On a most splendid couch, white as milk foam, Rukmiṇī attended to her husband, the Lord of all worlds, as he sat at ease. With reverence, she took from her companion a yak-tail fan, its handle adorned with jewels, and began to fan the Lord, performing her worship with devotion. Her jeweled anklets sounded softly as she moved; her hands, decorated with rings and bangles, held the fan gracefully. Around her neck hung a necklace, its radiance tinged with the saffron that marked her hidden breasts beneath her garment. A priceless girdle encircled her hips. Thus, Rukmiṇī shone beside Acyuta, her beauty and fortune radiant. Beholding her—the very embodiment of grace and prosperity, who, having no other refuge, had assumed a form to match his own—Hari was pleased. Smiling, his curling locks framed his face, his earrings and radiant necklace shining, his lips adorned with nectar-like smiles. Gently, he began to speak to her. “O princess,” said the Blessed Lord, “kings—the guardians of the world—endowed with great power, wealth, beauty, generosity, and strength, all desired you. Yet, scorning proud suitors like Shishupala and others, you were given by your brother and father. Why did you not choose someone equal to yourself? “O beautiful-browed one, in fear of these kings, you sought refuge in the ocean, making enemies of the powerful and abandoning your royal home. Women who follow men whose path is unclear, who have left the ways of the world, generally come to grief. “We are always destitute, and dear only to the destitute; thus, O slender-waisted one, wealthy women rarely choose me. Marriage and friendship are proper only 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, it would be better for you to unite with a Kshatriya hero who matches you, by whom you will find true blessings in this life and the next. “Shishupala, Shalva, Jarasandha, Dantavakra, and other kings, O slender-thighed one, are all hostile to me—even your elder brother Rukmi is among them. You were brought here by me to humble the pride of those kings, blinded by their strength, and to diminish their arrogance, for the sake of the virtuous. “Truly, I am indifferent, seeking neither wife nor children nor pleasure. I am fulfilled in myself; my household is but a ritual without light.” Having spoken thus, the Lord fell silent, seeing her as his beloved, inseparable from himself, and thus ended her pride. But when the Lord of the three worlds uttered such harsh words—never before heard from her beloved—his queen was terrified. Her heart trembled, and she fell into deep, unending sorrow, weeping. With her well-formed foot, its nails tinged red, she traced the ground. Tears, darkened by collyrium, streamed down her cheeks; her saffron-smeared breasts were bathed in sorrow, and she stood, head bowed, her voice choked with grief. Overwhelmed by unbearable sorrow and fear, her bracelet slipped from her limp hand, the fan fell, and her body and mind bewildered, she suddenly fainted—like a plantain tree struck by the wind—her hair scattered about her. Seeing this, Krishna, bound by his beloved’s love and realizing now the depth of her devotion, was moved to compassion. Quickly he descended from the couch, and the four-armed Lord raised her up, gathering her hair and gently wiping her face with his lotus hand. Tenderly he wiped the tears from her eyes and the sorrow from her breasts, embracing her with his arm—she who was devoted to none but him. Knowing how to comfort, the Lord consoled the distressed Rukmiṇī with compassion. Though her mind was bewildered by pride and his jest, she was undeserving of such sorrow. The Lord, refuge of the virtuous, soothed her. He spoke gently: “Do not be angry, O princess of Vidarbha. I know your devotion to me. Desiring to hear your words, I acted playfully, O fair one. I wished to see your face, 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 joy in family life is to spend time in playful conversation with their beloved.” Śuka said: Thus consoled by the Lord, Rukmiṇī understood his words were spoken in jest, and her fear of being abandoned melted away. Looking at the Lord’s face, she addressed him, her glance gentle and affectionate, her smile charming with modesty. She said, “Indeed, O lotus-eyed one, what you have spoken is true. How could I, of insignificant qualities and ignorance, 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 hard for men and beasts to comprehend, O Lord, for your actions are beyond worldly understanding; only those who follow you can grasp your ways. You are truly without possessions, for nothing exists apart from you—even the powerful offer tribute to you. Those blinded by insatiable desire and wealth do not know you, O beloved, yet even the mighty are dear to you, and you to them. “You are the embodiment of all human goals and their fruits; wise men, desiring you, renounce everything. O Lord, your association is fitting for them, not for those absorbed in the pleasures and pains of men and women. You, whose greatness is praised by sages who have set aside anger, are the soul and giver of souls to the worlds—so I have heard. When your eyebrow signals the force of time, even Brahmā and Śiva lose their blessings; what then of others? “O elder brother of Gadā, your words may seem dull, but you drove away kings with the twang of your bow and took me, just as a lion seizes his share among animals; out of fear of them, I sought refuge in the ocean. Desiring you, O lotus-eyed one, the foremost of kings—such as Ambarīṣa, Nahuṣa, and Gaya—abandoned their kingdoms and entered the forest; yet those who remain here, why do they not follow your path? “Who, after smelling the fragrance of your lotus feet, spoken of by the virtuous and granting liberation, would seek any other shelter? Mortal men, blinded by material pursuits, disregard the abode of Lakṣmī, the treasury of virtues. I have worshipped you, the Lord of all worlds, as is proper; you are the fulfiller of desires in this life and the next. May your feet be my sole refuge through the cycles of birth, for you surely come to those who worship you, granting freedom from falsehood. “O Acyuta, in the homes of women, the men instructed by you are like donkeys, cows, horses, cats, and servants; if your stories, sung in the assemblies of Śiva and Brahmā, do not reach their ears, what is the use of their lives? A foolish woman, who has not tasted the nectar of your lotus feet, cherishes her beloved—whose body is nothing but skin, hair, nails, and hair, filled with flesh, bones, blood, worms, excrement, phlegm, bile, and wind—a living corpse.” Thus did Rukmiṇī speak, her heart full of devotion and love, her words a gentle offering to the Lord who is the refuge of all.