The golden city of Dvārakā awoke with the tender glow of dawn. In the royal gardens, the fragrance of blooming mālatī and campaka flowers mingled with the gentle vāyu. Birds sang in soft chorus, while deer and peacocks moved gracefully among the flowering latās.
At the heart of this divya-saundarya, sat the Lord Jagannātha, enjoying the serene sunrise with Śrī Rukmiṇī-devī by his side. Her eyes reflected the morning light, and her presence glowed like Lakṣmī-svarūpiṇī herself. The other mahīṣīs, radiant as stars around the full moon, were engaged in nitya-pūjā, offering flowers, incense, and mantra-prārthanā with devotion.
At that moment, a group of revered ṛṣis entered the garden, their faces bright with tapas-tejas, their wives (ṛṣi-patnīs) by their side, and their śiṣyas following humbly. Their footsteps fell silent as they beheld the sight-of the Puruṣottama dwelling amidst beauty, yet appearing simple as a loving husband.
Sri Krishna and his wives, the sages bowed deeply, their hearts overflowing. They seated themselves on the pavitra-bhūmi before him.
One among them, with folded hands, spoke in a voice trembling with bhakti-bhāva:
"O Rukmiṇīvara, Jagannātha, we have longed to behold your kamala-vadana. Today our eyes are blessed, for you sit amidst divinity itself-your garden, your queens, and your own radiant self."
Śrī Rukmiṇī glanced softly at the sages, her eyes reflecting karuṇā.
With a heart overflowing in prema and respect, Śrī Kṛṣṇa rose slightly, folding his palms toward the sages. His voice, soft as the murmur of the Yamunā-nadī, carried both aiśvarya and humility.
Śrī Kṛṣṇa:
"Āgatam svāgatam, O venerable ones! Your arrival sanctifies this garden more than a thousand sacred yajñas. Please accept ātithyam from me-sweet fruits, cool water, and offerings prepared with love."
At his gentle command, attendants brought baskets of ripe mangoes, guavas, pomegranates, and golden bananas, laying them before the ṛṣis and their families. The fragrance of honey and flowers lingered in the air as they partook with gratitude.
Then, with eyes calm and serene, the Lord gazed upon them-his glance carrying the weight of ananta-dayā.
Śrī Kṛṣṇa (softly):
"O Munivarāḥ, what brings you here today? Tell me-do you seek anything from me that I may fulfill? Or do you come simply to share your company with this dāsa of yours?"
For a moment, silence fell-the rustling of leaves and distant peacock cries were the only sound. Then, one of the sages, seated sukha-āsīna upon the earth, bowed and spoke, his words carrying the burden of longing and wonder.
Ṛṣi:
"O Rukmiṇīvara, how shall we speak? This bhava-sāgara, this endless ocean of worldly existence, is but your own māyā. You, the source of all, have woven it with such mystery that even we-versed in śāstra-stand bewildered.
We see ourselves with our ardhāṅgī-our wives who are half of our being. Yet even with such companionship, doubts arise: how is one to cross this ocean, while still bound by love, by duty, by worldly bonds? O Lord, how is this possible, when all is but your līlā?"
The sages fell silent, eyes searching the face of the Lord. Kṛṣṇa's gaze softened even more, as if the ocean of mercy in his heart had just been stirred.
Looking toward Śrī Rukmiṇī, whose eyes shone like still padma-sarovara, Śrī Kṛṣṇa smiled with tender love. That gentle glance itself seemed to carry half his words, and then, in a calm and steady voice, he addressed the assembled ṛṣis:
Śrī Kṛṣṇa:
"O Śreṣṭha Munis, listen. I, too, live amidst bonds and affections...
Yet within, I am not bound.
...To live amidst prema, yet remain above saṅga-that is the secret."
Śrī Kṛṣṇa's words hung in the air, soft as the sound of the venu-nāda, yet carrying the weight of eternal truth.
He paused, his gaze falling once more on Śrī Rukmiṇī-devī, who lowered her eyes in quiet vinaya. The sages, deeply moved, sat still as if their very doubts were being untied by the knot.
With a majestic smile and a glance of deep respect, Janārdana turned toward his beloved:
Śrī Kṛṣṇa:
"My priyā Rukmiṇī, daughter of Mahārāja Bhīṣmaka-she is śrī-svarūpiṇī, the very embodiment of divine prosperity, the mother of prema itself, from whom kāma, sukha, ānanda arise. Look at the path she chose to become mine.
She grew amidst affection, cherished by her pitṛ, mātṛ, and her five brothers, surrounded by love from every side. Yet, merely by listening to my līlās, her heart surrendered wholly to me.
All around her, people urged her toward Śiśupāla, prince of Cedi. They glorified him, convinced her of his wealth, power, and royal match. But she, who is dharma-svarūpiṇī, remained unmoved. Even at the very brink of marriage to Śiśupāla, her citta did not waver. With steady determination, she wrote her letter to me-her hṛdaya unshaken by fear or persuasion.
This firmness, O Munis, is possible only when one's prema, dharma, and vairāgya stand together upon the highest peak."
The sages listened, their eyes moist with reverence. Then, one of the ṛṣi-patnīs leaned forward, folding her palms toward Śrī Rukmiṇī:
Ṛṣi-patnī:
"O Devī, O Jagadambā, there is nothing impossible for you. But for us humans, how can such sthairya (steadiness) be attained? Please show us the mārga."
Śrī Rukmiṇī, glowing with divine tejas, her lotus-like eyes half-closed, her lips like bimba-phala, gently began to speak:
Śrī Rukmiṇī:
"O Devī, do not think this sthiti is beyond reach. The same challenges you face, I too have faced.
When you sit for nitya-pūjā and offer your heart to Janārdana, distractions come-sounds, movements, thoughts pulling the manas away. A cancala-hṛdaya (restless heart) never listens to the inner call. Without mastery over this restlessness, true śaraṇāgati becomes impossible.
Therefore, one must gradually bring the pañcendriyāḥ under control. How? Through nitya-sādhana-daily practice of smaraṇa, japa, dhyāna. By such sādhana, the hṛdaya becomes pure, the manas becomes steady, and the citta finds stillness.
This was my path too. I offered my śravaṇa only to his kathā, my dṛṣṭi only to his rūpa, my manas only to thoughts of him. Every longing, every desire within me turned toward him alone. Thus, detachment from all else was not forced-it was the natural fruit of surrender.
When every sense is directed to him, when every breath whispers his nāma, then surrender (śaraṇāgati) becomes effortless, and he becomes yours."
Her words, like amṛta-dhārā, flowed into the hearts of all who listened. The sages, their wives, and disciples sat in silence, drinking every syllable. Time itself seemed to pause in the gardens of Dvārakā.
But as the sun began to descend, casting golden rays across the ocean's edge, the moment of departure arrived.
The sages rose, offering daṇḍavat-praṇāma before Rukmiṇīvara and Śrī Rukmiṇī.
Ṛṣis (together):
"O Rukmiṇīvara, O Jagadambā, today you have poured jñāna and bhakti-rasa into our hearts. This day shall remain forever fragrant in our lives. Now, with your permission, we take leave."
Śrī Kṛṣṇa and Śrī Rukmiṇī, raising their hands in blessing, Janārdana spoke with gentle affection:
"May your journey be blessed. May your hearts ever dwell in smaraṇa of the Supreme. Wherever you go, I shall be with you."
The sages departed slowly, their faces glowing as if lit from within. The garden returned to quietude-flowers closing for the night, birds settling into their nests-while the sāgara sang softly to the setting sun.