In the peaceful land of Vraja, Nanda was entrusted with a special charge by a loving voice: “There too is my own child, born of Rohiṇī; you must protect him just as you do your own son.” With this sacred duty in mind, the cowherds, led by Nanda, gathered their belongings, loaded them onto their sturdy carts, paid their taxes, and set forth, strong and united. As they settled in Gokula, a shadow fell upon their joy. Pūtanā, the dreadful child-killer, crept in the night to where the infant Kṛṣṇa lay sleeping. She took him in her arms and offered him her breast, as she had done to so many before—each child who fed from her perished within moments. But Kṛṣṇa, divine even in infancy, seized her firm breast with his tiny hands. Filled with righteous anger, he drank not only her poisoned milk but her very life itself. With a terrible, piercing cry, Pūtanā’s massive form convulsed. Her limbs slackened, and she fell lifeless to the ground—a sight so fearsome that all who beheld her were struck with terror. Awakened by the dreadful sound, the people of Vraja rushed to the scene and saw the miraculous: little Kṛṣṇa, safe in the lap of the fallen demoness. Yaśodā, trembling with fear for her beloved child, quickly took him up and waved a cow’s tail over him, seeking to ward off any lingering evil. Nanda, too, acted with devotion—he placed sacred cow dung on Kṛṣṇa’s head and performed a rite of protection. With heartfelt prayers, he invoked the blessings of Hari, from whose navel-lotus the world arose; Keśava, who as the Boar upheld the earth; Keśava again, the all-pervading Narasiṃha who destroyed his enemy with sharp nails; Vāmana, who became Trivikrama and strode across the three worlds; and Govinda, Viṣṇu, Janārdana, and Nārāyaṇa, each to guard different parts of the child’s body. He prayed further that all enemies—Piśācas, Kūṣmāṇḍas, and Rākṣasas—be destroyed by the divine sound of the conch and the power of Viṣṇu’s weapons. He invoked Vaikuṇṭha’s protection in all directions, Madhusūdana’s in the intermediate spaces, Hṛṣīkeśa’s in the sky, and the Lord of the Earth’s on the ground. Only after these sacred rites did Nanda lay Kṛṣṇa to sleep beneath a cart, on a bed prepared for him. The cowherds, having witnessed the enormous and dreadful corpse of Pūtanā, were filled with awe and fear. Yet life in Gokula continued. One day, as little Madhusūdana lay beneath the cart, he became restless, seeking his mother’s milk. Crying, he kicked his feet—and with that single blow, the great cart was overturned, its pots and vessels shattered, tumbling in the opposite direction. Alarmed by the crash, the cowherds and their wives rushed to the spot, only to find the child lying peacefully on his back. They asked in astonishment, “By whom has the cart been overturned?” The boys who had witnessed it exclaimed, “This child did it!” Wonder and amazement filled their hearts. Even Nanda, deeply astonished, lifted the child in his arms. Yaśodā and the other women climbed onto the cart to collect the scattered vessels, then worshipped the cart with offerings of curds, flowers, fruits, and unbroken grains, seeking to restore auspiciousness. Meanwhile, prompted by Vasudeva, the wise sage Garga came quietly to Gokula. In secret, among the cowherds, he performed the naming rites for the two boys. He named the elder “Rama” and the younger “Krishna,” bestowing these names with great discernment. As time passed, the two boys began to crawl about on their knees, exploring all of Vraja. Their bodies, smeared with cow dung and ashes, bore the marks of playful wandering. Neither Yaśodā nor Rohiṇī could restrain their lively spirits. They played in the cowpens and wandered into the calves’ enclosure, tugging at the tails of the newborn calves, delighting in their mischief. Whenever Yaśodā found the two boys playing together, she was unable to keep them in check, so restless and spirited were they. At times, exasperated, she would approach Kṛṣṇa, her lotus-eyed son, with a stick in hand and scold him sternly for his mischief. “If you are able, go on with your restless mischief!” she would say, before returning to her household duties. But Kṛṣṇa, undeterred, found new adventures. One day, while still bound at the waist with a rope to a mortar, he began to drag the heavy mortar behind him. He squeezed between two tall arjuna trees, and as the mortar caught, the great trees came crashing down, their high branches breaking with a thunderous sound. The people of Vraja, startled by the noise, rushed to the scene and found the two mighty trees fallen. There, between them, stood the bright-smiling child, his first small teeth just visible, bound at the waist with a rope. From that day, he was lovingly called Dāmodara—he who is tied at the waist. But the elders of Vraja, led by Nanda, grew anxious. They gathered together, deeply alarmed by these strange and fearsome events. “There is nothing for us to do here,” they said. “Let us go to another great forest, for many calamities are seen here, causing destruction.” And thus, with hearts full of love and concern for their wondrous children, the people of Vraja prepared to journey onward, seeking safety and peace in a new land.