they declared, “Truly, truly, we take refuge at the feet of Hari, O one of boundless valor. Having witnessed your power, we cannot consider you a mere man. Whether you are a god, a demon, a yaksha, or even a gandharva—whatever you may be, what concern is it of ours to inquire? You are our kinsman. Salutations to you. The affection of the women and children of your cowherd community, O Keshava, is yours. This deed of yours is impossible even for all the gods together. Your childhood, your extraordinary might, and your birth among us seem unfitting; pondering this, O Krishna of immeasurable self, gives rise to doubt.” For a moment, Krishna became silent, showing a slight affectionate displeasure. Then, he spoke to the cowherds: “O cowherds, if you feel no shame in your connection with me, or if I am praiseworthy to you, then what need have you for further deliberation? If you have affection for me, if I am worthy of your praise, then offer me the respect due to a kinsman, and treat me as one would a relative. I am not a god, nor a gandharva, nor a yaksha, nor a demon. I am born as your kinsman; therefore, there is no need to think otherwise.” Hearing these words, the blessed cowherds, bound by silence, departed from the place where Krishna had shown affectionate displeasure. Krishna then beheld the spotless sky, the moonlight of the autumn moon, and the blooming water-lilies, filling the directions with fragrance. He saw the line of forest trees, delightful with swarms of humming bees, and, together with the cowherd women, turned his mind toward love. With Rama, the lotus-footed one, Krishna sang sweetly—a song most dear to the women—there, having undertaken his vow. Hearing the charming sound of song, the cowherd women quickly left their dwellings and came to where Madhusudana was. One cowherd woman slowly sang, following Krishna’s steps; another, attentive, remembered only him in her mind. One, saying “Krishna, Krishna,” became bashful; another, blinded by love, went to his side without shame. One, staying inside her house, saw her elder outside, and with closed eyes, meditated on Govinda with her whole being. Surrounded by the cowherd women, Govinda honored the night, beautiful with the autumn moon, eager for the delight of beginning the rasa dance. The cowherd women, in groups, whose forms depended on Krishna’s actions, danced throughout the forest of Vrindavan when Krishna went elsewhere. Then, those cowherd women, longing to see Krishna, wandered about, having seen Krishna’s footprints at night in Vrindavan. Thus, as Krishna performed various acts, the cowherd women, absorbed together, roamed the delightful forest of Vrindavan. Afterwards, disappointed in seeing Krishna, the cowherd women withdrew, came to the bank of the Yamuna, and sang his deeds. Then, they saw Krishna approaching, his lotus-like face radiant, the protector of the three worlds, the doer of effortless deeds.