All the wondrous events that had recently taken place in Vraja—the slaying of the demoness Putana, the miraculous overturning of the cart, and the dramatic fall of the twin arjuna trees—had occurred without any ordinary cause, not by the force of wind or any other visible agency. These marvels left the people of Vraja both awed and cautious. Recognizing the signs and wishing for safety, all the inhabitants of Vraja resolved to leave their homes. Gathering their families, they urged one another, “Let us go quickly! Do not delay!” With this determination, the people of Vraja swiftly set out, loading their possessions onto their carts, driving their cattle before them, and shepherding their calves and children in close groups. In but a moment, the entire settlement was emptied—no people, no belongings remained. Only crows and their mates filled the abandoned place, their cawing echoing through the now-deserted village. Krishna, whose every action is effortless and whose mind is pure, gazed upon Vrindavana, intent on the well-being and growth of the cows. By his contemplation, even in the harshness of summer, fresh crops sprang up everywhere, as if the rainy season itself had arrived. Thus, all the people of Vraja settled in Vrindavana, arranging their carts and cattle in semicircular formations beneath the shade of the trees. There, Rama and Damodara—Balarama and Krishna—became cowherd boys. Together they wandered the pastures, delighting in childish play. They adorned themselves with crowns of peacock feathers and garlands of wild forest flowers, their flutes and leaf-instruments producing melodious sounds that filled the air. Their hair, dark as the wings of crows, framed their faces; they resembled the young sons of Agni, the fire god, as they laughed and played, displaying strength far beyond their years. As time passed in the great Vraja, the two boys grew to seven years of age and became full-fledged cowherds, protectors of the world’s cattle. Then, the rainy season arrived. The sky became thick with masses of clouds, and streams of water joined together, flowing as if to unite all directions. The earth, adorned with new, flourishing crops and teeming with insects born from Indra’s showers, shone like emerald inlaid with ruby. The rivers, now deep and brimming, appeared newly beautiful, just as the minds of the ill-mannered are transformed when they gain sudden wealth. Indra, the rain-god whose horses are never obstructed, did not shine forth clearly amidst the sullied clouds, just as the bold words of fools do not shine among the wise. Even with a mighty bow, Indra’s path in the sky was hidden, just as a king without discernment cannot properly acquire wealth. Upon the backs of the clouds, pure lines of cranes stood out, just as the conduct of a noble person shines amidst the actions of the wicked. The lightning, ever fickle, failed to bring stability to the sky, just as friendship offered to a noble soul by the wicked does not last. The paths through the land became unclear, covered by heaps of fresh grain, just as words can become obscure when their meaning changes. In these days, Krishna and Balarama, together with the other cowherd boys, delighted in singing and dancing, sometimes seeking shelter under trees when chilled by the rain. At times, they were adorned with garlands of kadamba flowers, or peacock feathers, or pigments from the nearby hills, appearing in ever-changing, delightful forms. Sometimes they slept on beds of leaves, sometimes wandered among the trees, and at times, when thunder rolled through the clouds, they cried out in fear. They praised the singing of their friends, imitated the cries of peacocks, and mimicked the speech of the cowherd women. One day, Bala and Keshava—Balarama and Krishna—while tending the cows together, wandered through the forest and arrived at a delightful grove of palm trees. In that grove dwelled the demon Dhenuka, who took the form of a fearsome ass and survived by devouring flesh. The cowherd boys, seeing the palm grove heavy with ripe fruit, were filled with longing and spoke eagerly, “O Rama! O Krishna! This place is always guarded by Dhenuka, and so the fruits remain here. See how their fragrance spreads far! We wish to taste these fruits—please, bring them down if you desire.” Hearing their request, Sankarshana—Balarama—along with Krishna, shook the trees, causing the ripe palm fruits to fall to the ground. The sound roused Dhenuka, the ass-demon, who, furious and difficult to approach, charged at them. Balarama met the demon’s attack and struck him powerfully on the chest with his two hind legs; yet, Dhenuka was not overcome by the blow. Seizing the demon, Balarama spun him around, and Dhenuka’s life left him in the air. With great force, Balarama threw the demon’s lifeless body onto the tallest of the grasses. A fierce wind then swept through the grove, causing yet more fruits to tumble down, just as a great wind scatters clouds. The other donkey-shaped demons, Dhenuka’s kin, rushed to the scene, but Balabhadra—Balarama—easily threw them all to the ground. In a moment, the earth was adorned with both ripe palm fruits and the bodies of the donkey-demons, shining more beautifully than ever before. Now, free from fear, the cows grazed happily in the palm grove, eating the fresh, untouched grass. The destruction of Dhenuka and his followers made the grove delightful to all the cowherds and women of Vraja. Filled with joy after this victory, the two sons of Vasudeva, Krishna and Balarama, went to the great banyan tree named Bhāṇḍīra. They called out to one another, sang, searched for trees, tended the cows at a distance, and called each other by name as they wandered about. With ropes for binding calves slung over their shoulders and garlands of forest flowers adorning their bodies, these great souls shone like young bullocks whose horns are just beginning to bud. Thus, Krishna and Balarama, ever radiant, continued their playful and wondrous days in Vrindavana, bringing delight and safety to all of Vraja.