Hearing the king of the gods’ concerns, Krishna spoke with assurance, telling him, “You may go without grief for your son, for as long as I am present, no enemy of Arjuna will prevail. For Arjuna’s sake, I will see to it that all the wounded—led by Yudhishthira—are returned to Kunti once the great war of the Bharatas has ended.” Comforted by Krishna’s words, the king of the gods embraced Janardana, mounted his celestial elephant Airavata, and ascended once more to his heavenly abode. Krishna, too, departed—returning to Vraja along with the cows and cowherds, traveling the path sanctified by the presence of the gopis. After Shakra had taken his leave, the cowherds, filled with love and awe, gathered around Krishna, the doer of flawless deeds. They had witnessed him lift the mighty Govardhana mountain and now spoke to him with deep affection: “O greatly fortunate one, you have saved us and our cows from grave danger by raising the mountain. This childhood play, this role as a cowherd, is truly astonishing. Your deed is divine—what is the meaning of this, father? Please tell us. “You subdued Kaliya in the water, cast down Pralamba, and held up Govardhana. Our minds are full of wonder. Truly, we take refuge at your feet, O Hari, O one of boundless valor. Having seen your power, how can we consider you a mere man? Whether you are a god, a demon, a yaksha, or a gandharva—whatever you may be, what concern is it of ours to ask? You are our kinsman. Salutations to you. “The love of the women and children of our cowherd community belongs to you, O Keshava. This deed of yours is impossible even for all the gods together. Your childhood, your extraordinary might, and your birth among us seem unfitting. Thinking on this, O Krishna of immeasurable self, we are left in doubt.” For a moment, Krishna fell silent, showing a gentle, affectionate displeasure. Then, addressing the cowherds, he said, “O cowherds, if you feel no shame in your connection with me, or if I am worthy of your praise, what need have you for further deliberation? If you have affection for me, if I am dear to you, 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 own kinsman; there is no need to think otherwise.” Hearing these words of Hari, the blessed cowherds, bound by silence, quietly departed from that place, feeling the gentle weight of his affectionate displeasure. Krishna then turned his gaze to the spotless sky, illumined by the bright autumn moon, and inhaled the fragrance of blooming water-lilies that filled all the directions. He saw the lines of forest trees, alive with swarms of humming bees, and, together with the cowherd women, his mind turned toward love. With Rama, the lotus-footed one, Krishna sang sweetly—a song most dear to women—fulfilling his vow. The enchanting melody drew the cowherd women from their homes; hearing the song, they hurried to where Madhusudana stood. One cowherd woman sang softly, following Krishna’s steps; another, lost in thought, remembered only him. One, uttering “Krishna, Krishna,” became bashful; another, blinded by love, approached him without hesitation. Yet another, seeing her elder outside, stayed within her house and, closing her eyes, meditated on Govinda with her entire being. Surrounded by the cowherd women, Govinda honored the night, made beautiful by the autumn moon, eager for the joy of beginning the rasa dance. In groups, the cowherd women, their very forms shaped by Krishna’s actions, danced throughout the Vrindavan forest whenever Krishna moved elsewhere. Longing to see Krishna, the cowherd women wandered through Vrindavan by night, following the marks of his footprints. Absorbed together in his various playful acts, they roamed the delightful forest. But when they could not find him, disappointment filled their hearts; they withdrew to the banks of the Yamuna and, gathered there, sang of his wondrous deeds. As they sang, Krishna approached them—his face radiant like a lotus, the protector of the three worlds, the doer of effortless deeds. One, seeing Govinda coming, was overcome with joy, her eyes wide, calling out, “Krishna! Krishna!” again and again. Another, arching her brow and marking her forehead, gazed at Hari and, with bee-like eyes, drank the nectar of his lotus face. One, seeing Govinda, closed her eyes and, meditating solely on his form, shone forth as if absorbed in yoga. Madhava soothed some with loving words, others with playful glances from his arched brows, and yet others by the gentle touch of his hand. With their minds delighted, Hari joyfully played the rasa dance with the cowherd women, honoring them with respect. Though bound in the circle of the rasa dance, the cowherd women did not leave Krishna’s side, nor did any remain fixed in one place. Hari, taking each cowherd woman by the hand, danced, closing his eyes at the touch of their hands. The delightful dance began, accompanied by the music of moving bangles, and followed by poetry, song, and melodious music that suited the autumn season. Krishna sang of the autumn moon, the moonlight, and the lotus-filled pond, while the cowherd women sang only his name, again and again. One, weary from dancing, her bangles warm and moving, placed her vine-like arm on Krishna’s shoulder—the honey-slayer—lost in the joy of his presence.