When the princess Rukmini saw the Brahmin messenger, his face radiant with delight and his mind utterly calm, she, skilled in reading subtle signs, questioned him with a gentle, pure smile. The Brahmin conveyed to her the message he bore: the son of the Yadu dynasty, Krishna, had arrived, and he faithfully relayed the words spoken regarding her self-choice marriage. Hearing that Krishna had come, Rukmini’s heart overflowed with joy. Out of modesty and inner affection, she did not look directly at the Brahmin, who had become dear to her in another way—as the bearer of her hopes. Meanwhile, the news of Krishna and Balarama’s arrival reached King Bhishmaka. Eager to witness his daughter’s wedding, the king welcomed Rama and Krishna with proper honors, accompanied by the joyous sounds of musical instruments. King Bhishmaka brought offerings of honey, milk, pure garments, and other desired gifts, and worshipped Krishna and Balarama as prescribed by sacred rites. He prepared a splendid residence for the two brothers, their armies, and attendants, offering them all appropriate hospitality. He also honored the assembled kings, each according to their prowess, age, strength, and wealth, ensuring that all received their desired offerings. As word spread that Krishna had arrived, the people of Vidarbha city flocked to see him, their hands joined reverently at their eyes as they gazed upon Krishna’s lotus-like face. Their hearts brimmed with devotion, and they said among themselves, “Only Rukmini is fit to be his wife; and he, flawless in nature, is the proper husband for Bhishmaka’s daughter.” They reflected, “Whatever little good we have done, by that the creator of the three worlds is pleased. May Achyuta accept the hand of the Vidarbha princess.” Thus, bound by love, the townspeople spoke, while Rukmini herself, accompanied by guards, left the inner chambers and made her way to the temple of Ambika. She went on foot, her mind focused on worshipping Bhavani, yet her heart fully absorbed in thoughts of Mukunda’s lotus feet. Surrounded by her mothers and friends, and guarded by valiant royal soldiers clad in armor and bearing raised weapons, Rukmini proceeded amid the resounding music of drums, conches, cymbals, trumpets, and kettle-drums. Thousands of noble women, richly adorned, carried offerings—garlands, perfumes, garments, and ornaments—for the priests. Singers, musicians, bards, genealogists, and heralds surrounded the bride, singing her praises. Upon arriving at the goddess’s abode, Rukmini washed her feet and hands, and, purified and peaceful, entered the presence of Ambika. The elderly and learned wives of the Brahmins, together with Bhavani, worshipped Ambika, the prosperous wife of Bhava. Rukmini herself bowed repeatedly, praying, “O Ambika, auspicious goddess, accompanied by your own children, may my husband be the blessed Krishna—may you be pleased with this.” The goddess was worshipped with fragrant substances, unbroken rice, incense, garments, garlands, ornaments, various offerings, food, and rows of lamps. The Brahmin women, with their husbands, offered salt, cakes, betel leaves, necklaces, fruits, and sugarcane. These women gave Rukmini the remnants of the offerings and bestowed their blessings upon her; she bowed to them and accepted their gifts. Having completed her vows, Rukmini left the temple, holding her maidservant’s hand, her fingers adorned with a jeweled ring. With her slender waist, face adorned with earrings and jewels, dark complexion, jeweled girdle, prominent breasts, and glances veiled by curling locks, she appeared like the enchanting, steadfast Māyā of the gods. Her pure smile, lips red as bimba fruit, teeth like jasmine buds, and swan-like gait made her radiant, her anklets tinkling softly. As she passed, the assembled heroes, overcome with love, fainted at her beauty. The kings, their minds stolen by her noble smile and bashful glances, dropped their weapons in awe. Bewildered, seated on elephants, chariots, and horses, these illustrious kings fell to the ground, while Rukmini, under the pretext of a procession, offered her own splendor to Hari. Moving slowly, her lotus-like feet shifting, she looked toward the approach of the Lord. Brushing aside her hair with her left hand, glancing modestly at the assembled kings, Rukmini finally saw Achyuta—Krishna. As she was about to mount her chariot, Krishna seized her before the eyes of all his rivals. Placing her on his chariot marked with Garuḍa, Madhava, unconcerned with the assembly of kings, departed slowly, led by Balarama—like a lion carrying off its prize from among jackals. The proud kings, unable to bear their defeat and the loss of honor—especially Jarāsandha and his allies—cried out in frustration, “Alas, shame upon us! Armed with weapons, we have been robbed by cowherds, just as lions snatch deer from among lesser beasts!” Śuka continued: Thus, all the enraged kings mounted their vehicles, armed themselves, and, surrounded by their armies, pursued Krishna with drawn bows. Seeing them advance, the chiefs of the Yādava army stood firm, their bows drawn and resounding, ready for battle. Skilled in warfare, the Yadus—standing on horses, elephants, and chariots—released showers of arrows, like clouds pouring rain upon mountains. Seeing Krishna’s army covered by torrents of arrows, the slender-waisted Rukmini gazed at her husband’s face, her eyes bashful and filled with fear. Krishna, smiling, reassured her, “Do not fear, O lotus-eyed one; this hostile force will now be destroyed by your own kin.” Unable to tolerate the enemy’s valor, Gada, Balarama (Saṅkarṣaṇa), and the other Yadava heroes struck down horses, elephants, and chariots with iron arrows. The heads of charioteers, horsemen, and elephant riders—adorned with earrings, crowns, and turbans—fell to the earth by the thousands. Arms wielding swords, maces, and bows; elephants, thighs, feet, horses, mules, camels, oxen, donkeys, and the heads of men—all were struck down. As the Vṛṣṇis, eager for victory, destroyed their forces, the kings, led by Jarāsandha, turned away and departed. They approached Śiśupāla, who, having lost his bride, was like a man bereft of life—his brilliance gone, his enthusiasm lost, and his mouth parched. They consoled him, “O best of men, cast off this sorrow! Among all beings, no one sees lasting happiness or distress.