I was twenty-eight years old when I married


    Rukmini. When people speak of Rukmini,


    they mention her devotion to me. The talk of


    how she was in love with me since the age of


    eight. They said she was one of the most


    beautiful women to have walked on Earth.


    The yellow silk saris she always wore, and


    the gold that adorned her throat, her wrists,


    her ears made her appear goddess-like.


    Rukmini was Lakshmi, Fortuna, Demeter.


    She was resplendent. She was what wealth


    and fruitfulness should look like if they took


    human form.


    But Rukmini was more than the bejewelled,


    dazzling beauty that you saw when you


    turned to look at her. She was vivacious,


    witty, intelligent, determined, and astute. In


    an age where women often found themselves


    succumbing to paternal and fraternal


    pressure, she knew to hold her own. She


    knew what she wanted and ensured she had


    her way.


    Her brother Rukmin, the Prince of Vidarbha,


    promised her in marriage to Shishupal, my


    cousin, though we were nowhere alike.


    Shishupal had been born with congenital


    disorders. He had an extra eye and four arms.


    He should have been revered as Lord Shiva


    incarnated. But he wasn''t, instead the stars


    aligned in such perfect inauspiciousness that


    the astrologers declared him the


    reincarnation of Ravana. His father could not


    bear to lay eyes on him, and his mother was


    afraid to nurse him.


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.Sometimes, being dealt a lousy card makes


    us compassionate, wise, better human beings.


    But, unfortunately, sometimes we end up


    believing the stories we hear about ourselves.


    Shishupala grew wilful, disobedient, wild,


    almost demonic.


    When Rukmin declared that Rukmini would


    have to spend her life with Shishupal as his


    wife, Rukmini created a ruckus. She raged,


    she sulked, threatened, but her brother would


    not budge. It was then that Rukmini decided


    to take her destiny into her own hands.


    I received a letter from Princess Rukmini on


    a cold, wet day during the monsoon season.


    The parchment was perfumed with the


    faintest aroma of sandalwood. The writing


    was elegant, confident and it was evident that


    the hands that must have held the quill were


    sophisticated, refined, and well versed in the


    art of setting down thoughts onto


    parchments.


    The lady wrote of the predicament she found


    herself in. She mentioned the despair she


    felt, and she requested that I Krishna, the


    King of Dwarka, save her from the


    arbitrariness of her brother''s diktat. She


    wrote of her love for me, a love that could


    perhaps be mere infatuation, but it felt so


    much more. The stories of my exploits, some


    true some imagined, had found their way to


    her ears and found herself attracted to the


    charms, the virtues I was said to possess.


    Rukmini asked me to help her. She asked me


    to abduct her and wed her. She laid out her


    plan in considerable detail, in deep red ink


    on a cream-colored parchment.


    I could not say no. So, I did what Rukmini


    asked of me. I abducted her. I wed her. I


    married the princess of Vidarbha. I had my


    consort, my queen. I treated her with respect.


    I showered my love on my wife, my queen


    consort. My heart still belonged to Radha.