The women and children of the cowherd community cherished Krishna, O Keshava, with a love that was entirely his. Such a wondrous deed—this deep, all-encompassing affection—was beyond the reach of all the gods together. Yet, as the cowherds beheld Krishna’s childhood, his extraordinary strength, and his birth among them, doubts arose in their hearts. They pondered, “How can this be fitting, O Krishna of immeasurable self?” Their minds were unsettled by the mystery of his presence. For a moment, Krishna fell silent, showing a gentle, affectionate displeasure at their doubts. Then, as they stood before him, Krishna addressed the cowherds, O best of the twice-born. “O cowherds, if you feel no shame in your connection with me, or if you find me worthy of praise, what need is there for further deliberation? If you have affection for me, if I am dear to you, then treat me as a kinsman, offering the respect due to a relative. I am not a god, nor a gandharva, nor a yaksha, nor a demon. I am born as your kin; there is no need to think otherwise.” Hearing these words of Hari, the blessed cowherds, moved but silent, departed from that place where Krishna’s gentle displeasure had been shown. Krishna then gazed upon the spotless sky, radiant with the autumn moon, and beheld the blooming water-lilies filling the directions with their fragrance. He saw the line of forest trees, humming with swarms of bees, and, together with the cowherd women, his heart turned toward love. With Rama, the lotus-footed one, Krishna sang sweetly—a song most dear to the hearts of women, in accordance with his vow. The charming sound of his singing reached the cowherd women, who quickly left their homes and hurried to the place where Madhusudana was. One woman sang softly, following his steps; another, attentive, remembered only him in her mind. One, bashful, whispered “Krishna, Krishna,” while another, overwhelmed by love, approached him without shame. One, remaining within her house, saw her elder outside, and with closed eyes, meditated upon Govinda with her whole being. Surrounded now by the cowherd women, Govinda honored the night, beautiful beneath the autumn moon, eager for the delight of beginning the rasa dance. The cowherd women, in groups, their forms moving in harmony with Krishna’s actions, danced throughout the forest of Vrindavan, even as Krishna slipped away elsewhere. Longing to see him, they wandered through the groves, O twice-born, searching for Krishna’s footprints in the moonlit forest. Thus, as Krishna performed many wondrous acts, the cowherd women, united in devotion, roamed the delightful forest of Vrindavan together. When they could not find him, disappointed, they withdrew to the bank of the Yamuna and sang of Krishna’s deeds, O twice-born. Then, as they sang, the cowherd women saw Krishna approaching, his lotus-like face radiant, the protector of the three worlds, the doer of effortless deeds. One, seeing Govinda coming, was filled with joy and called out, “Krishna! Krishna!” again and again, her eyes wide with delight. Another, arching her brow and marking her forehead, gazed at Hari, drinking in the nectar of his lotus face with eyes like bees. One, seeing Govinda, closed her eyes and, meditating only on his form, shone forth as if absorbed in yoga. Madhava soothed some with loving words, others with gentle glances from his arched brows, and yet others by the touch of his hand. With their minds delighted, Hari, noble in deed, joyfully played the rasa dance with the cowherd women, honoring them with respect. Though encircled in the rasa dance, the cowherd women never left Krishna’s side, nor did any remain fixed in one place. Hari, taking each cowherd woman by the hand, performed the rasa dance, closing his eyes at the touch of their hands. The delightful dance began, accompanied by the sound of moving bangles, and was adorned with poetry, song, and music suited to the autumn night. Krishna sang of the autumn moon, the moonlight, and the lotus pond, while the cowherd women sang only Krishna’s name, again and again. One, weary from dancing, her bangles warm and moving, placed her vine-like arm on Krishna’s shoulder. Another, with shining arms, embraced and kissed Madhusudana, skillful in singing and praise. Embracing Hari’s arms, seeking the touch of his cheeks, the cowherd women’s bodies became covered with sweat and goosebumps. As Krishna sang the rasa song in a high-pitched voice, the cowherd women responded, singing “Krishna! Krishna!” twice as much in return. When Krishna moved away, the women followed, their bangles resounding as they approached Hari, some flowing with him, others against the current. Surrounded by the cowherd women, Madhusudana delighted in their company; yet, for them, that moment—though it seemed to last millions of years—passed in an instant when he was gone. Though restrained by their fathers, husbands, and brothers, the cowherd women, filled with longing, enjoyed Krishna’s company at night. He too, in the bloom of youth, honored them; the immeasurable Madhusudana sported with them through the nights, dispelling all their sorrows. In their husbands, in those women, and in all beings, the Lord—whose very form is the Self—pervaded everything and remained established. Just as space, fire, earth, water, air, and the Self pervade all beings, so did Krishna, pervading all, remain ever present. Then, at midnight, while Janardana was absorbed in the rasa dance, Arishta arrived, terrifying the cowherds and their settlement.