With deep reverence and hope, Rukmiṇī bowed again and again before Ambikā, the auspicious goddess, who was surrounded by her own children. She prayed, “May my husband be the blessed Krishna, and may you, O Mother, be pleased with me.” To honor the goddess, the women of the brāhmaṇa families, along with their husbands, brought fragrant substances, unbroken rice, incense, fine garments, garlands, ornaments, and a variety of offerings and foods. They arranged rows of shining lamps, creating a sacred and festive atmosphere. These devoted women, together with their husbands, worshipped Ambikā with salt, cakes, betel leaves, necklaces, fruits, and sugarcane. When the rituals were complete, they offered the remnants to Rukmiṇī, along with their heartfelt blessings. The bride, with humility, bowed before them and accepted the blessed offerings. The time had come to depart. Rukmiṇī, having completed her vows, left Ambikā’s house. She held her maidservant’s hand, her own hand adorned with a jeweled ring, and abandoned her previous vow of silence. Slender-waisted and radiant, her face gleaming with earrings and precious jewels, her complexion deep and beautiful, a jeweled girdle at her hips, and her glances half-hidden behind curling locks—she moved with a grace and allure that seemed to embody the very Māyā, the enchanting power of the gods. A pure smile lit her face, her lips shone like ripe bimba fruit, and her teeth resembled jasmine buds. She walked with the elegant gait of a swan, her every step accompanied by the gentle music of her tinkling anklets. As she appeared before the assembly, the gathered heroes—famed and mighty—were so overcome by her beauty and love that some fainted. The kings, their hearts stolen by her noble smile and shy glances, let their weapons fall from their hands, utterly captivated. Many illustrious kings, seated atop elephants, chariots, and horses, became bewildered and fell to the ground, unable to withstand the radiance she offered to Hari, the Lord, under the pretense of a bridal procession. Slowly, with the delicate shifting of her lotus-like feet, Rukmiṇī moved forward, her gaze searching for the arrival of Krishna. As she brushed aside her hair with her left hand and glanced modestly at the assembled kings, her eyes fell upon Acyuta—Krishna himself. In that very moment, as the royal maiden was about to mount her chariot, Krishna seized her before the very eyes of his rivals. Placing her upon his chariot, which bore the emblem of Garuḍa, Mādhava—unmoved by the assembly of kings—departed slowly, led by Balarāma, like a lion carrying off its prize from a pack of jackals. The proud kings, unable to bear the shame of defeat and the loss of their honor—especially Jarāsandha and his allies—cried out in anguish, “Alas, shame upon us! Though armed and mighty, we have been robbed by cowherds, just as lions snatch deer from among lesser beasts.” Śuka then spoke: Incensed, all the kings mounted their vehicles, armed themselves, and, surrounded by their armies, pursued Krishna and Rukmiṇī with drawn bows. Seeing the enemy advance, the chiefs of the Yādava army stood ready, their bows drawn, the twang of bowstrings resounding through the air. Skilled in the use of weapons, they stood upon horses, elephants, and chariots, unleashing showers of arrows like storm clouds pouring rain upon mountains. As the Yādava army was covered by torrents of arrows, Rukmiṇī, slender-waisted and bashful, looked at Krishna’s face, her eyes filled with fear. Smiling gently, the Lord reassured her, “Do not fear, O lotus-eyed one. This hostile force will now be destroyed by your own kin.” Unable to withstand the valor of Krishna’s companions—Gada, Saṅkarṣaṇa, and the other heroes—they 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 clutching swords, maces, and bows, along with the bodies of elephants, thighs, feet, horses, mules, camels, oxen, donkeys, and the heads of men, littered the battlefield. As the Vṛṣṇis pressed on, seeking victory, the kings—led by Jarāsandha—turned away and fled. They approached Śiśupāla, who was like a man bereft after his wife had been taken—his splendor dimmed, his spirit broken, his mouth parched with sorrow. They spoke to him words of consolation: “O best of men, cast off this sorrow! Among all beings, no happiness or distress endures forever. Just as a wooden puppet woman dances at the will of the magician, so too does one under the control of the Lord act in happiness and sorrow. “For seventeen days I was defeated in battle by Śauri, but on the eighteenth, with twenty-three armies, I gained victory. Still, I neither grieve nor rejoice, knowing that the world moves as time and destiny decree. Even now, all of us—chiefs of mighty warriors—have been defeated by the Yadus, protected by Krishna’s cunning. Our enemies have prevailed, for time follows its own course; when time favors us, then we shall be victorious.” Thus consoled by his friends, the king of Cedi, Śiśupāla, departed for his city with his followers, and the other surviving kings also returned to their own cities. But Rukmī, unable to bear the marriage of his sister to Krishna—whom he called a Rākṣasa for carrying her away by force—and burning with hatred, followed after Krishna, his army at his side. Enraged and trembling with agitation, Rukmī made a vow before all the kings, bow in hand and arms shaking: “Unless I kill Krishna in battle and recover my sister Rukmiṇī, I will not enter Kuṇḍina. This I declare truly!” With these words, he mounted his chariot and commanded his charioteer, “Drive the horses! Let me face Krishna in battle!” Boasting, he declared, “Today, with sharp arrows, I will humble the pride of that wicked cowherd who has stolen my sister!” Ignorant of the Lord’s greatness, Rukmī challenged Govinda, shouting, “Stop! Stop!” as he approached with his single chariot. Drawing his bow, he struck Krishna with three arrows and cried, “Wait, O disgrace of the Yadu clan! Where are you going, having stolen my sister like a jackal snatching the offerings of a sacrifice? Today I will break your pride, O deceitful, treacherous fighter! Until you have struck me down and made me fall, release the maiden!” Krishna smiled, broke Rukmī’s bow, and pierced him with six swift arrows. With eight arrows, Krishna struck the four horses; with two, the charioteer; with three, the banner. Rukmī snatched up another bow and wounded Krishna with five arrows. But as showers of arrows flew, Achyuta cut Rukmī’s bow to pieces once more. Rukmī seized yet another, but the imperishable Lord broke that as well, ever unassailable in battle.