The trusted brahmin returned to Rukmini, the princess of Vidarbha, and brought her joyous news: Krishna, the illustrious son of the Yadu dynasty, had arrived. He faithfully conveyed every word Krishna had spoken about the self-choice marriage. Hearing this, Rukmini’s heart overflowed with delight. Out of shyness and deep affection, she did not even look at the brahmin, for her thoughts and love were fixed elsewhere. Meanwhile, the news of Krishna’s arrival spread swiftly. Eager to witness the wedding of his beloved daughter, King Bhishmaka welcomed Krishna and his brother Balarama with all proper honors. The sound of musical instruments filled the air as the two brothers entered, accompanied by their retinues. The king greeted them with honey and milk, fine garments, and many desired gifts, worshipping them according to sacred rites. He arranged a splendid residence for Krishna, Balarama, and their entire entourage, ensuring every comfort and hospitality. Not only Krishna and Balarama, but all the assembled kings were honored by Bhishmaka. According to their strength, age, valor, and wealth, he bestowed upon them gifts and offerings, fulfilling their wishes. When the people of Vidarbha heard that Krishna had come, they flocked to see him. With hands respectfully raised to their eyes, they gazed upon his lotus-like face, drinking in his beauty. Among themselves, they whispered, “Only Rukmini is worthy to be Krishna’s wife, and he alone is the fitting husband for King Bhishmaka’s daughter. Their union is perfect.” They reflected, “Whatever little good we have done in our lives, by that the creator of the three worlds is pleased—may Achyuta accept the hand of our princess.” Bound by love, the townspeople spoke thus, while Rukmini, guarded by soldiers, left her inner chambers to go to the temple of Ambika. She walked on foot, her heart fixed in contemplation of Mukunda’s lotus feet, even as she went to worship Bhavani’s tender feet. Surrounded by her mothers and friends, and protected by armored soldiers bearing raised weapons, Rukmini’s procession moved forward. The air vibrated with the sounds of drums, conches, cymbals, trumpets, and kettle-drums. Thousands of noble women, resplendent in their ornaments, carried offerings for the priests—garlands, perfumes, garments, and jewels. Singers and musicians sang her praises, bards and genealogists recited her lineage, and heralds announced her glory. Upon reaching the temple of the goddess, Rukmini washed her feet and hands, purified herself, and entered the presence of Ambika, serene and peaceful. The elderly, learned wives of the brahmins, together with Bhavani, worshipped the goddess, the consort of Bhava, who bestows prosperity. In devotion, Rukmini bowed and prayed, “O Ambika, I bow to you again and again, auspicious one, accompanied by your children. May Krishna, the blessed one, become my husband—may you be pleased with this offering.” The brahmin women, with their husbands, worshipped the goddess with fragrant substances, unbroken rice, incense, garments, garlands, ornaments, many offerings, and rows of lamps. They brought salt, cakes, betel leaves, necklaces, fruits, and sugarcane. After the rituals, these women gave Rukmini the remnants of the offerings and blessed her; she received their blessings with humility, bowing before them. Having completed her worship, Rukmini broke her vow of silence and, holding her maidservant’s hand—her own hand adorned with a jeweled ring—she left the temple. Her slender waist, dark complexion, jeweled girdle, prominent breasts, and face adorned with earrings and curling locks, made her appear like the very embodiment of the gods’ enchanting Māyā. Her pure smile glowed, lips red as bimba fruit, teeth white as jasmine buds. She moved with the grace of a swan, anklets tinkling softly. As she walked, the assembled kings, renowned and powerful, were overcome with love and awe; some even fainted at the sight of her. Their hearts were stolen by her bashful glances and noble smile, and their weapons fell from their hands. Kings seated on elephants, horses, and chariots became bewildered, falling to the earth as Rukmini, under the pretext of a procession, offered her beauty to Hari. Moving slowly, her lotus-like feet shifting gently, she looked toward the path where Krishna would come. Brushing aside her hair with her left hand, she glanced modestly at the assembled kings, and then saw Acyuta—Krishna. As she approached the chariot, Krishna seized her before the eyes of all his rivals. He lifted her onto his chariot, marked with the emblem of Garuḍa, and, disregarding the 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 fame—especially Jarāsandha and his allies—cried out in shame, “Alas! Though armed, we have been robbed by cowherds, as lions snatch deer from among lesser beasts!” Enraged, all the kings mounted their vehicles, armed themselves, and, surrounded by their armies, pursued Krishna and Balarama with drawn bows. Seeing them advance, the Yādava chiefs stood ready, their bows stretched and resounding. From their horses, elephants, and chariots, the skilled warriors released showers of arrows, like rain-laden clouds pouring upon mountains. Witnessing the Yādava army covered by torrents of arrows, Rukmini, slender-waisted, looked at Krishna’s face with bashful, fearful eyes. Krishna smiled and gently reassured her, “Do not fear, O lotus-eyed one. This hostile force will now be destroyed by your own kin.” Unable to withstand the Yādavas’ valor, Gada, Saṅkarṣaṇa (Balarama), and other heroes struck down the enemy’s 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 bearing swords, maces, and bows, along with elephants, thighs, feet, horses, mules, camels, oxen, donkeys, and the heads of men, were strewn across the battlefield. As their forces were routed by the victorious Vṛṣṇis, the kings, led by Jarāsandha, turned away and departed. They approached Śiśupāla, who stood like a man bereft of his wife—his brilliance gone, his enthusiasm lost, his mouth parched with grief. They consoled him, saying, “O best of men, cast off this sorrow! Among all living beings, no one enjoys unending happiness or suffers unending sorrow. Just as a wooden puppet woman dances by the will of the magician, so too do we all act in joy or grief, under the control of the Lord.