As Govinda approached, one among the cowherd women was overwhelmed with joy. Her eyes opened wide, and she called out, “Krishna! Krishna!” again and again, her voice echoing with excitement. Another, arching her brow and adorning her forehead, gazed intently at Hari, her bee-like eyes drinking the nectar of his lotus-like face. Yet another, upon seeing Govinda, closed her eyes and, meditating solely on his form, shone forth as if absorbed in deep yoga. Madhava, with gentle affection, soothed some with loving words, others with glances from his beautifully arched brows, and yet others by the tender touch of his hand. With their minds delighted, Hari, noble in deed, joyfully played the rasa dance with the cowherd women, treating them with utmost 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 by the hand, performed the dance, closing his eyes at the touch of their hands, savoring the moment. The delightful dance began, accompanied by the melodious sound of moving bangles, and was followed in turn by autumnal poetry, song, and music. Krishna sang of the autumn moon, the moonlight, and the lotus pond, while the cowherd women repeatedly sang only Krishna’s name. One, weary from dancing, her bangles warm and moving, placed her vine-like arm on Krishna’s shoulder, the honey-slayer. Another, her shining arms radiant, embraced and kissed Madhusudana, skillful in singing and praise. Embracing Hari’s arms and seeking the touch of his cheeks, the cowherd women’s bodies became covered with sweat and goosebumps, overcome with emotion. As Krishna sang the rasa song in a high-pitched voice, the cowherd women responded by singing “Krishna! Krishna!” twice as much, their devotion overflowing. When he departed, they followed him, their bangles resounding, approaching Hari both against and along the flow, eager to remain near him. Madhusudana, surrounded by the cowherd women, delighted in their company. That moment, though equal to millions of years in sweetness, passed in an instant without him. Despite restraints from their fathers, husbands, and brothers, the cowherd women, fond of pleasure, enjoyed Krishna at night. He too, in the bloom of youth, honored them—the immeasurable Madhusudana—sporting with them through the nights and dispelling their sorrows. Within their husbands, within the women themselves, and in all beings, the Lord—whose form is the Self—pervaded everything and remained established. Just as space, fire, earth, water, air, and the Self pervade all beings, so too did he, pervading all, remain established. At midnight, while Janardana was absorbed in the rasa dance, the demon Ariṣṭa arrived, terrifying the cowherds and their settlement. He appeared like a rain-laden cloud, with sharp horns and eyes like the sun; he tore up the earth’s surface with the blows of his hooves, causing great destruction. Licking his lips and crushing his jaws repeatedly, his tail agitated in fury, his shoulders bound with hardness. His hump was high and arched, impossible to surpass in size; his back and limbs smeared with dung and urine, he caused distress among the cows. With a hanging neck, facing forward, his face marked by blows against trees, the demon, taking the form of a bull, caused the cows to miscarry. Rushing violently, he always roamed the forests, destroying all. Upon seeing him, dreadful-eyed, the cowherds were seized with extreme fear. The cowherds and their wives cried out, “Krishna! Krishna!” Then Keshava made a lion’s roar and struck his palm. Hearing that sound, Ariṣṭa approached Damodara, lowering his horns in front, his gaze fixed on Krishna’s chest. The wicked-souled demon, in the form of a bull, charged. Seeing the mighty demon-bull approaching, Krishna stood firm. He did not move from his place, out of playful disdain and with a smile. As Ariṣṭa drew near, Madhusudana seized him as a lion does its prey. He struck Ariṣṭa’s belly with his knee, holding his horns unmoved. Having subdued his pride and strength, Krishna grasped his horns, pressed Ariṣṭa’s neck as if wringing a wet garment, tore off one of his horns, and struck him with it. The great demon died, vomiting blood from his mouth. When the demon was slain, the cowherds praised Janardana, just as the gods once praised Indra when Jambha was killed. When Kakudmin was slain, Ariṣṭa destroyed, Dhenuka struck down, Pralamba killed, and Govardhana Hill held aloft; when Kāliya the serpent was subdued, the two tall trees broken, Pūtanā slain, and the cart overturned—Nārada told Kaṃsa, in sequence, all that had occurred, beginning from the exchange of Yaśodā and Devakī’s wombs, without omission. Hearing all this from Nārada, who had come from seeing the gods, Kaṃsa, that wicked-minded one, became enraged at Vasudeva. In great anger, he reproached Vasudeva in the assembly of all the Yādavas, reviled the Yādava clan, and pondered what action to take. He thought, “Before Balarāma and Kṛṣṇa, still young boys, gain strength, I must slay them; once they reach maturity, they will be impossible to defeat. Cāṇūra, of great prowess, and Muṣṭika, of immense strength—by these two, I will have those arrogant boys killed in a wrestling match. Under the pretext of the grand bow festival, I will bring them from Vraja, and in such a way, I will ensure their destruction.