In the midst of great turmoil, the Lord spoke with a heavy heart: “How can I even ask about our own well-being, when our family is suffering so deeply? Kamsa, our own maternal uncle, rules over us and our people, casting a shadow over our happiness.” Reflecting on his parents’ plight, he continued, “Alas, how much hardship my noble parents have endured because of us! For our sake, their sons were slain, and for our sake, they were imprisoned.” Yet, with gratitude, he added, “By good fortune, today I see my own people, just as I have longed to, O gentle one. Tell me, dear friend, what brings you here?” Śuka then narrated how, when questioned by the Blessed Lord, Mādhava recounted everything: the bitter enmity among the Yadus, and Kamsa’s relentless desire to destroy Vasudeva. Mādhava explained the message he had been sent to deliver, the purpose of his journey as a messenger, and how Nārada had revealed to Kamsa the birth of Anakadundubhi’s son. Hearing Akrura’s words, Krishna and Balarāma, the mighty subduers of enemy warriors, smiled and informed their father Nanda of the king’s command. Nanda then gave instructions to the cowherds: “Gather all the milk and dairy products. Collect gifts for offerings, and yoke the wagons.” He announced to the settlement, “Tomorrow we will go to Mathurā, offer our produce to the king, and witness the great festival, for people from all the countryside are said to be going.” When the cowherd women heard this, their hearts were seized by distress, for they knew that Akrura had come to take Rāma and Krishna away to the city. Some, overwhelmed by sorrow, grew pale and sighed deeply; others let their garments, bangles, and hair-braids slip loose in their grief. Some, lost in thoughts of Krishna, abandoned their daily tasks, unaware of the world around them, as if they had retreated into their own hearts. Others, recalling Śauri’s loving smiles and sweet words, were left bewildered, their minds captivated by the charm of his speech. They remembered his graceful walk, his playful gestures, his affectionate smiles and glances, the jokes that dispelled their sorrow, and all his delightful deeds. Thinking of Mukunda, tormented by the fear of separation, they gathered in groups, their faces streaked with tears, and spoke, their hearts fixed on Acyuta. “O Creator,” they cried, “how merciless you are! After uniting embodied beings in friendship and love, you tear them apart before their desires are fulfilled—just as a child’s playthings are snatched away. You showed us Mukunda’s face, framed by his dark curls, with lovely cheeks, a raised nose, and a gentle smile that dispels all sorrow. Yet now you make him distant from us; this is not just. You are cruel, truly living up to the name Akrūra! You gave us eyes only to take away their joy, for through you we beheld the beauty of the enemy of Madhu, the perfection of all creation, gathered in one place. The son of Nanda, whose affection is so fleeting, no longer looks upon us, though we are tormented by our own actions. We left our homes, families, and husbands to serve him, yet now he has found new beloveds. Surely, for the women of that city, the night will pass in happiness and their wishes will be fulfilled, for they will gaze upon the face of the Lord of Vraja as he enters, drinking in the nectar of his sidelong, smiling glances. Mukunda, enchanted by their sweet, honeyed words, will be under their sway, though he is strong-willed. How will he ever return to us village women, who are bashful and bewildered by love? Today, surely, there will be a great festival for the Daśārhas, Bhojas, Andhakas, Vṛṣṇis, and Sātvatas. Those along the road will see the beautiful Lord, the abode of all virtues, the son of Devakī. Let the name Akrūra be given to one so pitiless as this! How cruel, that he, without comforting us in our deep sorrow, will take our dearest friend far away. He, with an unfeeling heart, has mounted the chariot, and the reckless urge him on. The cowherds, neglected by their elders, follow with their carts, while fate itself turns against us today. Let us go and stop Mādhava! What could our elders and relatives do for us, when, by fate, our hearts—unable to bear even a half-blink’s separation from Mukunda—are now shattered? We gopīs, whose hearts were stolen by his loving smiles, enchanting words, playful glances, embraces, and the joys of the rāsa dance—how can we cross this endless darkness of separation, even for a moment, without him? When, at day’s end, the friend of Ananta returns to Vraja, surrounded by cowherds, his hair dusted by their hooves, playing his flute, glancing with smiling eyes—how could we live if we were deprived of him?” Śuka continued, describing how the women of Vraja, their minds absorbed in Krishna and tormented by separation, cast aside their shyness and wept aloud, calling out, “Govinda! Dāmodara! Mādhava!” As the women wept and the sun rose, Akrura, having fulfilled his friendly duties, urged the chariot onward. The cowherds, led by Nanda and others, followed with their carts, bringing many gifts—jars filled with the bounty of the cows. The cowherd women, enchanted by their beloved Krishna, followed after him, longing for a sign from the Lord, standing and waiting in hope. Seeing them so afflicted as he departed, Krishna, the foremost of the Yadus, comforted them with loving words, sending assurances through messengers: “I will return.” As long as the banner on the chariot was visible and the dust could be seen, they continued to follow, their hearts drawn to him as if by painted images. When all hope of Govinda’s return was gone, they turned back; free from sorrow, they spent their days singing of their beloved’s deeds. O King, the Lord arrived, accompanied by Rama and Akrura, swiftly riding in the chariot to the purifying waters of the Yamuna. There, after rinsing his mouth and drinking the clear, jewel-like water, Krishna approached a grove of trees with Rama and entered the chariot. Akrura, having bid them farewell and seated himself atop the chariot, went to the Yamuna’s pool and performed ritual bathing. Immersing himself in those sacred waters and reciting the eternal Brahman, Akrura beheld Rama and Krishna together within the water. He wondered in amazement, “How are the sons of Devaki here in the water, when they should be on the chariot?” Rising up, he looked for them, and there again, as before, he saw them seated. He submerged himself once more, questioning whether his vision of them in the water was false. Once again, he beheld the great Lord, praised by Siddhas, Charanas, Gandharvas, and Asuras with bowed heads and musical instruments. Before him appeared the divine one with a thousand heads, crowned with a thousand serpent hoods, clad in blue garments, shining white like the snowy peaks—a wondrous vision that filled Akrura’s heart with awe and devotion.