Kaṃsa, the tyrant king, was gripped by fear and desperation. He summoned his wrestlers and spoke with urgency, promising them rewards if they could defeat his formidable enemies in battle. “If you destroy them in combat,” he declared, “I will grant you whatever desires you wish. Otherwise, these two are exceedingly strong.” He pressed them further, insisting, “Whether by fair means or foul, those two, my enemies, must be killed by you. From their death, you will gain fame or at least a common reward.” With these grim instructions, Kaṃsa turned to the elephant keeper. In a loud voice, he ordered, “Let the elephant stand at the entrance to the wrestling arena.” He specified, “Kuvalayāpīḍa must be stationed there, and those cowherd boys, arriving at the arena gate for combat, must be killed.” After issuing these commands and seeing the seats prepared, Kaṃsa, sensing his own impending doom, anxiously awaited the sunrise. As dawn broke, the citizens filled the seats, and kings with their attendants took their places on the royal platforms. Kaṃsa arranged the wrestlers and spectators near the center of the arena, while he himself took position on a lofty platform. Special platforms were prepared for the women of the inner chambers, for chief courtesans, and for the city ladies. Nanda, the cowherds, and others were set on different platforms; Akrūra and Vasudeva stood at the edge. Among the city women was one, her heart yearning to see Devakī’s son. Even in this moment of tension, she kept her gaze fixed, thinking, “I will see my son.” The arena resounded with the music of instruments as Cāṇūra leapt about, and the crowd, filled with shouts and cries, watched as Muṣṭika struck his hands together in anticipation. Then, the two heroes—Balabhadra and Janārdana—slightly smiling, dressed as cowherds and still boys, approached the entrance of the arena. At that moment, Kuvalayāpīḍa, urged by the chief mahout, rushed swiftly to kill the two cowherd boys. A great uproar arose in the arena, and Baladeva, seeing his younger brother, spoke: “This elephant, O greatly fortunate one, incited by the enemy, must be slain.” Thus addressed by his elder, Mādhava, destroyer of enemy heroes, let out a lion’s roar. Grasping the elephant’s trunk with his hand, Krishna, mighty as Airāvata, whirled Kuvalayāpīḍa about with tremendous strength. The Lord of all worlds, still in the guise of a playful boy, sported for a long time between the elephant’s tusks. Then, with his right hand, Krishna tore out the left tusk and struck the mahout, shattering his head into a hundred pieces. At that moment, Balabhadra also tore out the right tusk and, enraged, struck the elephant keepers nearby. Leaping swiftly, the mighty son of Rohiṇī struck the elephant’s head with his left foot in anger. Struck thus by Balabhadra in sport, the elephant fell dead, like a mountain struck by Indra’s thunderbolt. Having slain Kuvalayāpīḍa, their bodies smeared with blood and ichor, and armed with the best of elephant tusks, Balabhadra and Janārdana entered the great arena, gazing about with playful pride like two lions among deer. A great outcry arose in the vast arena as people marveled, exclaiming, “This is Krishna, and that is Balabhadra!” They recalled: “This is he by whom the dreadful, child-killing Putana was slain; by whom the cart was hurled, and the twin Arjuna trees were broken. This is the boy who subdued the serpent Kaliya by climbing upon him; who held up the great mountain Govardhana for seven nights. Arishta, Dhenuka, and Keshi—those wicked ones—were effortlessly slain by this high-souled one; behold, this is Achyuta. And here is his mighty-armed elder brother, Balabhadra, proceeding ahead with playful ease, a delight to the eyes and hearts of women. This very one is proclaimed by the wise, skilled in the meaning of the Purāṇas, as the cowherd who will uplift the Yadava lineage, now sunk low. Indeed, he is a great portion of Vishnu, the source of all beings, descended to earth, surely to relieve the burden of the world.” As the townspeople praised Rama and Krishna, Devakī’s heart swelled with emotion, her breast moist with affection for her sons. Vasudeva, upon seeing his sons’ faces, felt rejuvenated, as if old age had left him. The women of the royal inner chambers gazed with wide, unblinking eyes, and the city ladies could not cease looking at Krishna. They said to one another, “Friends, look at Krishna’s face, with its deeply reddish eyes, adorned with drops of sweat from the exertion of the elephant fight. We see his face like a blooming autumn lotus, moistened with water, standing above all; let our eyes be fulfilled by this birth. Behold, O beautiful one, the great splendor of the boy marked with the Srivatsa; his chest, the destroyer of foes, and his pair of arms. Why do you not see Balabhadra, whose form is white as milk, the moon, and lotus stalks, now arrived wearing blue garments? See Balabhadra playing, O friend, with Mustika and Chanura, and behold the smile of Hari. Friends, look—Hari approaches Chanura for wrestling; there is no hesitation here—are the elders permitting this?” Thus, the entire arena was alive with wonder and anticipation, as Krishna and Balabhadra prepared to face their adversaries, their divine presence filling all hearts with awe and joy.