Baby Krishna has smashed the pot of yogurt, and Mother Yashoda takes a rope to bind the little thief. But the rope keeps falling short — always a little too small — so she ties one to another, and another, from early morning until noon. Her face flushed, drenched in sweat, and still she cannot bind the one whom the whole universe cannot hold. And only when Krishna sees how his mother has worn herself out does he feel sorry for her — and only then, of his own love, does he let himself be bound. Bound, the little one truly cannot rise — he cries, smudging the kajal across his cheeks: it is no game, he is really caught. It is not the rope that holds him, but his own tenderness for her. And if a whole morning's labour bound Krishna only by his grace, what to speak of Radhika: adorned by her sakhis from head to toe, with a single glance she bids him sit — and he sits. Krishna is not bound by force — Krishna is bound by love.