Hearing the enchanting melody of Krishna’s song, the cowherd women of Vraja were drawn from their homes, hastening toward the place where Madhusudana played his flute. Each was captivated in her own way: one sang softly, matching her steps to his; another, her mind wholly absorbed, thought of nothing but him. Some whispered “Krishna, Krishna” and blushed in shyness, while others, overcome with love, approached him without a trace of shame. There were those who, remaining within their houses, glimpsed an elder outside, and closing their eyes, meditated on Govinda with their entire being. Gathered around Govinda, the cowherd women honored the night, which was made even more beautiful by the autumn moon. Their hearts brimmed with anticipation for the delight of the rasa dance about to begin. In groups, their forms and movements reflecting Krishna’s own, they danced through the forests of Vrindavan, even when Krishna wandered elsewhere. Longing to see him, they roamed the groves and glades, following the trail of Krishna’s footprints in the moonlit woods. As Krishna performed his wondrous deeds, the cowherd women, united in their devotion, wandered together through the delightful forest. When, at last, they could not find Krishna, disappointment filled their hearts. They withdrew to the banks of the Yamuna and there, O twice-born, sang of his marvelous exploits. Then, as they sang, Krishna appeared before them—his radiant, lotus-like face shining, the protector of the three worlds, the one for whom no deed is difficult. One woman, seeing Govinda approach, was filled with boundless joy; her eyes widened as she called out, “Krishna! Krishna!” again and again. Another, arching her brow and marking her forehead, gazed upon Hari and, with eyes like bees, drank the nectar of his lotus face. Yet another, upon seeing him, closed her eyes and, meditating solely on his form, seemed absorbed in deep yoga. Madhava, full of grace, soothed some with loving words, others with glances from his beautifully arched brows, and yet others by the gentle touch of his hand. With their hearts delighted, these noble cowherd women danced the rasa with Hari, who honored them with joy and respect. Bound in the wondrous circle of the rasa dance, none of the women left Krishna’s side, nor did any remain still. Hari took each by the hand, his eyes closing in bliss at their touch, and so the rasa dance began. Bangles clinked melodiously, and the night was filled with poetry, song, and music befitting the autumn season. Krishna sang of the autumn moon, its gentle light, and the blooming lotus ponds, while the cowherd women sang only of Krishna, repeating his name in sweet refrain. Some, weary from dancing, their bangles warm and moving, rested their vine-like arms on Krishna’s shoulder. One, her arms shining, embraced and kissed Madhusudana, skillfully singing his praises. Others clung to Hari’s arms, seeking the touch of his cheeks, their bodies covered with sweat and goosebumps from the joy of his nearness. As Krishna sang the rasa song in a high, melodious voice, the cowherd women answered, singing “Krishna! Krishna!” with even greater fervor. When he moved away, they followed, the sounds of their bangles filling the night as they approached Hari from all directions, drawn irresistibly to him. Madhusudana, encircled by the cowherd women, delighted in their company. For them, the moments with him seemed to pass in an instant, though they were as precious as millions of years. Even though their fathers, husbands, and brothers tried to restrain them, the cowherd women, eager for joy, spent the night with Krishna. He, in the fullness of youth and immeasurable in his being, honored them and, sporting with them through the nights, dispelled all their sorrows. In truth, the Lord—whose very form is the Self—pervaded everything: their husbands, the women themselves, and all beings. Just as space, fire, earth, water, air, and the Self pervade all creatures, so too did Krishna, established everywhere and in all. But as midnight deepened and Janardana was absorbed in the rasa dance, a great disturbance arose. Ariṣṭa, a fearsome demon, appeared, terrifying the cowherds and their settlement. He looked like a rain-laden cloud, with sharp horns and eyes blazing like the sun. His hooves tore up the earth, and he licked his lips, grinding his jaws in fury. His tail lashed angrily, his shoulders were hard as stone, and his hump stood high and arched, immense and formidable. His back and limbs were smeared with dung and urine, causing distress among the cows. With neck hanging low and face scarred from blows against trees, the demon—taking the form of a bull—caused the cows to miscarry. Ariṣṭa rampaged through the forests, destroying all in his path. His dreadful eyes struck terror into the hearts of the cowherds, who cried out in fear, “Krishna! Krishna!” Responding to their call, Keshava let out a lion’s roar and struck his palm. Hearing this challenge, Ariṣṭa charged straight at Damodara, lowering his horns and fixing his gaze on Krishna’s chest. The wicked demon-bull rushed forward, but Krishna, mighty and unshaken, stood his ground. He did not move, smiling with playful disdain at the demon’s fury. As Ariṣṭa drew near, Madhusudana seized him as a lion seizes its prey. He struck the demon’s belly with his knee, held his horns firmly, and, subduing his pride and strength, grasped his horns with unyielding hands.