O gentle one with beautiful brows, you once fled to the ocean out of fear of the mighty kings, having made them your enemies and abandoned the royal comforts of your homeland. You, so lovely, chose to follow a man whose path is not easily understood, a man who has left behind the ways of the world. Women who do so, who follow such uncertain roads, often find themselves in sorrow. We are always among the destitute and are dear to those who have nothing; therefore, slender-waisted one, women of wealth do not usually choose me. Marriage and friendship are truly proper only among equals—those of similar wealth, birth, power, beauty, and status—not between the highest and the lowest. Yet, O princess of Vidarbha, not understanding this, you have chosen me, a man lacking in worldly qualities, celebrated only in vain by wandering mendicants. Therefore, unite yourself with a Kshatriya hero who matches you in every way, by whom you will find true blessings in this world and the next. Shishupala, Shalva, Jarasandha, Dantavakra, and other mighty kings—yes, even your own elder brother Rukmi—are my adversaries, O slender-thighed one. Know, gentle lady, that I brought you here to humble the pride of these kings, whose strength has made them arrogant, and to bring relief to the virtuous. As for me, I am indifferent—neither seeking wife, nor children, nor pleasure. I am fulfilled in my own self, and my household life is but an empty ritual, devoid of real light. Śuka then said: Having spoken thus, the Lord stopped, seeing her as his beloved, inseparable from himself, and in this way, her pride was ended. When the Lord of the three worlds uttered these harsh words—words she had never before heard from her beloved—his queen, terrified and trembling within, fell into deep, unending sorrow and wept. With her delicate foot, red-tinted by her nails, she traced the ground, her tears darkened by collyrium. Her saffron-smeared breasts were bathed in tears, and she stood with her head bowed, her voice choked by intense grief. Overcome by unbearable sorrow and fear, her bracelet slipped from her limp hand, her fan fell to the ground, and her body, mind bewildered, suddenly fainted like a plantain tree struck by the wind, her hair scattered. Seeing this, Krishna, bound by the love of his beloved and not fully aware of the depth of her affection, was moved by compassion. Quickly descending from his couch, the four-armed Lord raised her up, gathered her hair, and gently wiped her face with his lotus hand. He dried the tears from her eyes and her breasts, wet from sorrow, and embraced her with his arm, she who was devoted to none but him. Knowing how to comfort, the Lord soothed the distressed woman with compassion. Though her mind was clouded by pride and by his playful jest, she did not deserve such suffering. The Lord, refuge of the virtuous, calmed her heart. The Blessed Lord spoke: “Do not be angry, O princess of Vidarbha. I know your devotion to me. Wishing to hear your words, I acted playfully, O fair one. I longed to see your face, your lips trembling in loving excitement, your sidelong glances tinged red, and the beautiful curve of your frowning brows. For those who live in the world, O timid and lovely one, the highest joy is found in playful conversation with their beloved.” Śuka continued: Thus comforted by the Lord, Rukmiṇī understood his words were spoken in jest, and her fear of being abandoned by her beloved faded away. Gazing at the Lord’s face, she spoke to the best of men, her glance gentle and affectionate, her smile full of modest charm. Rukmiṇī said: “Indeed, O lotus-eyed one, what you have said is true. How could I, of so little worth and so ignorant, be a fitting match for you, the Lord, master of all opulence, who delights in your own greatness? Truly, mighty-armed one, you dwell within all virtues, yet remain untouched by them, just as the ocean lies beneath its 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, sought by sages, is difficult for men and beasts to comprehend, O Lord, for your actions are beyond worldly understanding. Only those who follow you, O great one, 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 are dear to them. You are the embodiment and the fruit of all human goals. Wise men, desiring you, renounce everything. O Lord, your association is fitting for them, not for those absorbed in the fleeting pleasures and pains of men and women. You, whose greatness is praised by sages freed from 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 simple, but you drove away kings with the twang of your bow and took me, just as a lion seizes his rightful share among animals. Out of fear of them, I sought refuge in the ocean. Desiring you, O lotus-eyed one, even the foremost of kings—Ambarīṣa, Nahuṣa, and Gaya—abandoned their kingdoms and entered the forest. Why, then, do those who remain here not follow your path? Who, after smelling the fragrance of your lotus feet—praised by the virtuous and granting liberation—would seek any other shelter? Mortal men, their vision blinded by material pursuits, disregard the abode of Lakṣmī, the treasury of all virtues. I have worshipped you, 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 as I wander 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 smelled the nectar of your lotus feet, clings to her beloved—whose body is but skin, hair, nails, and hair, filled with flesh, bones, blood, worms, excrement, phlegm, bile, and wind—a living corpse. O Lotus-eyed One, may I have devotion to your feet, for you are self-satisfied and see no one as separate from yourself. When, by the influence of old age, the mode of passion increases in someone, and you look upon me, that alone is your supreme compassion for us. O Madhusudana, I do not think your words are false. For a maiden’s love is generally for her mother, and only sometimes for another. Even for a married woman of loose character, her mind turns again and again to something new. A wise man should not keep such a faithless woman; if he does, he loses both sides.” Then the Blessed Lord replied: “O chaste one, princess, you have been tested by me with words meant to see your desire to hear. Everything you have asked about, as I have spoken, is indeed true. O beautiful one, whatever desires you may have, if you are devoted only to me, O auspicious lady, they are always fulfilled for you, who are my exclusive devotee. O sinless one, your love for your husband and your fidelity have been proven. Even when you were agitated by my words, your mind did not waver from me.” Thus, in this loving exchange, the Lord’s playful test revealed Rukmiṇī’s unwavering devotion, and her heart, reassured, rested in the shelter of her beloved’s grace.