When the wedding festivities had concluded, the assembly of kings—led by the haughty ruler of Kalinga—turned their attention to games of chance. Swelling with pride, they challenged Rukmi to defeat Balarama in a contest of dice. Though Balarama was not skilled in the game, the kings pressed him, saying, “He does not know dice, O King, yet the loss is great.” Thus compelled, Balarama sat to play, and Rukmi became his opponent. The game began with modest stakes: a hundred coins, then a thousand, then ten thousand. Each time, Rukmi bested Balarama, and the king of Kalinga, unable to contain his glee, laughed loudly, baring his teeth in open mockery. This derision stung Halayudha—Balarama—deeply. The stakes rose higher. Rukmi wagered a hundred thousand coins, but this time Balarama won. Rukmi, unwilling to accept defeat, resorted to deceit, declaring, “I have won.” Balarama’s anger swelled like the ocean at its high tide; his eyes, red with wrath and his own noble birth, blazed. He staked ten million coins. By fair play, Balarama won once again, yet Rukmi, clinging to trickery, claimed victory and called for witnesses to support his false claim. At that moment, a voice rang out from the sky: “Balarama alone has won the wager. Rukmi lies, claiming victory with words, not righteousness.” Yet Rukmi ignored this heavenly pronouncement. Urged on by the wicked kings and his own fate, he mocked Sankarshana, speaking with scorn: “You cowherds, who wander the forests, know nothing of dice. It is kings who play dice and shoot arrows, not men like you.” Insulted and derided by the assembly, Balarama’s fury could no longer be contained. He rose, club in hand, and struck Rukmi down before all the gathered men. Then, seizing the king of Kalinga—who had laughed with bared teeth—Balarama, in his wrath, knocked out those very teeth. The other kings, their arms, thighs, and heads broken and bloodied by Balarama’s club, fled in terror. When Rukmi, Krishna’s brother-in-law, was slain, Hari—Krishna—remained silent, neither praising nor condemning the act, for he feared that affection might be broken between Rukmini and Balarama. Then, with their tasks accomplished and under the shelter of Madhusudana, Balarama and the Dasharhas placed Aniruddha and his bride upon a splendid chariot and departed from Bhojakat for Kushasthali. King Parikshit, hearing of these wondrous events, asked: “How did the foremost of the Yadus marry Bāṇa’s daughter Ūṣā? I have heard there was a terrible battle between Hari and Śaṅkara. O great yogi, please recount these events in detail.” Śuka replied: Bāṇa, the eldest among the hundred sons of the great soul Bali—the same Bali who gave the earth to Hari in the form of Vāmana—was ever devoted to Śiva. Renowned for his generosity, intelligence, steadfastness, and truth, Bāṇa ruled as king in the splendid city of Śoṇita. By the grace of Śambhu, his attendants were like the immortals themselves. Possessed of a thousand arms, Bāṇa delighted Lord Rudra by playing music during the Tāṇḍava dance. Pleased, the Lord of all beings, protector and lover of his devotees, granted Bāṇa a boon. Bāṇa chose Śiva himself as his city’s guardian. Yet, intoxicated by his own might, Bāṇa once approached Giriśa, touched his lotus feet with a crown shining like the sun, and said, “O Mahādeva, guru and lord of the worlds, you fulfill the wishes of all. You have granted me a thousand arms, but now they are a burden. In all the three worlds, I find no one to match me in battle but you.” Yearning for combat, Bāṇa would scratch himself with his many arms and fight the elephants of the directions, crushing mountains—yet even these fled in fear of him. Hearing this, Lord Śiva, angered, replied, “When your flag is broken, O fool, you will find an opponent worthy to humble your pride.” Delighted by these words, yet misguided, Bāṇa returned home, foolishly awaiting the moment when Giriśa’s words would come to pass, not realizing he was inviting his own destruction. Bāṇa had a daughter named Ūṣā. One night, she dreamed of union with a handsome youth—the son of Pradyumna—a man she had never seen or heard of before. When she awoke, her heart was troubled. Among her friends, she cried out, “Where are you, beloved?” deeply agitated and embarrassed. Bāṇa’s minister was Kumbhāṇḍa, whose daughter Citralekhā was a close friend of Ūṣā. Curious, Citralekhā asked, “Who is it you seek, O lovely-browed one? What man fills your thoughts? I have not seen anyone take your hand.” Ūṣā replied, “In my dream, I saw a dark, lotus-eyed man, clad in yellow, with great arms—one who captivates the hearts of women. He made me taste nectar from his lips, but then vanished, leaving me in an ocean of sorrow.” Citralekhā comforted her: “If your misfortune is destined in all the worlds, I will remove it. Tell me who this enchanting one is, and I will bring him to you.” She then drew portraits of gods, gandharvas, siddhas, charanas, serpents, demons, vidyadharas, yakshas, and humans. Among the humans, she depicted the Vrishnis—Shura, Anakadundubhi, and, while drawing Rama and Krishna, Citralekhā became bashful. When she drew Aniruddha, Ūṣā, smiling and lowering her gaze in modesty, said, “That one, that one.” Understanding, Citralekhā—endowed with yogic power and descended from Krishna’s own line—traveled through the sky to Dvaraka, protected by Krishna. There she found Aniruddha, son of Pradyumna, sleeping on a fine bed. Using her yogic prowess, she brought him to Shonitapura to present him to her friend. Ūṣā’s heart overflowed with joy. In her own palace, which none could easily enter, she delighted in Aniruddha’s company. She honored him with splendid garments, garlands, fragrances, incense, lamps, seats, drinks, food, delicacies, and tender words of service. Hidden away in the maiden’s palace, always attended by Ūṣā’s growing affection, Aniruddha, his senses wholly captivated, lost all sense of time.