Uṣā, the princess, was lost in longing, her heart aching for the beloved who had once let her taste the nectar of his lips, only to disappear and leave her drowning in an ocean of sorrowful yearning. Seeing her friend so afflicted, Citralekhā offered comfort, assuring her, “If misfortune is destined for you in all the three worlds, I will remove it. Tell me who this enchanting one is, and I shall bring him to you.” With these words, Citralekhā set about her task. She drew the likenesses of all manner of beings: gods, gandharvas, siddhas, charanas, serpents, demons, vidyadharas, yakṣas, and humans, each as they were known. Among the humans, she sketched the Vrishnis, Shura, Anakadundubhi, and, as she drew Rama and Krishna, she grew shy and bashful. But when she depicted Aniruddha, she lowered her face in modesty and, smiling, pointed him out to Uṣā, saying, “That one, that one.” Understanding her friend’s heart, Citralekhā, endowed with yogic powers and the granddaughter of Krishna, set forth through the sky to Dvārakā, the city protected by Krishna himself. There, by her yogic might, she gently took Aniruddha, the son of Pradyumna, as he slept upon a fine bed, and brought him in secret to Śoṇitapura to present him to Uṣā. When Uṣā beheld the handsome hero, her face blossomed with joy. In her own private chambers—difficult for others even to approach—she delighted in Aniruddha’s company. He was honored with splendid garments, garlands, fragrant perfumes, incense, glowing lamps, comfortable seats, delicious drinks, foods, and delicacies, all accompanied by her devoted words and service. Hidden within the maiden’s palace, Aniruddha, ever attended by Uṣā’s growing affection, became so enchanted by her that he lost all sense of the passing days. As the Yadu hero enjoyed her company, Uṣā’s vows of chastity were broken. The palace guards, by subtle signs, discerned her delight and suspected something was amiss. They reported to King Bāṇa, “We have noticed suspicious behavior in your daughter—a disgrace to the family. Though we have protected her, O lord, in her own house, we do not know how this maiden, so difficult to approach, has been defiled by a man.” Distressed by this news, Bāṇa hurried to his daughter’s quarters. There he beheld the Yadu prince: the very embodiment of desire, the most beautiful in the world—dark-complexioned, dressed in radiant yellow garments, lotus-eyed, with broad arms, shining earrings, curling locks, and a face adorned with smiling glances. Aniruddha was playing dice with his beloved, who, eager for him, wore a garland stained with the red of her own breasts’ kumkuma, while he held a garland of jasmine in his arms. Seeing them together, Bāṇa was struck with astonishment. As Mādhava (Aniruddha) found himself surrounded by hostile guards and troops, he seized his club and stood ready, like Death himself wielding his staff, intent on battle. Those who rushed at him from all sides were struck down by Aniruddha, as a boar king would slay hounds; those he struck fled the palace, their bodies broken. But then, Bāṇa’s own powerful son, using bonds of serpents, managed to bind Aniruddha, who was slaying his captors in fury. Uṣā, overwhelmed with grief and sorrow, wept bitterly at the sight of her beloved bound. Thus concludes the sixty-second chapter, “The Binding of Aniruddha,” in the tenth book of the Śrīmad Bhāgavatam. Śrī Śuka continued: O descendant of Bharata, while Aniruddha and his kin remained unseen, four months passed, filled with ceaseless grief for his family. Then, Nārada brought word to the Vṛṣṇis of Aniruddha’s captivity and all that had transpired. For these devotees of Krishna, this news was a call to arms, and they set out for Śoṇitapura. Pradyumna, Yuyudhāna, Gada, Sāmba, Sāraṇa, Nanda, Upananda, Bhadra, and others—all followers of Rāma and Krishna—gathered their forces. With twelve divisions of troops, the foremost of the Sātvatas encircled Bāṇa’s city on all sides. Bāṇa, seeing his gardens, ramparts, towers, and gateways being laid waste, was seized with anger. He emerged to do battle, his own army matching the invaders. For Bāṇa’s sake, the blessed Rudra (Śiva), together with his son and the Pramathas, mounted the bull Nandi and entered the fray against Rāma and Krishna. A tumultuous, wondrous, and hair-raising battle broke out between Krishna and Śaṅkara, and also between Pradyumna and Guha. Kumbhāṇḍa and Kūpakarṇa faced Balarāma; Sāmba fought with Bāṇa’s son; Sātyaki engaged Bāṇa himself. The gods—Brahmā and others—sages, perfected beings, celestial singers, nymphs, and yakṣas arrived in their aerial chariots to witness this epic conflict. Krishna drove away the followers of Śaṅkara—spirits, pramathas, guhyakas, ḍākinīs, rākṣasas, and vināyakas—as well as pretas, mātṛs, piśācas, kuṣmāṇḍas, and brahmarākṣasas, with his sharp arrows from the Śārṅga bow. Rudra, the wielder of Pināka, unleashed a torrent of weapons at Krishna, but Krishna, undisturbed, countered each one. He met the Brahmāstra with his own Brahmāstra, the Vāyavya with the Pārvatāstra, the Āgneya with the Pārjanya, and the Pāśupata with his own divine weapon. Then Krishna, having bewildered Giriśa (Śiva) with the Jṛmbhaṇa weapon, struck down Bāṇa’s army with sword, mace, and arrows. Skanda (Kārttikeya), assailed by Pradyumna’s relentless arrows, bled from his limbs and, as the peacock-bannered one, withdrew from the battle. Kumbhāṇḍa and Kūpakarṇa fell by Balarāma’s plough, and their leaderless troops fled in all directions. Witnessing his forces shattered, Bāṇa, burning with rage, abandoned Sātyaki and charged at Krishna in the thick of battle. Drawing his bows, Bāṇa, mad with fury, set two arrows on each of five hundred shafts at once. But Lord Hari cut down all those bows in a flash, slew the charioteer, destroyed the chariot and horses, and then sounded his conch. At that moment, Bāṇa’s mother, Koṭarā, desperate to save her son’s life, stood naked and with disheveled hair before Krishna, seeking his mercy and protection for her child.