With the hearts of the gopīs overflowing with delight, Hari—the noble Lord Krishna—honored and played with them in the sacred circle of the rāsa dance. Though the circle was formed, the gopīs, ever eager for Krishna’s nearness, could not remain still in one place; their longing drew them ever closer to him. Gently, Krishna took each gopī by the hand, guiding them into the dance, their eyes closing in bliss at the touch of his lotus hand. The night air filled with the melodious sound of the rāsa, anklets jingling, voices rising in song and music, each following the next in joyful succession. As they danced, the gopīs sang of Krishna himself, of the autumn moon and its gentle light, of the lotus-filled ponds, but always, their voices returned to one name alone—Krishna. In the swirling dance, a gopī, weary from the turning and with anklets ringing, rested her vine-like arm upon the shoulder of the slayer of Madhu. Another, her arms shining, embraced and kissed him, praising Madhusudana with skillful songs and hymns. As a gopī pressed her cheek to Hari’s, her arms shivered with goosebumps, and sweat gathered densely in her joy. The rāsa song soared, the name 'Krishna' rising ever higher, their voices weaving together, echoing 'Krishna, Krishna' in threefold harmony. When Krishna would move away, the gopīs, unable to bear the distance, moved toward him, some flowing with, others against the circle, always seeking his presence. Thus, with the cowherd women, Madhusudana delighted; a single moment in his company stretched to feel like ten million ages. Though their husbands, fathers, and brothers tried to restrain them, the gopīs, enchanted by Krishna, spent the nights in his joyous company. Krishna, the slayer of Madhu, honored their youthful devotion, his own nature beyond measure, and with them, nights passed as fleeting moments. Yet, it was Krishna who pervaded all: within the husbands, the women, and every being, the Lord, whose form is his own essence, abided everywhere. Just as space, fire, earth, water, and air fill all beings, so too does Krishna, all-pervading. One evening, as dusk began to fall and Janardana was absorbed in the dance, a new terror approached the cowherd settlement—Ariṣṭa, a demon in the form of a monstrous bull. His body, dark as a rain cloud, gleamed with sharp horns and fierce eyes; he tore up the earth with his hooves, his tail bristling in rage, lips licked in anticipation, his shoulders bound tight with fury. With a massive hump, unstoppable in his might, his body smeared with dung and urine, Ariṣṭa drove the cows into distress. His neck drooped, his mouth gaped wide, and his face bore wounds from the trees he had ravaged; in his cruelty, he cast down the calves and was known for tormenting ascetics and destroying forests. Seeing this terrible demon, the cowherds and their wives were seized with fear and cried out, "Krishna! Krishna!" At once, Keśava let out a lion’s roar and struck his palm, the sound reverberating through the air. Hearing it, Ariṣṭa charged toward Dāmodara, his horn aimed at Krishna’s belly, eyes fixed with malice. But Krishna, mighty and serene, did not move, a smile of disdain upon his lips. As the demon bull drew near, Madhusudana seized him as one would seize an attacker, striking his belly with his knee and grasping his horn firmly. Krishna broke the demon’s pride and strength, wringing Ariṣṭa’s neck as if twisting out a wet cloth. Then, tearing out a horn, Krishna struck Ariṣṭa with it; the demon fell, vomiting blood, and died. With the demon slain, the cowherds praised Janardana, just as the hosts of gods once praised Indra after his victory over Jambha. Then, Śrī Parāśara recounted: When Kakudmat was killed, Ariṣṭa was slain, Dhenuka was cast down, Pralamba was ended, Govardhana Hill was upheld, the serpent Kāliya was subdued, Tungadruma’s arrogance was broken, Pūtanā was killed, and the cart was overturned—Nārada went to Kaṃsa and told him all that had transpired, beginning with the transfer of the embryo from Devakī to Yaśodā. Hearing these news from Nārada, who had come from the gods, wicked-minded Kaṃsa was seized with rage against Vasudeva. In his anger, he rebuked the Yādavas in their assembly, censured their clan, and pondered what must be done. He thought, "Before Rāma and Kṛṣṇa, still boys, grow strong and reach full youth, they must be killed by me, for once they are grown, they will be invincible. I shall arrange a wrestling match with Cāṇūra, of great might, and Muṣṭika, of immense strength, and have those boys killed. By inviting them from Vraja on the pretext of the great bow festival, I will ensure their end." Kaṃsa resolved, "I will send Akrūra, Śvaphalka’s valiant son and foremost among the Yadus, to Gokula to bring the two boys here. I will also send the fierce demon Keśin, who roams Vṛndāvana; there, with his great strength, he will kill them both. When they arrive, the elephant Kuvalayāpīḍa, driven by my chief mahout, will trample and kill the sons of Vasudeva, the cowherd boys." Thus, with dark intentions, Kaṃsa plotted the destruction of Krishna and Balarāma, setting in motion the next chapter of their divine play.