Then, as Śrī Parāśara described, Indra took a golden vessel from his mighty elephant Airāvata and, filling it with pure water, performed the sacred anointing of Krishna. At that very moment, as the holy rite was underway, the cows themselves poured forth streams of milk upon the earth, as if in joyful celebration. At the request of the cows, Indra anointed Upendra Janārdana—Krishna—with heartfelt reverence. Having completed this act, Indra, filled with affection and humility, spoke again to Krishna. “O greatly fortunate one,” he said, “the desire of the cows has been fulfilled. Now, hear another matter from me, for I wish to help relieve the burden of the earth. A portion of myself has descended to earth as Arjuna. He must always be protected by you, O sustainer of the world. This hero will aid you in lightening the earth’s load; protect him, O Madhusudana, as you would protect your own self.” Hearing this, the Blessed Lord replied, “O descendant of Bharata, I know well that Partha, born from your portion, has appeared on earth. As long as I remain here, I shall protect him. While I am present, O Indra, no one will defeat Arjuna in battle. Kamsa, the mighty demon, as well as the asura Ariṣṭa, Keśī, Kuvalayāpīḍa, Naraka, and others—when these are slain, a great battle will follow. Know, O thousand-eyed one, that then the earth’s burden will be lifted. So you may return; do not grieve for your son, for no enemy will prevail against Arjuna while I am here. For Arjuna’s sake, I shall return all the sons, led by Yudhishthira, unharmed to Kunti when the war in Bharata is over.” Śrī Parāśara continued: Thus addressed, the king of the gods embraced Janārdana, mounted Airāvata, and returned to his heavenly abode. Krishna, meanwhile, returned to Vraja with the cows and cowherds, traveling along the path sanctified by the loving glances of the gopīs. When Indra had departed, the cowherds, witnessing Krishna’s miraculous feat of holding up Govardhana mountain, gathered around him with affection. “O mighty-armed one,” they said, “you have protected us and our cows from great danger by holding up the mountain. Such acts are not the play of a child or a mere cowherd. What is the meaning of all this, dear Krishna? Please tell us. You subdued Kāliya in the water, struck down Pralamba, and lifted Govardhana—these deeds fill our minds with wonder and unease. Truly, O Hari of immeasurable might, seeing your acts, we cannot think of you as a mere human. O Keśava, though the love of the women and children of Vraja is yours, these feats are impossible even for all the gods together. Your childhood, your extraordinary strength, and your birth among us—all are wondrous. O unfathomable one, pondering these things brings us doubt. Whether you are a god, a demon, a yakṣa, or a gandharva—what does it matter to us? You are our own kinsman; our salutations to you.” Krishna listened in silence for a moment, showing a hint of affectionate displeasure. Then he spoke gently to the cowherds, “If, because of your closeness to me, you do not feel awe or I am not worthy of respect, then what use is there in such questioning? If you truly have affection for me, if I am dear to you, then let your understanding of me be as of a true kinsman. I am not a god, nor a gandharva, nor a yakṣa, nor a demon. I am born as your kinsman—there is no need to think otherwise.” Hearing these words of Hari, the cowherds fell silent, their hearts touched by his affectionate rebuke, and they went into the forest. Krishna, meanwhile, beheld the clear sky, bright as the autumn moon, and the blooming kumudini flowers that filled all directions with fragrance. He saw the beautiful rows of trees and the swarms of humming bees, and, with the cowherd women, his mind turned toward delight. Along with Rāma, ever pleasing to the women, the son of Śūra sang melodious notes, accompanied by various instruments. The sweet sound of Krishna’s song reached the ears of the cowherd women, who quickly left their homes and hurried to where Madhusūdana was. One sang softly in time with him, another listened with rapt attention, and yet another remembered him silently in her heart. One, murmuring “Krishna, Krishna,” became bashful; another, blinded by love, went to his side without shame. One remained indoors, seeing her elders outside, but absorbed in him, she meditated on Govinda with closed eyes. As their joy in thoughts of him swelled, the store of their merit was exhausted; and, with all sins dissolved in the great sorrow of his absence, they were left bereft. One cowherd maiden, contemplating the creation of the universe and the Supreme Brahman in his true form, attained liberation, her breath stilled. Surrounded by the gopīs, Govinda honored the night, as delightful as the autumn moon, eager for the joy of beginning the rāsa dance. The gopīs, in groups, imitated Krishna’s actions, their forms shaped by his play. When Krishna went elsewhere, they wandered through the inner parts of Vṛndāvana. With Krishna gone, restraining their hearts, they spoke to one another: “I am Krishna—see this charming gait of mine!” Another said, “Listen to my song, the song of Krishna!” Yet another declared, “Wicked Kāliya, stay here! I am Krishna!” and, striking her arm, she took on all the playful airs of Krishna. Thus, in love and longing for Krishna, the gopīs imitated his every deed, their hearts wholly absorbed in him.