Rukmī, overwhelmed with rage and agitation, stood before the assembled kings, his mighty arms trembling as he gripped his bow. In a voice loud enough for all to hear, he made a solemn vow: “Unless I slay Krishna in battle and win back my sister Rukmiṇī, I shall never re-enter Kuṇḍina. This I swear to you all, truly!” With these words, Rukmī swiftly mounted his chariot, his resolve set. Urging his charioteer, he commanded, “Drive the horses! Take me to confront Krishna in battle!” His anger burned fiercely as he declared, “Today, with my sharp arrows, I will humble the pride of that wicked cowherd who has seized my sister by force!” Thus boasting, ignorant of the Lord’s true greatness, Rukmī challenged Govinda, calling out, “Stop! Stop!” as he sped forward alone in his chariot. Drawing his powerful bow, Rukmī struck Krishna with three arrows and cried, “Wait a moment, O disgrace of the Yadu clan! Where do you flee, having stolen my sister like a jackal snatching sacred offerings? Today I will shatter your pride, deceitful and treacherous as you are! Release the maiden and face me, unless you can strike me down with your arrows and make me fall!” Krishna, smiling at Rukmī’s bravado, broke his opponent’s bow and swiftly pierced him with six arrows. With eight more, Krishna struck the four horses of Rukmī’s chariot, then two for the charioteer, and three for the banner. Undeterred, Rukmī seized another bow and wounded Krishna with five arrows. But as Rukmī rained arrows upon him, Achyuta—the imperishable Lord—cut Rukmī’s bow to pieces. Again and again, as Rukmī snatched up new weapons—mace, spear, trident, shield and sword, javelin, or tomara—Hari shattered each one effortlessly. Frustrated and furious, Rukmī leapt from his chariot, sword in hand, intent on killing Krishna. He rushed at the Lord in his wrath, like a moth drawn to a blazing flame. But as he charged, Krishna shattered his sword and shield with his arrows, reducing them to fragments. Then, drawing his own sharp sword, Krishna prepared to slay Rukmī. At that moment, Rukmiṇī, overcome with terror at the sight of her husband about to kill her brother, threw herself at Krishna’s feet, her voice choked with distress. “O Lord of yoga, immeasurable one, God of gods, master of the world,” she pleaded, “please do not kill my brother. O mighty-armed bringer of good, spare him!” Her body trembled with fear, her face drawn with grief, her golden necklace slipping in her anxiety as she clasped Krishna’s feet. Moved by her compassion, Krishna desisted from killing Rukmī. Instead, he bound the defeated man with a cloth and, to humble him, shaved off his hair and beard, disfiguring him. Meanwhile, the heroes of the Yadu clan routed the enemy army, scattering them like elephants trampling a lotus pond. Soon, Balarāma—Lord Sankarṣaṇa—approached Krishna, seeing Rukmī in this pitiable state, nearly lifeless and bound. Out of compassion, Balarāma released Rukmī and gently reproached Krishna: “What you have done, Krishna, is improper and shameful for us—whether it be shaving off a man’s hair and beard, disfiguring, or killing a friend. Let not this virtuous lady blame us out of concern for her brother’s humiliation. For happiness and sorrow come to each according to their own actions; no one else bestows them. “Though killing a relative is a grave sin, one should not slay a kinsman. If he is already ruined by his own fault, what is gained by killing him again? This is the law for kṣatriyas, established by the Lord of all creatures: even a brother may slay 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, Krishna, especially toward those with wicked hearts; you always consider what is good for friends as good for all, as if they were ignorant. But 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. “In truth, there is only one supreme Self for all embodied beings. Though it appears manifold to the deluded, it is truly one—like light or the sky, which seem divided only in appearance. This body, with its beginning and end, is made up of matter, life-force, and qualities; fashioned by ignorance upon the Self, it causes the soul 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 apparent connection, like the sun and the forms it illumines. Birth and other transformations belong to the body, never to the Self—just as the phases of the moon do not affect the moon itself, nor does the eclipse truly harm it. As one dreams and experiences oneself and objects, enjoying their results though they are unreal, so too does the unwise person enter worldly existence, mistaking the unreal for real. “Therefore, O pure-smiling one, dispel the sorrow born of ignorance, which dries up and confuses the Self, by true knowledge—be established in your own nature.” As Śuka narrated, thus instructed by Lord Balarāma, slender-waisted Rukmiṇī let go of her distress, her mind regaining composure and understanding. Meanwhile, Rukmī, his life-force nearly spent, his strength and brilliance destroyed by Krishna and Balarāma, remembered his humiliation—his disfigured form and his shattered ambitions. He established a great city named Bhojakaṭa for his residence, refusing to attack Krishna again or to hinder his younger sister. True to his vow, “I will not enter Kuṇḍina,” he remained there in anger, defeated by the Lord and the daughter of Bhīṣmaka, along with the other kings. Krishna, following the proper rites, brought Rukmiṇī to his city. There, in every household of the Yadu city, a great festival erupted among those devoted solely to Krishna, the Lord of the Yadus. Men and women, radiant with joy and adorned with shining jeweled earrings, brought gifts for the splendidly attired couple. The city of the Vṛṣṇis shone brilliantly, adorned with Indra’s banners, wondrous garlands, fine garments, jeweled gateways, and auspicious arrangements at every entrance—pots brimming with water, incense, and lamps. The streets were sprinkled with fragrant, intoxicating liquids; at the gates, elephants summoned by beloved kings stood in stately rows, while plantain and areca trees beautified the city. The Kurus, Sṛñjayas, Kaikeyas, Vidarbhas, Yadus, and Kuntis all rejoiced together, mingling in excitement as they hurried about, their hearts united in celebration of Krishna’s glorious wedding.