When Indra, the king of the gods, had come seeking Krishna’s assurance, Krishna spoke to him with gentle firmness: “You may go now, and do not grieve for your son. No enemy of Arjuna will prevail against him while I am present. For Arjuna’s sake, when the war of the Bharatas is over, I will return all the sons, led by Yudhishthira, unharmed to Kunti.” Hearing these words, Indra, filled with relief and gratitude, embraced Krishna—Janārdana—and then mounted his mighty elephant Airavata, returning to his heavenly realm. With Indra’s departure, Krishna, accompanied by the cows and the cowherds, made his way back to Vraja, following the path sanctified by the loving glances of the gopīs. Soon after, the cowherds, their hearts overflowing with affection, approached Krishna, the doer of flawless deeds, who had just lifted the Govardhana mountain and shielded them from peril. “O mighty-armed one,” they said, “you have protected us and our cows from great danger by your wondrous act of holding up the mountain. Such playful acts and your life as a cowherd seem unworthy of your true nature. Your deeds are divine—what is the meaning of all this, dear one? Please tell us.” They continued, “You subdued Kāliya in the waters, you struck down Pralamba, you lifted Govardhana—these feats trouble our minds, for they are beyond the power of mortals. Truly, O Hari of immeasurable might, when we see these acts, we cannot believe you are merely human. O Keśava, the love of all the women and children of Vraja is with you! Yet these deeds are impossible even for all the gods together. Your childhood, your extraordinary strength, and your birth among us are all 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 kinsman; we offer you our salutations.” Krishna listened to them, remaining silent for a moment, his face showing a touch of affectionate displeasure. Then, with warmth, he replied, “O cowherds, if your relationship with me is true, if you do not feel ashamed before me, or if I am not worthy of your respect, then what use is there in such deliberation? If you have affection for me, if I am worthy of your regard, 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 own kin—there is no need to think otherwise.” Hearing these words of Hari, the cowherds fell silent, their hearts touched by his gentle reproach, and they wandered off into the forest. Meanwhile, Krishna gazed upon the clear sky, bright as the autumn moon, and the blooming kumudini flowers, their fragrance filling all directions. He saw the beautiful rows of trees and the swarms of humming bees, and, with the cowherd women, his mind turned toward delight. Together with Balarama, ever sweet and pleasing to the women, Krishna, the son of Śūra, began to sing melodious notes, accompanied by various instruments. The enchanting sound of Krishna’s song reached the cowherd women, and they quickly left their homes, hurrying to where Madhusūdana was. One sang softly in time with him, another listened with rapt attention, while yet another simply remembered him in her heart. One, murmuring “Krishna, Krishna,” became bashful; another, blinded by love, went to his side without shame. Some remained inside their houses, seeing their elders outside, but absorbed in him, they meditated on Govinda with closed eyes. Their joy in thinking of Krishna grew so great that all their accumulated merit was exhausted; and, with all sins dissolved in the deep sorrow of his absence, they were left bereft. Among them, one cowherd maiden, contemplating the creation of the universe and the Supreme Brahman in his true form, attained liberation, her breath stilled in perfect peace. Surrounded by the gopīs, Govinda honored the night, as delightful as the autumn moon, his heart eager for the joy of beginning the rāsa dance. The gopīs, in groups, imitated Krishna’s actions, their forms shaped by his playful spirit. When Krishna slipped away elsewhere, they wandered through the inner parts of Vṛndāvana, longing for him. In his absence, restraining their aching hearts, they spoke to one another in playful imitation: “I am Krishna—see this charming gait of mine!” said one. Another proclaimed, “Listen to my song, the song of Krishna!” Yet another called out, “Wicked Kāliya, stay here! I am Krishna!” and, striking her arm, she mimicked all his playful airs. One declared, “O cowherds, do not fear—stay here without worry! I have held up Govardhana; there is no need to fear the rain.” Another, imitating Krishna, said, “I have cast down Dhenuka; now I roam as I please.” Thus, as the gopīs busied themselves with various imitations of Krishna’s deeds, they wandered together through the lovely groves of Vṛndāvana. Then, one among them, foremost and radiant, saw the ground and, her whole body bristling with joy and her lotus eyes wide, exclaimed, “Look at these footprints, marked with the banner, thunderbolt, goad, and lotus—these are the steps of Krishna, adorned by his playful gait. Some fortunate, graceful maiden has gone with him; see her footprints, close and slender, beside his. Here, Damodara surely picked flowers for her, for only the front part of his great footprints are seen here. Here she sat with him, adorned with flowers; in a former birth, she must have worshipped Viṣṇu, the soul of all. Having honored her with a garland of flowers, the son of Nanda went on this path—look!” She pointed out, “Another, unable to keep up in the procession, slowed by the weight of her hips, hastened as best she could, her toes barely touching the ground.” Thus, in the fragrant, moonlit groves of Vṛndāvana, the gopīs, their hearts overflowing with love and longing, wandered in search of Krishna, their every thought and action shaped by his divine play.