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.