As the battle raged, the combined forces of the kings, led by Jarāsandha, were being steadily destroyed by the valiant Vṛṣṇis, who fought with unwavering resolve for victory. Seeing their defeat, the kings turned away from the battlefield and began to withdraw. Among them was Śiśupāla, whose spirit was utterly broken, like a man bereft of his beloved wife. His radiance had faded, his enthusiasm was gone, and his mouth was dry with distress. The other kings approached him, offering words of comfort in his sorrow. “O best of men,” they said, “cast off this grief! Among all embodied beings, O king, no one experiences unending happiness or sorrow. Just as a wooden puppet woman dances only at the will of the magician, so too do we, under the control of the Lord, act in happiness and in sorrow.” One of the kings, seeking to console him further, added, “For seventeen days, I was defeated in battle by Śauri, but on the eighteenth day, with twenty-three armies, I gained victory over him. Still, I neither rejoice nor lament at any time, for I know that the world moves according to time and destiny. Even now, all of us, chiefs of mighty warriors, have been defeated by the Yadus, protected by Kṛṣṇa, through their clever strategies. Our enemies have prevailed because time now favors them; when the wheel of time turns, we too shall be victorious.” Thus comforted by their wise words, the king of Cedi, Śiśupāla, departed for his own city with his followers, and the surviving kings, each with their retinues, returned to their homes. But Rukmī, the brother of Rukmiṇī, could not bear the humiliation of his sister’s marriage to Kṛṣṇa, whom he considered a Rākṣasa for having taken her by force. Burning with hatred toward Kṛṣṇa, Rukmī set out in pursuit, surrounded by his army. His anger was fierce, his agitation great, and in the presence of all the assembled kings, he made a solemn vow, his mighty arms trembling as he grasped his bow. “Unless I kill Kṛṣṇa in battle and bring back Rukmiṇī, I will not enter Kuṇḍina again. This I declare truly before you all!” Having proclaimed his resolve, Rukmī swiftly mounted his chariot and ordered his charioteer, “Drive the horses! Take me to face Kṛṣṇa in battle!” With boastful pride he cried, “Today, with sharp arrows, I will humble the arrogance of that wicked cowherd who has stolen my sister.” Ignorant of the Lord’s true greatness, Rukmī challenged Govinda, shouting, “Stop! Stop!” as he approached with his single chariot. Drawing his strong bow, Rukmī struck Kṛṣṇa with three arrows and taunted, “Wait a moment, O disgrace of the Yadu clan! Where are you going, having stolen my sister like a jackal snatching away the sacrificial offering? Today I will break your pride, you deceitful, treacherous fighter! Until you have struck me down with your arrows and made me fall, release the maiden!” But Kṛṣṇa only smiled. Effortlessly, he broke Rukmī’s bow and pierced him with six swift arrows. With eight more he struck the four horses, with two the charioteer, and with three the banner. Rukmī, undeterred, seized another bow and wounded Kṛṣṇa with five arrows. But the imperishable Lord Achyuta cut that bow to pieces as well. Again and again, Rukmī snatched up weapons—mace, spear, trident, shield and sword, javelin, and tomara—but Hari shattered each one before it could be used. Enraged and desperate, Rukmī leapt down from his chariot, sword in hand, intent on killing Kṛṣṇa, rushing at him like a moth hurtling toward a flame. As he charged, Kṛṣṇa shattered Rukmī’s sword and shield with his arrows. Then, drawing his own sharp sword, Kṛṣṇa prepared to slay Rukmī. But at that moment, Rukmiṇī, overwhelmed with fear for her brother, fell at her husband’s feet and, her voice choked with distress, pleaded with him. “O Lord of yoga, immeasurable one, God of gods, Lord of the world,” she cried, “you should not kill my brother, O mighty-armed, bringer of good!” Seeing her trembling with fear, her face dried with grief, her throat choked, her golden necklace slipping in her anxiety, Kṛṣṇa was moved by compassion and refrained from killing Rukmī. Instead, he bound the wicked man with a cloth and, to disgrace him, shaved off his hair and beard, leaving him disfigured. Meanwhile, the Yadu heroes routed Rukmī’s army, scattering them like elephants trampling a lotus pond. When the Yadus approached Kṛṣṇa, they found Rukmī in this pitiable state—bound and nearly dead with shame. Seeing him thus, the compassionate Lord Sankarṣaṇa released Rukmī and spoke to Kṛṣṇa: “What you have done, Kṛṣṇa, is improper and shameful for us—to shave off the hair and beard, to disfigure, or to kill a friend. Let not this virtuous lady blame us out of concern for her brother’s humiliation. For truly, no one else brings happiness or sorrow; each person reaps the fruits of their own actions. Even though the killing of a relative is a great sin, one should not slay a kinsman; if he is already ruined by his own deeds, what is the point of killing him again?” Sankarṣaṇa continued, “This is the law for kṣatriyas, established by the Lord of creatures: even a brother may kill his brother, and nothing is more terrible than this. For the sake of kingdom, land, wealth, women, pride, or power, blinded by arrogance, they destroy others—even their own kin. Your judgment toward all beings is harsh, O Kṛṣṇa, toward those with wicked hearts; for you always consider what is good for friends as good for all, as if they were ignorant.” He then spoke on the deeper truth: “Delusion arises among men by the divine power of Māyā; those who identify with the body see some as friends, some as enemies, and some as neutral. But in truth, there is only one supreme Self for all embodied beings; it is not manifold, though the deluded perceive it as such—just as light or the sky appears divided. This body, with a beginning and an end, is composed of matter, life-force, and qualities; fashioned by ignorance upon the Self, it causes the embodied one to wander in worldly existence.” “For the true Self, there is neither union nor separation with another, whether existent or non-existent; such notions arise from their apparent connection, like the sun and the forms it illuminates. Birth and other transformations belong to the body, never to the Self at any time—just as the phases of the moon do not affect the moon itself, nor does the eclipse truly harm it. Just as one experiences oneself and objects in dreams, enjoying their results though they are unreal, so too does the unwise person enter worldly existence, mistaking the unreal for real.” Thus, the Lord’s companions spoke words of wisdom, and the events of that day stood as a testament to the mysterious play of destiny, time, and the supreme Self that dwells within all.