The Hāū Pastime

Unable to find a fitting comparison, the embarrassed goddess Sarasvatī could say only this within the heart of the poet who beheld the pastime: it was as though there were a swan and a peacock. The swan lifted a pearl with its lovely beak and placed it in its mouth, while the peacock seized a serpent. In just this way Balarāma ran up and caught the pearl ornament at the queen of Vraja's nose, while Kṛṣṇacandra seized the braid coiling down her back. The two brothers forced their mother to stop her household work at once. They had already called twice for butter and bread. Their mother heard them, but she delayed on the false pretext of work, savoring the nectar flowing from their sweet calls and thinking, “Let me see what they do when I do not answer.”

Rāma and Śyāma could not endure their mother's neglect. Going close, they caught her in this way and stopped her work. From a distance, Nanda watched the charming sight of his sons and doubled over with delight. A current of bliss also began to flow within the greatly blessed queen of Vraja, held fast by her sons. Ah, queen of Vraja, what kind of limitless treasury of merit must be yours to receive such a reward today?

Both brothers beg their mother, “Mother, give us butter and bread!”
She hears her sons' pleasing words but falsely hides herself behind household work.
Bala seizes the pearl at her nose, while prince Kānha firmly catches her braid.
They seem like a swan and peacock taking their prey, though the poet's comparison is far too small.
Seeing this, Nanda's heart fills with joy, and in supreme happiness he laughs until he rolls about.
Sūradāsa says: Yaśodā's heart rejoices. Her fortune is great and her store of merit immense.

The mother stopped her work, lifted both sons together into her lap, and carried them inside. She placed a well-cooked piece of bread and a bright lump of fresh butter in each boy's hand. Their delight knew no limit. Balarāma ran noisily and joyfully to Rohiṇī as soon as he received his bread, while Kṛṣṇacandra sat before his mother, absorbed in happiness, gazing at the butter-crowned bread. His palm was like a blooming lotus. Upon it lay the bread, and upon the bread a lump of butter bright as the white moon. No, it seemed that the moon itself had descended there, hiding beneath a covering of sunlight so that it might receive Kṛṣṇacandra's touch. Yet upon arriving it thought, “Is this truly Kṛṣṇacandra's palm? No, it is a blossoming lotus.” Then the moon remembered, “The lotus is my eternal enemy and does not delight in my face. Whenever I follow twilight onto the path of the directions, I find its eyes closed. It has never welcomed me, so why should I look upon its face?” Thus the moon covered its eyes. What appears to be bread is really the lid upon the eyes of the moon in the form of butter:

Butter and bread shine in Hari's hand.
Knowing the enmity between lotus and moon, the nectar-moon seems to have drawn a covering over itself.

Kṛṣṇacandra opened his mouth like the cup of a lotus and slowly carried the butter and bread inside, then looked toward his mother with delight. This beauty too was incomparable. Once again Sarasvatī's effort proved fruitless. She could find no adequate comparison, yet could not remain silent, and so a very crude image escaped her lips:

As he places the prepared morsel within his lotus mouth, a rough comparison arises:
it is as though the Boar held the earth together with its mountain upon the tip of his tusk.

After eating only one eighth of the bread, Kṛṣṇacandra threw down part of what remained and, carrying the rest in his hand, ran toward Rohiṇī while calling for Balarāma.

At the doorway Nanda waited, thinking, “My darling must be coming now after eating his butter and bread.” His wait ended. Kṛṣṇacandra arrived, caught hold of his father's garment, and said, “Father, you have not even eaten breakfast yet, while I have already eaten butter twice. Do you not feel hungry?” Even as he spoke, delight surged within them both and two streams began to flow in opposite directions: tears from Nanda's eyes, and dance from Kṛṣṇa's dark limbs. His father watched while wiping his eyes, and Kṛṣṇacandra danced. Light poured from his unclothed blue limbs, laughter rested upon his bandhūka-red lips, and, full of joy, he placed one hand upon the braid his mother had lovingly arranged and danced with every limb. Soaked in fresh butter and bathed in the nectar of Kṛṣṇa's lips, a piece of bread lay quietly on the bank of that flowing current of bliss:

Bare-bodied and smiling beside his father, he dances while holding his braid.
Sūra says: blessed is the morsel left by the Lord, gracefully wrapped in the moisture of his lips.

Still dancing, Kṛṣṇacandra set off toward Balarāma, then took him along toward the sandy riverbank. The cowherd companions quickly gathered. Running ahead and behind, they all assembled in the tamāla grove near the bank and began to play beneath the cool shade of the trees:

Clapping their hands, they run, each one striving to outdo the others.
Haladhara warns, “Śyāma, take care lest your feet be hurt.”
Then he says, “I know how to run, and my body is very strong.
Śrīdāmā is my match, yet he keeps striking with his hand.”
Śrīdāmā springs up and says, “Go on, clap and run!”
Hari runs ahead and Śrīdāmā behind, calling, “Catch Śyāma!”
“I knowingly stood still, so why did you touch me?”
Hari then grew annoyed with his friend and felt anger within his heart.

Not even half a ghaṭī had passed, yet for his mother this time without seeing Kṛṣṇa had already become equal to millions of ages. If the queen of Vraja had not borne responsibility for arranging the worship of the family deity Nārāyaṇa, she would simply have followed her son like a shadow. “To whom can I entrust this service? Who knows what lapse might occur and when? The welfare of my family and of my Nīlamaṇi depends solely upon Nārāyaṇa's pleasure. To have even the smallest part of his service performed by another would be the utmost ingratitude.” These thoughts alone restrained her. They might restrain her body, but Nīlamaṇi danced continuously in her mind. At times she became so absorbed in his mental image that she took it as entirely real and felt joy or sorrow through it. Only yesterday, the summer heat had raised a small whirlwind and the rows of trees shook violently. In Nanda's queen's mind, the dancing Nīlamaṇi became associated with that rush of wind. At the same time, prompted by similar circumstances, the stored memory of the demon Tṛṇāvarta rose within her inner awareness. Then she forgot reality and began directly seeing Tṛṇāvarta's violence unfold in the same sequence as before. That scene once again danced before her eyes:

Dust filled sky and earth, and the trees were shattered.
By the fierce dark storm, even the divisions of the directions seemed erased.
No one could see. Behold that wicked, powerfully embodied demon!
He made a terrible sound, like the roar and crash of thunder.
The cowherds, stricken with fear and pain, rushed anxiously among the herds.
Seeing calamity among the cowherd boys, the cowherd folk became distraught.
Proudly regarding the child's form, the demon had gone far away.
In fury he lifted Nanda's darling and carried him into the sky.

The mother cried, “Alas, alas!” and ran. But at that very moment Kṛṣṇacandra, who had been playing nearby, came there and called out, “Mother, my ball fell into the garden pond. Give me another ball.” A stream of nectar flowed from that sound and swept away her false dream. She pressed Nīlamaṇi to her heart and thrilled with joy. In the same way, when Kṛṣṇa goes outside to play, a happy memory of the past is sometimes awakened by a similar stimulus and becomes so vivid in his mother's mind that she feels it is actually happening at that very moment. She even begins to act accordingly. One recent day was the eighth lunar day of Vaiśākha. Surrounded by the beautiful women of Vraja, the queen of Vraja was worshiping Aparājitā. The thought of this eighth day awakened in those women the memory of the eighth day of Bhādrapada. In the midst of worship they began calculating how long remained until Kṛṣṇacandra's second birthday. They counted the days, while his first birthday danced before the queen of Vraja's eyes. In a moment her awareness reached that birth festival and became so immersed in it that queen Yaśodā felt herself seated once again in the maternity chamber. She saw an immense crowd of thousands upon thousands of Vraja's beautiful women, arrayed in auspicious finery and many ornaments, surging toward her to see her newborn child:

Hearing of the beloved infant, dear women hasten to Nanda's abode,
their hands bearing weighty trays filled with auspicious gifts and joy.
Their spirited gait shines so proudly that intoxicated elephants would feel ashamed.
They are adorned with jewels and fabrics, resplendent in fragrant colors.
Their tender bodies are lovely vines, and their companions shine beside them.
Arm in arm they sway, young disciples in Love's own school.
The beauty of their limbs glows like the graceful arts of Kāma,
and their gentle smiles shine like vines of lightning.
Their mouths open under the sway of joy, putting the full moon to shame.
Bees hover for honey, valuing the treasure chambers of lotuses.
Pearl necklaces adorn their breasts, mansions filled with beauty.
A sweet music resounds from their jingling girdle bells.
Below the waist their lovely braids sway, bestowing radiance.
Their cuckoo-sweet voices sing songs pleasing to the ear.
They shimmer and shine. Who could see them and not be enchanted?
Hearing their music, even sages are moved as they gaze upon the lovely anklets.
“Come, behold the son whose splendor illumines like the moon.
Offer body, mind, and wealth, for the heart cannot leave the beloved.
Their faces remain fixed upon him, and their eyes desire nothing else.
Again and again they plunge into his beauty, yet never find its depth.”

“Sister Rohiṇī, open the door of the maternity chamber completely. Let all these women gaze upon my son to their hearts' content!” Abandoning the worship, the queen of Vraja suddenly spoke these words. The cowherd women burst out laughing, yet she still remained unaware. She sat quietly with the articles of worship in her hands, as though holding her son in her lap. The worship came to a halt, and the gopīs could think of no way to awaken queen Yaśodā. At last Rohiṇī ran off laughing, found Kṛṣṇacandra, drew him away from his play, and brought him back. Coaxing him, she said, “Dear Nīlamaṇi, look, your mother is sitting there offended with her worship. Take her chin and win her over, my darling!” Obeying mother Rohiṇī, Kṛṣṇacandra laid his dust-covered limbs across his mother's breast, took her chin, and said, “Mother, why are you angry with the worship?” Only then did she become aware of the actual situation. She too laughed, bathed again, and resumed the worship. Thus, whenever his mother must remain apart from Kṛṣṇa because she is engaged in an indispensable duty that cannot be done without her, remembrance of Kṛṣṇa alone sustains her life. Whenever the realization arises that her Nīlamaṇi is not beside her, a pang courses through her very life-breath. Therefore she has often coaxed and instructed him:

Mohana, do not go out of sight of these eyes even for a single moment.
I am devoted to you. Without seeing you, the stars of my eyes writhe in anguish.
Call your other friends and play here in this courtyard, my child.
Let me watch your lovely childhood games as a serpent watches its jewel.
Honey, dried fruits, cakes, sweets, and dishes sour, sweet, or salty:
Sūra's Śyāma, whatever you desire, ask me for it, my child.

Yet restless Kṛṣṇacandra always goes outside. His mother regards the service of the family deity Nārāyaṇa, and sometimes a few other necessary duties, as her highest responsibility and completes them properly though her mind is elsewhere. But the moment the task is finished, absorbed in thoughts of her unfledged chick, she sets out to find and see her Nīlamaṇi, like a mother dove flying swiftly toward her nest. Today too Nīlamaṇi has gone toward the Yamunā to play, and as soon as his mother completes Nārāyaṇa's service, she sets off in that direction. In her haste, the end of her veil slips from her head to her shoulder and her braid comes loose, but she notices nothing. Near the arched gateway she meets Sannanda's wife, who asks, “Sister, where are you going in such disarray?” But the mother has no time to stop and answer. Still walking, she says:

Hari has gone far away to play, dear sister.
They run and wander together. Tell me, has it not grown very late?

Beyond the garden, beneath a tamāla tree, she sees her Nīlamaṇi peacefully playing with Balarāma, Dāma, Sudāma, Vasudāma, Śrīdāma, and others, guarded by older companions such as Viśāla, Vṛṣabha, Jambī, Devaprastha, and Varūthapa. At this sight her heart grows cool and milk begins to flow from her breasts. She runs and clasps Kṛṣṇacandra to her heart. Today he too readily climbs into her lap, for he has become a little upset with his friends during their game. His mother looks first toward the forest and then toward the finial atop Nanda's palace. Ah, while playing, Nīlamaṇi has come so far today. Dense woodland lies ahead. What if some fierce beast has entered it? She trembles inwardly and thinks, “No, no. By whatever means, I must stop him from coming this far.” At once an idea occurs to her. Assuming a frightened expression, she exclaims:

Do not go far away to play, my darling. Hāū has come into the forest!

So, Hāū has come into the forest! Hearing his mother's words, Kṛṣṇacandra began to laugh and asked with a smile, “Mother, who sent Hāū?”

Then Kānha laughed and said, “Mother, who has sent Hāū?”

His mother thought, “My words have not had their full effect, for Nīlamaṇi is laughing, yet a trace of fear has certainly entered his eyes.” So she began inventing various details to describe to her son the terror of Hāū in the forest. Kṛṣṇacandra listened very attentively. This time her effort succeeded, and fear filled Nīlamaṇi's eyes. Seeing that the moment was favorable, she exclaimed, “My darling, come, let us quickly run home!” As soon as he heard this, Kṛṣṇacandra stood up from his mother's lap and began calling Balarāma near so that they could flee:

Come quickly, brother. Let us run straight home.
Sūra says: as soon as Śyāma heard these words, he called Balarāma.

From fear of him, fire gives heat; from fear of him, the sun shines.
From fear of him, Indra, the wind, and Death as the fifth hurry to perform their appointed work.
(Kaṭha Upaniṣad 2.3.3)

The revealed scriptures declare of him, “From fear of this Supreme Lord, fire continually gives heat; from fear of him, the sun shines; and from fear of him, Indra, the wind, and Death as the fifth hasten to perform their appointed tasks.” How wondrous, then, that the Supreme Brahman, the highest Person and Supreme Lord, should prepare to flee in fear of Hāū! O enjoyer of childhood pastimes, all glory to this pastime of yours that enchants the minds of the greatest yogīs and sages!

Thinking that she must take Kṛṣṇacandra home before his mood changed, mother Yaśodā prepared to leave quickly. Kṛṣṇacandra took her finger and began walking. At that very moment a strange radiance spread across Balarāma's face. Rays seemed to issue from all around his head, his voice became filled with supreme vigor, an extraordinary smile played upon his lips, and he began speaking without pause:

Śaṅkhāsura carried away the four Vedas and hid beneath the waters.
When you assumed the form of a fish and killed him, was Hāū anywhere there?
For the good of gods and demons, the ocean was churned, but Mount Mandara sank into its waters.
You assumed the form of a tortoise and bore it on your back, yet you saw no Hāū there.
When Hiraṇyākṣa, swollen with pride, desired battle,
you assumed the Boar form, slew him, and raised the earth upon the tip of your tusk.
When you took that formidable incarnation to save Prahlāda,
you tore open Hiraṇyakaśipu's body with your claws, yet saw no Hāū there.
Assuming the Dwarf form, you beguiled Bali and covered the earth in three strides.
Brahmā kept the water of your exertion in his water pot after seeing and touching your feet.
When the sage was slain though blameless and Kāmadhenu was taken away,
you rid the earth of kṣatriyas twenty-one times, yet saw no Hāū there.
When, in the form of Rāma, you slew ten-headed, twenty-armed Rāvaṇa,
and burned Laṅkā to ashes, you saw no Hāū there.
For the sake of devotees you assumed incarnations and swept away all the demons.
Sūradāsa says: the Vedas forever sing “not this, not this” before this pastime of the Lord.

Kṛṣṇacandra, have you forgotten that golden fish body of yours, one hundred thousand yojanas in extent? A great horn stood upon your body then, with Satyavrata's boat tied to it. The ocean of dissolution surged, and the vessel fastened to your horn sailed across its waves. Satyavrata sat aboard with the seven sages, the subtle bodies of all living beings, and every kind of seed, praising you while you sported in the ocean of dissolution. This continued until the night of Brahmā ended. When Brahmā awoke, you rushed toward the demon Hayagrīva, also called Śaṅkhāsura. While Brahmā slept, that demon had stolen the four Vedas, the revealed scriptures issuing from his mouth, and hidden with them in the waters of the netherworld. In your fish form you killed him:

In the waters of dissolution, when the Creator's power lay asleep, the Vedas were stolen from his mouths. The Lord slew the thief and restored that body of revelation.
(Śrīmad Bhāgavata 8.24.61)

There, in the demon's dwelling or anywhere in the ocean of dissolution, you found no Hāū. Tell me, was it anywhere? Remember also that other day. The ocean was about to be churned, but golden Mount Mandara began sinking beneath its own weight. The mighty gods and demons exerted all their strength, yet could not hold up Mandara, the churning rod, and the mountain sank. The gods' faces grew dejected. Then compassion arose in you. At once you assumed the form of a vast and wondrous tortoise, entered the waters, placed the sinking Mandara upon your back, and raised it up:

Assuming a vast and wondrous tortoise body, he entered the water and lifted the mountain.
(Śrīmad Bhāgavata 8.7.8)

Only then could the ocean be churned. Yet Hāū was nowhere to be seen even in that ocean. Never did I see Hāū near your back, which extended for one hundred thousand yojanas. Recall an event earlier still: that realm of Rasātala, with the earth resting upon the tip of the tusk of your formidable Boar form as you carried goddess Earth upward. Drunk with pride in his strength, Hiraṇyākṣa challenged you: “You fool, forest beast! This earth has become the property of Rasātala. Leave it. You base god in the form of a boar, I know that your strength is Yogamāyā. Apart from that, what prowess do you possess? Now there is no hope for your welfare. I shall end your life this very moment, and then the gods and sages will perish of themselves like trees severed at the root.” Kṛṣṇacandra, do you remember? First you placed the terrified goddess Earth above the water and infused her with your sustaining power. Then you mocked Hiraṇyākṣa and fought him for a while to fulfill his desire. He employed all his demonic sorcery, yet you remained unharmed. At last you struck him with one contemptuous slap. But that dismissive blow was death for the demon. His eyes bulged out, his body spun, and his arms, legs, and hair were thrown into disarray. Like a huge tree uprooted by a gale, Hiraṇyākṣa fell lifeless upon the earth:

Struck contemptuously by the conqueror of the universe, his limbs whirled and his eyes sprang out. With arms, legs, and hair scattered, he fell like a mighty mountain tree battered down by the wind.
(Śrīmad Bhāgavata 3.19.26)

Did you see Hāū anywhere in Rasātala then? Very well, let that pass too. Have you forgotten your fearsome Narasiṃha body? That immense form touched heaven. Its neck was somewhat short but immensely powerful, its chest exceedingly broad, and its waist slender. Hair bright as moonbeams glittered all over it, and hundreds of arms spread in every direction. Great claws upon them served as weapons. How terrifying were those yellow eyes like molten gold, your tongue flickering like a sword and keen as a razor's edge, your pair of ears raised upward, and your nose and mouth like mountain caves. In that dreadful form you emerged from within the pillar into the assembly, coming to make your servant's words true. Prahlāda had said, “My Lord is everywhere. He is in this pillar too.” Enraged by those words, the unbelieving Hiraṇyakaśipu was about to take his life. You therefore came to establish Prahlāda's statement as eternally true, destroy Hiraṇyakaśipu, and save Prahlāda. Hiraṇyakaśipu lunged at you, and you began to toy with him, but the gods were terrified. Reassuring them, you roared with laughter. Then, as effortlessly as a snake seizes a mouse, you caught Hiraṇyakaśipu's body, which even the thunderbolt could not wound. He thrashed in every direction to free that adamantine body from your grasp, but could not escape. You carried him to the doorway of the assembly hall, cast him upon your thighs, and, just as Garuḍa tears apart a deadly serpent in an instant, you playfully ripped open his body:

As he writhed all around in anguish beneath that grasp, Hari seized him like a serpent taking a mouse, though the thunderbolt could not pierce his skin. Casting him across his thighs in the doorway, the Lord playfully tore him open with his claws as Garuḍa rends a highly venomous snake.
(Śrīmad Bhāgavata 7.8.29)

Tell me, Kṛṣṇa, with the fierce eyes of that Narasiṃha form, did you see Hāū anywhere in the demon king's city? But let Hiraṇyakaśipu go as well. Remember the story of Bali, Prahlāda's great-grandson. In the form of Vāmana you approached Bhṛgukaccha. Bali's officiating priests saw you and thought that the sun illuminating all the worlds was rising. One, seeing you from afar, said, “It is Agni.” Another said, “No, it is Sanatkumāra.” Carrying an umbrella, staff, and a water-filled pot, you entered the sacrificial pavilion and asked Virocana's son for three paces of land. Teacher Śukra recognized you and tried with all his power to prevent his disciple Bali from vowing the gift. But that heroic demon king, steadfast in truth, made the vow. Then your dwarf body expanded and became so immense that earth, sky, directions, heaven, netherworld, oceans, animals, birds, humans, gods, and sages all entered within it. Bali clearly saw Rasātala beneath the soles of your feet and heaven in your head. He saw the entire world formed of the three guṇas abiding within you.

• Bhṛgukaccha is a place on the northern bank of the Narmadā. Bali's officiating priests were performing the sacrifice there.

After this, with one stride you measured all the earth ruled by Bali, and with the second you measured heaven. Not the slightest place remained for the third, for your second foot rose past Maharloka, Janaloka, and Tapoloka and reached Satyaloka above them all. Before the moonlike radiance of your toenails, Satyaloka's brilliance grew dim. Filled with delight, lotus-born Brahmā offered water for your feet and washed those feet adorned with drops of perspiration. By receiving that foot-washing water, the water remaining in Brahmā's vessel became holy, supremely holy. That water became the current of the celestial Gaṅgā. Falling through the path of the sky, it sanctified the three worlds. That stream, the embodiment of your stainless fame, purifies all three worlds to this day:

O king, the water in the Creator's vessel was sanctified by washing the foot of the Lord of mighty strides. Falling from the sky, it became the celestial river and cleanses the three worlds, like the Lord's own stainless fame.
(Śrīmad Bhāgavata 8.21.4)

Now tell me, Kṛṣṇacandra, while measuring the universe in two strides and placing the third upon Bali's head, did you find Hāū anywhere? Ah, you behave as though you have forgotten the countless severed heads of the kṣatriya clans and that dreadful torrent of blood. You descended as Paraśurāma and became the son of the sage Jamadagni. Sahasrārjuna, king of the Haihayas, had stolen your father's wish-fulfilling cow. Before anyone could grasp what had happened, you slew the immeasurably powerful Sahasrārjuna and brought Kāmadhenu back. But Sahasrārjuna's sons took an inhuman revenge. While you were away from the hermitage, those sons of Arjuna came. Your mother Reṇukā wept and pleaded with them, yet those villains cut off the head of the innocent Jamadagni and fled. Your axe then flooded the city of Māhiṣmatī with blood. In its square rose a mountain of the severed heads of ten thousand sons of Arjuna. At that time the entire kṣatriya order had become oppressive. For this reason you rid the earth of kṣatriyas twenty-one times, and at the holy Samantapañcaka in Kurukṣetra you made lakes filled with blood:

Having rid the earth of kṣatriyas twenty-one times, the Lord formed at Samantapañcaka lakes filled with blood, O king.
(Śrīmad Bhāgavata 9.16.19)

Tell me, then, did Hāū appear anywhere during that campaign of bloodshed? Very well, forget the form that destroyed the kṣatriya clans. Remember instead the form of Rāma, ornament of the kṣatriyas, jewel of the Raghu line, delight of the eyes, dark as a rain cloud. Son of Vraja's king, recall the pastimes of the son of Kauśalyā's lord: the courtyard of holy Ayodhyā, following Viśvāmitra with Lakṣmaṇa, protecting the sacrifice, breaking the bow at the svayaṃvara of Sītā, daughter of Janaka, choosing the infinitely virtuous Vaidehī as bride, crushing Paraśurāma's pride while returning to Ayodhyā, going to the forest at your father's command, Sītā's abduction, and building the bridge across the sea. Have you forgotten all these? Do you not remember the battle with ten-headed Rāvaṇa? Ah, in Laṅkā's battlefield, battered by your arrows, the lifeless bodies of Nikumbha, Kumbha, Dhūmrākṣa, Durmukha, Surāntaka, Narāntaka, Prahasta, Atikāya, Vikampana, Meghanāda, and Kumbhakarṇa lay fallen. Then the ten-headed one came. You released at him the arrow set upon your bow. It pierced even his thunderbolt-like heart, and streams of blood flowed from all ten mouths. Just as a being whose merit is exhausted falls from heaven, he fell from his aerial chariot, while townspeople and relatives cried out in anguish:

Thus he released the arrow fitted to his bow, and it pierced Rāvaṇa's heart like a thunderbolt. Vomiting blood from his ten mouths, he fell from the aerial car as the people cried, “Alas!” like one falling from heaven when emptied of merit.
(Śrīmad Bhāgavata 9.10.23)

Tell me, Kṛṣṇacandra, in the form of Śrī Rāmacandra you traveled all the way from Ayodhyā to Laṅkā. Did you see Hāū anywhere along that road?

In this way Balarāma, overcome by divine absorption, said a great deal. Mother Yaśodā listened with a touch of wonder. It seemed to her only that Balarāma, filled with enthusiasm, was singing the pastimes of her chosen deity Nārāyaṇa. She thought, “From time to time, during festivals of Nārāyaṇa, he has seen actors perform these pastimes and heard the songs of bards and heralds. This sharp-minded child has remembered them.” Laughing, she wiped Balarāma's face with the end of her veil and said, “My dear Balarāma, you have learned such grand things!” The moment she laughed, the extraordinary brilliance of Balarāma's face, the power of his voice, and every mood beyond childhood disappeared. His former sweetness once again played upon his fair lotus face. A gentle smile certainly rested upon Kṛṣṇa's coral-red lips, yet in his lotus eyes one could also glimpse the memory of the Hāū described by his mother and traces of the fear it had caused. The cowherd boys' faces, meanwhile, were covered in astonishment, not because of Balarāma's speech, but because they heard the tumultuous cries of victory raised by the hosts of gods in the sky. The boys heard the sound, “Victory, victory!” but when they lifted their heads, they could see nothing.

Kṛṣṇacandra was on the left, Balarāma on the right, and their mother between them. Holding her fingers, both boys walked toward home. Somehow the long road from the tamāla grove to the palace ended in a single moment, and she arrived before the gate with her sons. She entered the house, lovingly served them many kinds of food, fed her sons together with their friends, and then joined their play herself.

The day passed, evening came, night came, dawn came, and morning arrived. In this sequence Kṛṣṇacandra's play for that day ended. The evening meal was served, he went to sleep, and his mother's drowsiness broke. She awakened Kṛṣṇacandra, washed his face, gave him breakfast, adorned him, and permitted him to go play. She then sat in the courtyard and began churning yogurt. But today Kṛṣṇa did not go out to play. Standing near his mother, he began asking for the freshly churned butter. She demanded a price for it, and Kṛṣṇacandra did not hesitate to pay. The sky filled with the immortals' cries of joy. Ah, today the Lord of the three worlds dances out of desire for butter:

Yaśomatī sits in the courtyard of her splendid home, churning yogurt.
Hari stands smiling, the beauty of his tiny teeth spreading radiance.
With one glance he steals the heart. His beauty cannot be described.
It is as though Mohinī has marshaled her forces to enchant the minds of sages.
His mother says, “Dance, and I will give you fresh butter, Mohana.”
As his feet move with a tinkling rhythm, the music of his anklets rings.
Sūradāsa sings his virtues, and his fame grows firm across the sky.
The Lord of the three worlds dances for the sake of butter.