Though it is a grave sin to kill one’s own kin, and one should never slay a relative, what is the point in killing a man who has already destroyed himself by his own misdeeds? This is the law laid down for kṣatriyas by the Lord of all creatures: even brothers may be compelled to fight and kill each other, and truly, there is nothing more dreadful than this. For the sake of a kingdom, land, wealth, women, pride, or power, blinded by arrogance, kṣatriyas have destroyed others—even their own family. Yet, O Krishna, your judgment toward all beings is severe, especially toward those of wicked intent; for you always consider what is good for your friends to be good for all, as if the rest were ignorant. But delusion arises among men through the divine power of Māyā; those who identify with the body see some as friends, others as enemies, and still others as neutral. In truth, there is only one supreme Self residing in all embodied beings; it is not many, though the deluded perceive it as such—just as light or the sky seems divided. This body, with its beginning and end, is made of matter, life-force, and qualities; formed by ignorance upon the Self, it causes the soul to wander through 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 changes belong to the body, never to the Self—just as the phases of the moon do not alter the moon itself, nor does an eclipse truly harm it. Just as one enjoys experiences in dreams—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. Śuka continued: Thus instructed by the Lord, slender-waisted Rāma abandoned her distress and composed her mind with understanding. Meanwhile, the defeated one—his life-breath nearly spent, his strength and brilliance destroyed by the two—remembered his disfigured form and the vain ambitions he had conceived for himself. He established a great city named Bhojakaṭa for his residence, refraining from attacking the wicked Krishna or hindering his younger sister. Declaring, “I will not enter Kuṇḍina,” he remained there in anger, having been vanquished by the Lord and the daughter of Bhīṣmaka, along with the other kings. Krishna, following the proper rites, brought Rukmiṇī to the city, O best of Kurus, and married her. Then, in every house of the Yadu city, there was great festival among those devoted solely to Krishna, the Lord of the Yadus. Men and women, delighted and adorned with polished jeweled earrings, brought gifts for the splendidly attired couple. The city of the Vṛṣṇis was radiant—adorned with Indra’s banners, wondrous garlands, garments, jeweled gateways, and auspicious arrangements at every entrance: 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. The Kurus, Sṛñjayas, Kaikeyas, Vidarbhas, Yadus, and Kuntis all rejoiced together, mingling in excitement as they hurried about. The story of Rukmiṇī’s abduction was sung everywhere, astonishing the kings and princesses. In Dvārakā, O king, immense joy arose among the citizens, seeing Krishna—the Lord of fortune—united with Rukmiṇī and Rāma. Śuka spoke further: Kāma, a portion of Vāsudeva, who had previously been burned by Rudra’s anger, took birth again for the sake of embodiment, assuming that very form. Born of 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, abducted the infant—who could not yet be harmed—and, knowing him to be his enemy, cast him into the sea before returning home. A powerful fish swallowed the child, and that fish, together with others, was caught in a great net by fishermen. The fishermen brought the fish as a gift to Shambara; the cooks took it to the kitchen, intending to cut it open. When they saw the child inside, they reported it to Māyāvatī. Nārada, seeing her anxious, told her everything—about the child’s true origin and how he came to be in the fish’s belly. She was Rati, the famed wife of Kāma, who had been waiting for her husband’s rebirth, his body having been burned. Assigned by Shambara to the kitchen, Māyāvatī recognized the child as Kāma himself and felt great affection for him. In not too long a time, the son of Krishna grew to full youth, stirring the hearts of the women who gazed upon him. Rati, her eyes like lotus petals, approached him—her husband—with long arms, beautiful among men, casting a bashful, smiling, sidelong glance, her eyebrows raised in love-play. Pradyumna, the son of Krishna, said to her, “O lady, your mind is not as a mother’s; 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. That demon Shambara cast you, an infant, into the ocean; a fish swallowed you, and from its belly, lord, you have come here. Now, slay this formidable, unconquerable enemy of yours—skilled in hundreds of illusions—by your own powers of illusion, delusion, and the like. Your mother grieves for you like a kurarī bird bereft of her young, overwhelmed by maternal love, helpless, like a cow pained without her calf.” Having spoken thus, Māyāvatī, great in magic, bestowed upon noble Pradyumna the supreme knowledge that destroys all sorcery. Pradyumna then approached Shambara and challenged him to battle, provoking him with taunts that could not be endured and stirring up conflict. Assailed with harsh words, like a serpent struck by a foot, Shambara stormed out, mace in hand, his eyes red with rage.