Whenever Yashoda saw Krishna and Balarama playing together, she found herself unable to keep them in check, so lively and restless were they in their games. One day, Yashoda, her patience worn thin, took up a stick in anger and approached Krishna, whose eyes were as beautiful as lotus petals, scolding him with wrath. “If you are able, go on with your restless mischief!” she declared, and then, as a housewife, she returned to her own tasks. While Yashoda was busy, Krishna, dragging a heavy mortar behind him, wandered between the twin arjuna trees. As he pulled the mortar sideways between them, the high branches broke, and the two great arjuna trees came crashing down. Hearing the loud, thunderous sound, the people of Vraja rushed over, alarmed, and saw the mighty trees fallen. Amidst the fallen branches, they found little Krishna, his tiny new teeth shining in his bright smile, sitting between the trunks. He was bound by a rope around his waist, and thus he became known as Damodara, “the one bound by the belly.” All the elder cowherds, led by Nanda, gathered and discussed the terrible omen, greatly disturbed. They said, “There is nothing for us to do here; let us go to another great forest, for many calamities are seen here, causing destruction. The death of Putana, the overturning of the cart, and now the falling of the arjuna trees—all these have happened, and not because of wind or any natural cause.” Resolving to depart, the inhabitants of Vraja told their families, “Let us go quickly, do not delay.” At once, they set out with their carts and cattle, moving in groups, driving their calves and children. In a moment, their place in Vraja was emptied of possessions and people, and only crows and their mates remained, filling the space. Krishna, whose actions are effortless and whose mind is pure, contemplated Vrindavana, desiring the growth and well-being of the cows. Then, O wise one, even in the harsh summer, fresh crops sprang up everywhere, as if the rainy season had arrived. Thus, all of Vraja settled in Vrindavana, arranging their carts and cattle in semicircular formations. There, Rama and Damodara became cowherd boys, wandering together in the pastures, joyfully engaged in childish play. They adorned themselves with crowns of peacock feathers and garlands of wild flowers, playing flutes and leaf instruments, producing melodious sounds. With hair as black as crow’s wings, resembling young sons of fire, they laughed and played as they wandered, mighty in strength. As time passed, the two boys grew in the great Vraja. When they reached seven years of age, they became cowherds, protectors of the whole world. Then the rainy season arrived, the sky covered with masses of clouds, and streams of water flowed together, joining the directions. The earth, adorned with new, flourishing crops and filled with Indra’s insects, appeared like emerald decorated with rubies. The wandering rivers, deep with water, seemed to have gained new beauty, much like the minds of the ill-mannered upon gaining wealth. Indra, whose horses are never obstructed, did not shine forth amidst the sullied clouds, just as the words of fools, full of excessive boldness, do not shine in the presence of those skilled in debate. Even with a powerful bow, the path of Indra in the sky could not be attained, just as a king lacking discernment cannot properly acquire possessions. Upon the back of the clouds, the pure line of cranes shone brightly, just as the conduct of a noble person stands out amidst the actions of the wicked. Lightning, extremely fickle, did not bind stability in the sky, just as friendship offered to a noble man by a wicked person does not endure. The paths became unclear, covered by heaps of new grain, just as words, having acquired a different meaning, become obscure. At times, Krishna and Balarama delighted in singing and dancing with the cowherds; at other times, they sought shelter under trees, shivering from the cold. Sometimes adorned with garlands of kadamba flowers, sometimes wearing peacock feathers, sometimes decorated with various mountain pigments, they appeared in diverse ways. At times, they slept on beds of leaves; sometimes, they wandered among the trees; at times, when the clouds thundered, they cried out in fear. Sometimes, they praised the singing of other cowherds; sometimes, they imitated the cries of peacocks and the speech of cowherd women. Once again, Bala and Keshava, tending the cows together, wandered through the forest and arrived at a delightful grove of palm trees. In that palm grove lived the demon Dhenuka, who always ate the flesh of animals and had taken the form of an ass. Seeing the palm grove, abundant with ripe fruit, the cowherds, filled with longing, spoke with desire to obtain the fruit. “O Rama! O Krishna! This place is always guarded by Dhenuka; that is why these ripe fruits remain here. See the fruits of the palm trees and their fragrance spreading far; we wish to eat them—let them be brought down if you desire.” Hearing the words of the cowherd boys, Sankarshana, together with Krishna, caused the palm fruits to fall to the ground. Hearing the sound of the falling fruits, the wicked demon Dhenuka, difficult to approach and in the form of an ass, came in anger.