See, friend! Look closely at this one—she is being led by the hand, her delicate palm resting in his grasp. Her footprints in the dust show she is not walking on her own; she is gently guided along. By the mere touch of his hand, this clever maiden has been slighted, her steps slow and uncertain. The marks in the earth reveal she walks disheartened and hopeless, her spirit subdued. Surely, she must have said, “Let me hurry and return to you soon.” It was Krishna who hastened along this path, guiding her steps. As Krishna entered the dense thicket, his footprints vanished from view, swallowed by the shadows where even the moonlight cannot reach. “Let us turn back,” they said, for the silver glow does not pierce this place. Disappointed at not finding Krishna, the gopis turned back from the thicket. They returned to the banks of the Yamuna, their hearts aching with longing, and there they sang out their yearning in sweet, plaintive melodies. Soon after, the gopis beheld Krishna himself approaching. His face glowed like a lotus in bloom, radiant with divine beauty. Effortlessly, the protector of the three worlds came toward them, his presence filling them with joy. One gopi, overwhelmed at the sight of Govinda, could only cry out in bliss, “Krishna! Krishna!”—her voice unable to utter any other word. Another, arching her brow and tracing a mark upon her forehead, gazed intently at Hari. With eyes like bees drawn to honey, she drank in the sight of his lotus-like face. Yet another, upon seeing Govinda, closed her eyes and meditated on his form, appearing absorbed in deep yoga. Mādhava, the gentle enchanter, won over some with loving words, others with playful glances from his arched brows, and yet others with the touch of his hand. With their minds enchanted and delighted, these gopis joined Hari, the noble-hearted, as he respectfully played with them in the circle of the rāsa dance. Even as the rāsa circle was formed, the gopis, eager to be close to Krishna, did not stay fixed in one place. Hari, taking each gopi by the hand, led them in the dance. The touch of his hand made their eyes close in bliss. The dance resounded with the jingling of anklets, accompanied by waves of song and music. The gopis sang of Krishna, of the autumn moon, of the moonlight and the lotus pond, but always, again and again, Krishna’s name was on their lips. As they spun and sang, one gopi, tired from turning, rested her vine-like arm on the shoulder of the slayer of Madhu, her anklets chiming softly. Another, her arms shining, embraced and kissed him, skillfully praising Madhusudana with songs and hymns. As one gopi pressed her cheek to Hari’s, her arms broke out in goosebumps, and sweat gathered densely upon her skin. The rāsa song soared, the sound of “Krishna” rising ever higher, their voices blending in threefold praise: “Krishna, Krishna!” When Krishna moved away, the gopis followed, turning toward him, approaching him both with and against the flow of the dance. Thus, together with the cowherd women, Madhusudana delighted, so that a single moment passed as if it measured ten million ages. Though restrained by husbands, fathers, and brothers, the cowherd women, fond of pleasure, enjoyed themselves with Krishna in the night. He, the slayer of Madhu, honored their youthful affection. His nature is immeasurable, and he delighted with them, passing the nights as if they were but fleeting moments. In their husbands, in those women, 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 beings, so too does he abide everywhere, permeating all. Then, Parāśara continued: Once, as dusk began to fall and Janardana was absorbed in the dance, Ariṣṭa, the demon in bull form, approached the cowherd settlement, striking terror into all. His body was dark as a rain cloud, his horns sharp and fierce, his eyes wild. He tore up the earth with his hooves, licking his lips again and again, his tail bristling with rage. His shoulders were tightly bound, and he moved with violent intent. With a great hump and immense, unstoppable strength, his body was smeared with dung and urine, causing distress among the cows. His neck drooped, his mouth was huge, his face bore wounds from trees, and he cast down the calves of the cows. This demon, cruel to ascetics, always roamed the forests, destroying them. Seeing this terrifying form, the cowherds and their wives, overwhelmed with fear, cried out, “Krishna! Krishna!” At once, Keśava let out a lion’s roar and struck his palm. Hearing that mighty sound, Ariṣṭa charged toward Dāmodara. With the tip of his horn pointed forward and his gaze fixed on Krishna’s belly, the wicked-souled demon rushed at him. Krishna, mighty in strength, did not move from his place but stood firm, a smile of disdain on his lips. As Ariṣṭa drew near, Madhusudana seized him as one would seize an attacker, struck his belly with his knee, and grasped his horn firmly. Breaking the demon’s pride and strength, Krishna squeezed Ariṣṭa’s neck as if wringing out a wet cloth. Tearing out one horn, he struck the demon with it. Ariṣṭa vomited blood from his mouth and died. When the demon was slain, the cowherds praised Janardana, just as the hosts of gods once praised Indra when Jambha was destroyed.