Rukmi, determined to defeat Krishna, seized weapon after weapon—a mace, a spear, a trident, a shield and sword, a javelin, even a tomara. But each time, Hari effortlessly shattered them to pieces. Undeterred, Rukmi leapt from his chariot, sword in hand, his mind set on killing Krishna. Blazing with anger, he rushed at Krishna like a moth drawn to a flame. As he charged, Krishna swiftly broke Rukmi’s sword and shield to fragments with his arrows. Then, drawing his own razor-sharp sword, Krishna prepared to strike Rukmi down. At that moment, Rukmini, seeing her husband about to kill her brother, was overcome with terror. Distraught, she threw herself at Krishna’s feet, her voice trembling with distress. “O Lord of yoga, immeasurable one, God of gods, Lord of the world,” she pleaded, “please do not kill my brother. O mighty-armed, bringer of good, spare him.” Rukmini’s body shook with fear; her face was pale and drawn with grief, her throat choked with emotion, and her golden necklace slipped loose in her anxiety as she clung to Krishna’s feet. Moved by her compassion and distress, Krishna relented from his intent. Instead, Krishna bound the wicked Rukmi with a cloth and, to humble him, shaved off his hair and beard, disfiguring him. Meanwhile, the mighty Yadu heroes routed the enemy army, trampling them like elephants in a lotus pond. When Krishna’s companions approached, they saw Rukmi in this pitiable state, nearly dead and bound. Lord Sankarṣaṇa, ever compassionate, released Rukmi and turned to Krishna, saying, “What you have done, Krishna, is improper and shameful for us: to shave 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 disfigurement, for no one else gives happiness or sorrow—each person reaps the fruits of their own actions. Even though killing a relative is a great sin, one should not slay a kinsman; if he is ruined by his own fault, what is the point of killing him again? 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 Krishna, especially toward those with wicked hearts; for you always consider what is good for friends as good for all, as if they were ignorant. 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 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. This body, with its beginning and end, is made 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—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. 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.” Hearing these words of wisdom from Lord Balarama, Rukmini, slender-waisted and gentle, let go of her sorrow and composed her mind with understanding. Rukmi, for his part, was left humiliated and broken. His life-breath nearly spent, his strength and brilliance destroyed by Krishna and Balarama, he remembered his disfigured form and his vain ambitions. He built a great city called Bhojakaṭa for himself and, refusing to return to Kuṇḍina, remained there in anger, defeated by Krishna and Rukmini, as well as by the other kings. Krishna, meanwhile, brought Rukmini to his city with all proper rites and married her, O best of Kurus. In every house of the Yadu city, there was a great festival, for the people were devoted solely to Krishna, the Lord of the Yadus. Men and women, delighted and adorned with gleaming jeweled earrings, brought gifts for the splendidly attired 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. The streets were sprinkled with fragrant, intoxicating waters; elephants summoned by beloved kings stood at the gates; and rows of plantain and areca trees beautified the city. People from the Kurus, Sṛñjayas, Kaikeyas, Vidarbhas, Yadus, and Kuntis all rejoiced together, mingling in excitement throughout the festivities. Everywhere, the story of Rukmini’s abduction was sung, astonishing the assembled kings and princesses. Thus, in Dvārakā, O king, immense joy arose among the citizens, as they beheld Krishna, the Lord of fortune, united with Rukmini and Balarama. In time, Kāma, a portion of Vāsudeva who had previously been burned by Rudra’s anger, was born again for the sake of embodiment, assuming the same form. Born to Rukmini and endowed with Krishna’s own power, he became renowned as Pradyumna, in every way not inferior to his father. But Shambara, the master of illusion, aware that this child would be his enemy, abducted the infant Pradyumna. Though the child could not yet be harmed, Shambara cast him into the sea and returned home. There, 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, and the cooks took it to the kitchen to cut it open. When the cooks discovered the child inside, they reported it to Māyāvatī. Nārada, perceiving her anxious mind, revealed to her the truth: the child’s divine origin and how he had come to be in the fish’s belly. Māyāvatī was none other than Rati, the famed wife of Kāma, who had been waiting for her husband’s rebirth after his body was burned. Assigned by Shambara to the kitchen, Māyāvatī recognized the child as Kāma himself and felt deep affection for him.