Dwelling in his resplendent homes, surpassing all comparison and distinction, Krishna remained with his beloved consorts, delighting in their company and immersed in his own desires, just as an ordinary householder lives contentedly among his wives. Having attained the Lord of Lakshmi himself as their husband—a path so mysterious that even Brahma and the other gods cannot comprehend it—the women, filled with joy and ever-increasing love, served Krishna with gentle smiles, sidelong glances, intimate union, playful words, and bashful gestures. Hundreds of maidservants also attended to the Lord, performing acts of loving service: they went out to greet him, offered him seats, worshipped him, washed his feet, presented him with betel, ensured his rest, fanned him, adorned him with fragrant garlands, arranged his hair, prepared his bed, bathed him, and presented gifts—all with utmost devotion. Thus concludes the chapter entitled "The Taking of the Parijata Tree and the Slaying of Naraka" in the tenth book of the Śrīmad Bhāgavata Mahāpurāṇa, the scripture revered by the paramahaṃsas. Once, Bhāīṣmī—Rukmiṇī—attended to her husband, Krishna, the teacher of the world, as he sat happily on his own bed, using a fan together with her companions. He, whose playful will creates, sustains, and destroys the universe, had been born among the Yadus for the sake of protecting the cows and his own kin. The inner chamber where Krishna rested was adorned with a hanging pearl necklace, a jeweled canopy, and radiant lamps. Garlands of jasmine and other blossoms filled the room, while the gentle hum of swarms of bees mingled with the pure moonlight streaming through the lattice windows. Breezes carried the fragrance of the Parijata grove, blending with the scents of lush gardens and aloe wood incense wafting through the air. On a couch as white as milk foam, Rukmiṇī attended to her husband, the Lord of the worlds, as he sat comfortably. Taking a yak-tail fan with a jeweled handle from her companion, the goddess herself fanned the Lord, performing her worship with loving devotion. Her anklets of jewels softly chimed as she moved, her hands adorned with rings and bangles, the fan held gracefully. Her necklace, reddened by the saffron of her hidden breasts beneath her garment, and her hips encircled by a priceless girdle, she shone resplendently beside Acyuta. Seeing her, the very embodiment of beauty and fortune, who had no other refuge and whose playful form matched his own, Hari smiled, his locks curling, his earrings and shining necklace glimmering, nectar-like smiles on his lips. Pleased, he spoke to her: “O princess, you were desired by kings—the guardians of the world—who were endowed with great power, wealth, beauty, generosity, and strength. Yet, rejecting those suitors who sought your hand, scorning proud kings like Shishupala and others, you were given to me by your brother and father. Why did you not choose someone equal to yourself? O beautiful-browed one, out of fear of the kings, you sought refuge in the ocean, having made enemies of the powerful and abandoned royal seats. Women who follow men whose path is unclear, who have left the way of the world, generally come to grief. We are always destitute, and dear to those who are destitute; therefore, O slender-waisted one, wealthy women generally do not choose me. Marriage and friendship are proper between those whose wealth, birth, power, beauty, and status are equal; never between the highest and the lowest. O princess of Vidarbha, not understanding this, you have chosen me—one lacking in qualities—praised in vain by wandering mendicants. Therefore, unite yourself with a Kshatriya hero who matches you, by whom you will obtain true blessings in this world and the next. Shishupala, Shalva, Jarasandha, Dantavakra, and other kings, O slender-thighed one, are hostile to me, and even your elder brother Rukmi is among them. O good lady, you were brought here by me to humble the pride of those kings, blinded by the intoxication of their strength, and to diminish their arrogance, for the sake of the virtuous. Truly, I am indifferent, not seeking wife, children, or pleasure; I am fulfilled in myself, and my household is but a lightless ritual.” Having spoken thus, Krishna ceased, seeing Rukmiṇī as his beloved, inseparable from himself, and thus ended her pride. When the Lord of the three worlds spoke such harsh words—never before heard from her beloved—his queen, terrified and trembling at heart, fell into deep, unending sorrow, weeping. With her well-formed foot, adorned by the red glow of her nails, she traced the ground, her tears darkened by collyrium; her breasts, smeared with saffron, were washed by her tears. She stood with head bowed, her voice choked by intense grief. Her mind, overwhelmed by unbearable sorrow and fear, caused her bracelet to slip from her limp hand, the fan to fall, and her body to faint suddenly, like a plantain tree struck by the wind, her hair scattered. Seeing this, Krishna, bound by his beloved’s love and unaware of the depth of her affection, was moved to compassion. Quickly descending from the couch, the four-armed Lord raised her up, gently gathered her hair, and wiped her face with his lotus hand. He dried the tears from her eyes and the sorrow from her breasts, embracing her with his arm—she who was devoted to none but him. Krishna, who knows how to console, comforted the distressed Rukmiṇī with compassion. Though her mind was bewildered by pride and his jest, she was undeserving of such sorrow. The Lord, the refuge of the virtuous, soothed her gently. He spoke: “Do not be angry, O princess of Vidarbha; I know you are devoted to me. Wishing to hear your words, I acted playfully, O fair one. I desired to see your face, with lips trembling in loving excitement, your sidelong glances reddened, and the beautiful curve of your frowning brows. For householders, O timid and lovely one, the highest gain in family life is to spend time in playful conversation with their beloved.” Thus consoled by the Lord, Rukmiṇī understood his words were spoken in jest, and she let go of her fear of being abandoned by her beloved. Looking at Krishna’s face, she spoke to the best of men, her glance gentle and affectionate, her smile charming with modesty. Rukmiṇī replied: “Indeed, O lotus-eyed one, what you have said is true. How could I, of insignificant qualities and ignorant, be a fitting match for you, the Lord, master of all opulence, who delights in your own greatness? Truly, O mighty-armed, you dwell within all virtues, yet remain untouched by them, just as the ocean lies beneath the waves. Ever free from the senses, you assume forms for your devotees, dispelling the dense darkness of ignorance from the hearts of kings. The path to your lotus feet, enjoyed by sages, is indeed difficult for men and beasts to comprehend, O Lord, because your actions are beyond worldly understanding; only those who follow you, O great one, can grasp your ways.