As Krishna and his companions approached, they found Rukmi in a pitiable state—bound and nearly dead. Moved by compassion, Lord Sankarṣaṇa, Balarāma himself, released Rukmi from his bonds and turned to Krishna, addressing him with concern and gravity. “What you have done, Krishna,” Balarāma said, “is not proper for us. To shave a man’s hair and beard, to disfigure or kill a friend—these acts bring shame upon us. Let this noble lady, Rukmiṇī, not hold us responsible for her brother’s humiliation. For, truly, each person experiences happiness and sorrow as the result of their own actions—no one else can give or take them away. “Though killing a relative is a terrible sin, we must never slay our own kin. If he has already destroyed himself by his own deeds, what purpose would killing him serve? This is the law for kṣatriyas, set by the Lord of all beings: even brothers may take arms against each other, and there is no greater horror than this. “For the sake of kingdoms, land, wealth, women, pride, or power, blinded by arrogance, kṣatriyas often destroy others—even their own family. Your judgment, Krishna, is harsh toward all, especially toward those with wicked hearts. You always consider what is good for your own friends as good for all, as if the rest were ignorant. “But know that delusion arises among men by the 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 in all embodied beings. Though the deluded see differences, the Self is never manifold—just as light or the sky appears divided, though it is not. “This body, with its beginning and end, is made of matter, life-force, and qualities. It is shaped by ignorance upon the Self, and causes the soul to wander endlessly in worldly existence. For the true Self, there is neither union nor separation with another, whether real or unreal; such notions arise only from apparent connection, like the sun and the forms it illuminates. “Birth and other changes belong to the body, never to the Self—just as the phases of the moon do not affect the moon itself, nor does an eclipse truly harm it. Just as in dreams one 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, cast away the sorrow born of ignorance, which confuses and dries up the Self. Through true knowledge, be established in your own nature, O pure-smiling one.” Śuka continued: Thus instructed by Balarāma, Lord Sankarṣaṇa, the slender-waisted Rukmiṇī let go of her distress and composed her mind with understanding. Meanwhile, Rukmi, his life-breath nearly gone, his strength and brilliance sapped by Krishna and Balarāma, remembered his disfigured state and the ambitions that had led him to defeat. He established a great city, Bhojakaṭa, for himself, neither attacking Krishna nor hindering his younger sister any further. In anger and humiliation, he declared, “I will not return to Kuṇḍina,” and remained there, defeated by Krishna, Rukmiṇī, and the other kings. Krishna brought Rukmiṇī to his city, performing all the proper rites, and there, O best of Kurus, he wedded her. In every house of the Yadu capital, a grand festival arose among those devoted to Krishna, the Lord of the Yadus. Men and women, radiant and adorned with gleaming jeweled earrings, brought gifts for the splendidly attired couple. The city of the Vṛṣṇis shone brilliantly, decorated with Indra’s banners, wondrous garlands, fine garments, jeweled gateways, and auspicious arrangements at every entrance—full water pots, incense, and lamps. The streets were sprinkled with fragrant, intoxicating waters, and at the gates stood elephants summoned by the beloved kings. Rows of plantain and areca trees added to the city’s beauty. The Kurus, Sṛñjayas, Kaikeyas, Vidarbhas, Yadus, and Kuntis mingled in delight, their excitement filling the city. The tale of Rukmiṇī’s abduction was sung everywhere, astonishing the assembled kings and princesses. In Dvārakā, immense joy filled the hearts of the citizens as they beheld Krishna, the Lord of fortune, united with Rukmiṇī and Balarāma. Śuka then spoke of the next wondrous event. Kāma, a portion of Vāsudeva who had once been burned by Rudra’s anger, was born again for the sake of embodiment, assuming his former form. Born of Rukmiṇī and endowed with Krishna’s power, he became renowned as Pradyumna—equal in every way to his illustrious father. But the demon Shambara, master of illusion, recognizing the infant as his future enemy, abducted him before he could be harmed, and cast him into the sea. A mighty fish swallowed the child, and later, that fish and others were caught in a great net by fishermen. The fishermen brought the fish as a gift to Shambara. When the cooks cut it open in the kitchen, they discovered the child inside and reported this marvel to Māyāvatī. Nārada, seeing her anxiety, revealed everything—how the boy had come to be in the fish’s belly and his true origin. Māyāvatī was none other than Rati, the famed wife of Kāma, who had been awaiting her husband’s rebirth after his body was burned. Assigned to the kitchen by Shambara, Māyāvatī recognized the child as Kāma himself and felt deep affection for him. In due time, Krishna’s son grew to full youth, stirring the hearts of all women who beheld him. Rati, her eyes like lotus petals, approached her husband, the beautiful Pradyumna, with a bashful, smiling, sidelong glance, her eyebrows raised in playful love. Pradyumna, the son of Krishna, said to her, “O lady, your feelings are not those of a mother; you behave toward me as a lover, not as a mother.” Rati replied, “You are the son of Nārāyaṇa, stolen from your home by Shambara. I am your rightful wife, Rati, and you, my lord, are Kāma. That demon cast you into the ocean as an infant; a fish swallowed you, and from its belly, my lord, you have come here. Now, slay this formidable, unconquerable enemy of yours—Shambara, skilled in hundreds of illusions—by your own powers of illusion, delusion, and the like. Your mother grieves for you, helpless in her love, like a kurarī bird bereft of her chick, or a cow pained without her calf.