The cowherd girls of Vṛndāvana, their hearts brimming with devotion and playful affection, delighted in imitating Krishna’s wondrous deeds. One among them called out to the others, “O cowherds, do not be afraid—remain here without worry! I have lifted Govardhana; there is no need to fear the rain.” Another gopī, mimicking Krishna, declared, “I have cast down Dhenuka; now I wander as I please.” So, with laughter and joy, the gopīs busied themselves, reenacting Krishna’s pastimes as they wandered together through the enchanting groves of Vṛndāvana. As they roamed, a foremost gopī, her whole being thrilled with joy and her lotus eyes wide, gazed at the ground and spoke: “Behold these footprints, marked with the banner, thunderbolt, goad, and lotus—these are Krishna’s steps, adorned by his playful gait. Alongside his prints are those of a fortunate, graceful maiden—her slender footprints pressed close beside his. Here, Damodara must have picked flowers for her, for only the front part of his great footprints are visible. See, at this spot she sat with him, adorned with flowers; surely, in a former birth, she had worshipped Viṣṇu, the soul of all. Having honored her with a garland, the son of Nanda continued along this path—look!” She pointed further: “Another, unable to keep up, slowed by the weight of her hips, hurried as best she could, her toes barely touching the earth. See, friend! This one is led by the hand—her prints reveal she is not walking alone. By the mere touch of Krishna’s hand, this clever one has become shy; her footprints show she walks slowly, disheartened and uncertain. Certainly, she must have said, ‘Let me hurry and return to you soon.’ Krishna hastened along this path.” Suddenly, the prints vanished into a thicket. “Krishna has entered here,” the gopīs said, “and his footprints are no longer visible. Let us turn back; the moonlight cannot reach this place.” Disappointed at not finding Krishna, the gopīs returned to the bank of the Yamunā, where, overcome with longing, they began to sing of him. As their voices rose in song, Krishna himself approached, his face radiant like a lotus, effortlessly displaying the majesty of the protector of the three worlds. One gopī, overwhelmed with joy at the sight of Govinda, cried out, “Krishna, Krishna!”—unable to utter anything more. Another, arching her brow and marking her forehead, gazed at Hari, drinking in the lotus of his face with her bee-like eyes. Yet another, upon seeing Govinda, closed her eyes, meditating on his form as if absorbed in deep yoga. Mādhava, with loving words, gentle glances, and the touch of his hand, won over each gopī in her own way. Their hearts delighted, the gopīs joined Krishna in the circle of the rāsa dance, and Hari, noble and respectful, danced with them. Though the rāsa circle was formed, the gopīs, eager to be close to Krishna, could not remain still in one place. Hari took each gopī by the hand, forming the circle, their eyes closed in bliss from his touch. The rāsa dance resounded through the forest: anklets jingled, songs and music filled the air in sweet succession. The gopīs sang of Krishna, of the autumn moon, the moonlight, and the lotus pond—but always, Krishna’s name alone was repeated. As they spun in the dance, a gopī, tired and her anklets ringing, rested her vine-like arm on Krishna’s shoulder. Another, her arms shining, embraced and kissed him, praising Madhusudana with skillful song and hymn. As one pressed her cheek to Hari’s, her arms broke out in goosebumps and sweat gathered upon her skin. As the rāsa song rose higher, the sound of “Krishna” filled the night, their voices blending in threefold harmony. When Krishna moved through the dance, the gopīs followed, sometimes meeting him, sometimes flowing along with him. In this way, Madhusudana delighted with the cowherd maidens, and a single moment in their company seemed to stretch into ten million ages. Even though restrained by husbands, fathers, and brothers, the gopīs, yearning for joy, spent the night with Krishna. Honoring their youthful affection, Krishna, whose true nature is beyond measure, delighted with them, the nights passing as if they were but brief moments. In their husbands, in the gopīs, and in all beings, the Lord—whose form is his own essence—pervaded everything and abided everywhere. Just as space, fire, earth, water, and air pervade all things, so too does he, abiding everywhere and in all. Once, as dusk began to fall and Janardana was absorbed in the dance, a new terror approached the cowherd settlement. Ariṣṭa, the demon in bull form, came, casting a shadow like a rain cloud. With sharp horns and fierce eyes, he tore up the earth with his hooves, licking his lips in fury, his tail bristling, his shoulders bound tight, and his movements violent. His prominent hump and immense, unstoppable form were smeared with dung and urine, bringing distress to the cows. With a drooping neck, a huge mouth, and a face scarred from battles with trees, the fearsome demon began to cast down the calves of the cows, spreading fear throughout Vṛndāvana.