The clash between Krishna and Rukmi reached a fevered pitch on the battlefield. Rukmi, seething with anger, unleashed a storm of arrows: eight struck Krishna’s four horses, two pierced the charioteer, and three tore through the banner atop the chariot. Not pausing, Rukmi seized another bow and, with five sharp arrows, wounded Krishna himself. Assaulted by this rain of shafts, Krishna—the imperishable Achyuta—responded with divine skill, shattering Rukmi’s bow to pieces. Rukmi snatched up yet another, but Krishna’s arrows destroyed that one too. Again and again, Rukmi reached for different weapons—mace, spear, trident, shield and sword, javelin, and tomara—but each was cut down by Hari before it could be raised. Frustrated and consumed by rage, Rukmi leapt from his chariot, sword in hand, intent on slaying Krishna. He rushed forward, reckless as a moth drawn to a blazing flame. But as he charged, Krishna shattered both Rukmi’s sword and shield with his arrows. Then, drawing his own sharp sword, Krishna prepared to end Rukmi’s life. At that dire moment, Rukmini, seeing her beloved husband poised to kill her brother, was overwhelmed by fear. Distraught, she fell at Krishna’s feet, her voice choked with distress. “O Lord of yoga, immeasurable one, God of gods, Lord of the world,” she pleaded, “you should not kill my brother, O mighty-armed, bringer of good.” Her body trembled with fear, her face was parched with grief, and her golden necklace slipped from her neck as she clung to Krishna’s feet. Moved by Rukmini’s anguish and compassion, Krishna relented. Instead of slaying Rukmi, he bound him with a cloth and, to humble him, shaved off his hair and beard, disfiguring him. Meanwhile, the heroes of the Yadu dynasty routed the enemy army, trampling them like mighty elephants in a lotus pond. When the Yadus gathered around Krishna, they beheld Rukmi in this pitiable state—bound, humiliated, and barely alive. Lord Sankarṣaṇa, filled with compassion, released Rukmi and addressed Krishna: “What you have done, Krishna, is improper and shameful for us. To shave off the hair and beard, to disfigure, or to kill a friend is not our way. Let not this virtuous lady blame us for her brother’s humiliation, for each person reaps the fruits of their own actions—no one else brings happiness or sorrow.” He continued, “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? This is the law for kṣatriyas, established by the Lord of all creatures: even brothers may kill each other, 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.” Turning to Krishna, Sankarṣaṇa observed, “Your judgment toward all beings is harsh, especially toward those with wicked hearts. You always consider what is good for friends as good for all, as if others were ignorant. Delusion arises among men due to the divine power of Māyā; identifying with the body, they see some as friends, some as enemies, and some as neutral. But truly, 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.” He explained further, “This body, with its beginning and end, composed of matter, life-force, and qualities, is fashioned by ignorance upon the Self and 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 apparent connection, like the sun and the forms it illuminates. 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. 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.” He concluded, “Therefore, dispel the sorrow born of ignorance, which dries up and confuses the Self, by true knowledge—be established in your own nature, O pure-smiling one.” Śuka continued the tale: Thus instructed by Lord Sankarṣaṇa, the slender-waisted Rukmini abandoned her distress and composed her mind with understanding. Meanwhile, Rukmi, his life-breath nearly spent, his strength and brilliance destroyed by Krishna and Sankarṣaṇa, remembered his disfigured form and his vain ambitions. He established a great city named Bhojakaṭa for his residence, without seeking to harm Krishna or hinder his younger sister. Declaring, “I will not enter Kuṇḍina,” he remained in Bhojakaṭa, defeated by the Lord and the daughter of Bhīṣmaka, along with the other kings. Krishna then brought Rukmini to his city according to proper rites, and, O best of Kurus, he married her. In every house of the Yadu city, a great festival arose among those devoted solely to Krishna, the Lord of the Yadus. Men and women, delighted and adorned with polished jeweled earrings, brought splendid gifts for the newlywed couple. The city of the Vṛṣṇis shone brilliantly, adorned with Indra’s banners, wondrous garlands, garments, jeweled gateways, and auspicious arrangements at every gate—full water pots, incense, and lamps. Its streets were sprinkled with fragrant, intoxicating liquids, while elephants summoned by beloved kings stood at the gates, and rows of plantain and areca trees beautified the city. The Kurus, Sṛñjayas, Kaikeyas, Vidarbhas, Yadus, and Kuntis all mingled in excitement, rejoicing together. Everywhere, the story of Rukmini’s abduction was sung, astonishing kings and princesses alike. In Dvārakā, immense joy filled the hearts of the citizens as they beheld Krishna, the Lord of fortune, united with Rukmini and Rāma. Śuka then spoke of a wondrous birth. Kāma, a portion of Vāsudeva who had once been burned by Rudra’s anger, took birth again for the sake of embodiment, assuming that very form. Born to Vaidarbhi and endowed with Krishna’s power, he became renowned as Pradyumna, in every way not inferior to his father. But Shambara, the master of illusion, knowing the child to be his enemy, abducted the infant Pradyumna, who could not yet be harmed, and cast him into the sea before returning home. A powerful fish swallowed the child, and that fish, along with others, was caught in a great net by fishermen. The fishermen brought the fish as a gift to Shambara. In his kitchen, the cooks prepared to cut the fish open with their knives. To their astonishment, they found a child inside and reported this to Māyāvatī. As her mind was anxious, Nārada came and revealed to her everything—Pradyumna’s true origin and how he had come to be in the belly of the fish.