As the tumult of battle subsided, Rukmiṇī, trembling with fear and grief, approached Krishna. Her throat was choked, her golden necklace slipping from her neck in her anxiety, and her face was pale with sorrow. Falling at Krishna’s feet, she pleaded, “O Lord of yoga, immeasurable one, God of gods, Lord of the world! You, mighty-armed bringer of good, should not kill my brother.” Moved by her distress and compassion, Krishna stayed his hand. Instead of taking Rukmi’s life, he bound the wicked man with a cloth and, as a mark of defeat, shaved off his hair and beard, disfiguring him. Meanwhile, the heroic Yadus routed the enemy army as elephants trample a lotus pond, scattering their foes. When the Yadus gathered around Krishna, they beheld Rukmi in this wretched state, nearly dead. Seeing him bound and humiliated, Lord Sankarṣaṇa, full of compassion, released him and spoke to Krishna, “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, distressed for her brother’s disfigurement. For happiness and sorrow are not given by others—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 ruined by his own fault, what is the point of killing him again?” Balarāma 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 Krishna, 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.” He spoke further: “There is truly 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, having 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. 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 Balarāma, Rukmiṇī, slender-waisted and beautiful, let go of her grief and composed herself, her mind set right by understanding. As for Rukmi, his life-breath nearly spent, his strength and brilliance destroyed by Krishna and Balarāma, he remembered his disfigured form and his vain ambitions. He established a great city named Bhojakaṭa for his residence, neither attacking wicked Krishna nor obstructing his younger sister. Proclaiming, “I will not enter Kuṇḍina,” he remained there in anger, defeated by Krishna and the daughter of Bhīṣmaka, along with the other kings. Krishna then brought Rukmiṇī to his city, performing all the proper rites. In every house of the Yadu city, a great festival erupted 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 newlyweds, both magnificently attired. The city of the Vṛṣṇis shone brilliantly, decorated with Indra’s banners, wondrous garlands, fine garments, jeweled gateways, and auspicious arrangements at every gate—full water pots, incense, and lamps. Its streets were sprinkled with fragrant, intoxicating liquids; at the gates, elephants summoned by beloved kings stood, and the city was beautified by rows of plantain and areca trees. People from many lands—the Kurus, Sṛñjayas, Kaikeyas, Vidarbhas, Yadus, and Kuntis—all rejoiced together, mingling in excitement. Everywhere, the story of Rukmiṇī’s abduction was sung, astonishing kings and princesses alike. In Dvārakā, immense joy arose among the citizens, seeing Krishna, the Lord of fortune, united with Rukmiṇī and Balarāma. In time, Kāma, a portion of Vāsudeva who had formerly been burned by Rudra’s anger, was reborn for the sake of embodiment, taking that very form again. He was born of Vaidarbhi, Rukmiṇī, and endowed with Krishna’s power, becoming renowned as Pradyumna, in every way not inferior to his father. But Shambara, the master of illusion, knowing Pradyumna to be his enemy, abducted the infant who could not yet be harmed, cast him into the sea, and returned 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; the cooks brought it to the kitchen, intending to cut it open. But when they saw the child inside, they reported it to Māyāvatī. Nārada, seeing her anxiety, told her everything—about the child’s true 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. In not too long a time, Krishna’s son grew to full youth, stirring the hearts of the women who gazed upon him. Rati, her eyes like lotus petals, her arms long and lovely, approached him—her beloved husband—casting a bashful, smiling, sidelong glance, her eyebrows raised in love-play. Pradyumna, the son of Krishna, said to her, “Your mind, O lady, is not that of a mother; you behave toward me as a lover, not as a mother.” Rati replied, “You are the son of Nārāyaṇa, abducted from your home by Shambara. I am your rightful wife, Rati, and you, lord, are Kāma.” Thus, the wondrous events unfolded, revealing the divine play of Krishna and his family, and the mysteries of fate and love.