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.

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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.