《The Man Who Was Krishna》


 Preface

    I am Krishna. I am the man who knew the


    beginning and the end of every story ever


    told, and this is my story. The way I see it,


    there is no right or wrong, so I let the tales


    unfold like theatre, a drama played out with


    each minute detail arranged, plotted,


    planned, and preconceived. An orchestra of


    events that I will make happen. There


    remains, however, a one-in-a-million chance


    that it won''t. How? Ever so often, the will of


    the other will find the power to surge


    through, rarely perhaps, but it can, it does,


    and it''s in that one outcome that I feel the


    exhilaration of all I am.


    It happens so rarely, though, that I should be


    thankful for it, but I do not need to express


    gratitude. I understand all of it only too well.


    I know the importance and the need to be


    understood. I know what it is to feel extreme


    love and extreme pain. Both are the same. I


    feel it all, and I feel nothing at all. Every


    word that emanates from a being has an


    essence, a meaning which, if understood, is a


    powerful thing. I can create a tapestry of


    words to blanket the world as it goes through


    the ice age, and I can melt that ice with the


    warmth of my words. But for me, they are


    just words. To you, they must mean


    everything.


    But I will not talk of all that today. Too


    much has already been told. Today, I will lay


    bare the man in me. I will show you the child


    who was born, the boy who played on the


    farms, the courtyard, and the streets. I want


    to talk of the trivial, the ordinary, because


    that is where you must seek the deep.


    I want to talk about love. I loved falling in


    love¡ªevery time. With Radha, it was about


    the senses. She was my friend, and I wooed


    Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!her, but not with all the skill and range of


    artfulness I possessed like I did the others. I


    wooed Radha because I knew no other way


    to exist. Radha, who permeated every fibre


    of my being so completely, I felt she was me.


    And because Radha is synonymous with


    music, I want to talk about music and how I


    have always loved it. I find it easier to let the


    music flow, and I use my prodigious


    knowledge of it to be heard above the noise


    that echoes all around. Music opens people


    up. It moves the spirit; it heals. It was music


    that flowed through Radha and me, bringing


    us together till she was everything I would


    ever need or want, but music could not make


    her leave her world for me.


    I have so many women in my life. And they


    all give up every atom of their beings to me.


    I used to believe that was the nature of


    feminine love. A gradual surrender until the


    she in her ceases to be a separate entity. But


    Radha was not like that. Her will is not like


    the flicker I see in the deepest parts of the


    other people I meet. It isn''t even just a flame.


    It''s like a fire in the hearth that warms


    everything around it. It calls out to you, and


    you do not want to leave as you come near


    palms open in front. You want to lay there


    for a little while, be kissed by the heat of the


    flames and as your eyes get heavy, you


    remain captured in the comfort of the glow.


    She is like that. She is just like the hearth


    fire. And I cannot find it in me to not hold


    on. She is so much more than the others.


    But she couldn''t come with me, and I


    desperately needed to move on. I can''t just


    stay and play music all day; I must grow and


    be on that journey to build the kingdoms I


    am programmed to destroy. I must play my


    part, and she chooses not to accept her place


    in the script. Ever.


    So, I moved on, to acquire all that I must, I


    lived, I loved- some more, I killed - for a


    better world, I fibbed a bit and built myself a


    small empire in a little corner of my world


    until it submerged.

 Chapter 1

    I was a young boy when I left Vrindavan for


    the first time. Did I know it would be the last


    time I would see those glades, the rivers, the


    pastoral wonderland of my childhood? Yes, I


    did. I am supposed to know it all. But it did


    not matter.


    It never does. I have all that is past within


    me, yet I cannot dwell there. Instead, I look


    towards the tomorrow, which, too, in my


    case, is just another past. But I have the


    strength to stand in my today and walk


    towards a future that I know of and will to


    occur as it must.


    I knew this was the last time the bosoms that


    embraced me would only hold love. Of


    course, I would always be loved, but those


    that came into my life after the Vrindavan


    years would know me as a warrior, a king.


    They would never give me the comfort of a


    carefree, mindless, casual love.


    The King of Mathura had sent me an


    invitation, and I accepted it with a weird


    sense of pride. Knowledge never does


    dampen the exuberance of youthful pride. I


    am what I am. And still, the adulation,


    adoration, and acknowledgement of human


    accomplishment is something I thrive on.


    The strange thing about being acknowledged


    is that the place the acknowledgment comes


    from is intrinsic and vital to the feeling one


    gets upon receiving the acknowledgement. I


    would rather be admired by those that have


    the spark within them. The spark of


    brilliance. Of confidence. Of power that they


    wield over their fellow creatures. Imagine


    yourself walking through a jungle, and


    suddenly in front of you, there is a tiger in all


    its majesty. And the tiger, having laid eyes


    upon you, allows you to stroke its marvellous


    sinewy body. At that moment, imagine a


    Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.butterfly, pretty, enchanting, lands on your


    overstretched finger. It''s the tiger''s


    submission that you will always recount and


    revel in. The kiss of the butterfly was


    beautiful, perhaps achingly so. But the glory


    of the tiger, the taming of a spirit so cruel,


    strong, and wild, is what you crave in your


    heart. The moral code by which such souls


    live matters little to me. I don''t care for


    codes. Mere earthly entanglements are


    created by those who cannot achieve all they


    aspire for. I admire achievements in the pure


    materialistic sense.


    And so it was with that sense of pride in


    being acknowledged by a king that I said yes


    to the invitation to visit the splendour of


    Mathura and set forth, aware that it was all a


    part of a sinister design. The King was


    human and caught up in the web of a self-


    fulfilling prophecy. The prophecy would be


    his downfall, ruining an otherwise illustrious


    name.


    Kans wasn''t a bad king. Maybe he wasn''t a


    good one, either. Kans was a king. And he


    wanted to remain one, like any other king.


    The misfortune of Kans''s ignominy lay in a


    prophecy. A prophecy that had proclaimed


    his defeat and death at the hand of his sister''s


    son.


    And since he heard that one malicious


    statement delivered with all the accents of a


    runic curse, Kans was obsessed, possessed.


    It is human nature to want to defeat death,


    and Kans embraced it all too zealously. His


    once loved sister was bound and shackled. A


    princess locked up in the deepest dungeon of


    Mathura. The stuff that made up fairy tales


    and folklore. Kans waited desperately to be


    guilty of a horrifying sin, the killing of one''s


    sister''s child. There were so many stories of


    how he was already guilty of killing every


    child born to his sister. And yet, there were


    rumours of the two who survived. In that hell


    hole, destiny and fate connived and saved not


    one but two lives. How they did it is a tale


    too fantastical to be true. But I believe it


    because one of those lives was mine.

 Chapter 2

    They say the heavens opened the night I was


    born. The rain fell in sheets, a downpour of


    unforeseen proportions.


    I was born at midnight, and my birth was to


    turn into one of the most incredible tales of


    human history. I was born in a dungeon to


    the sister of a king. I was born in a hell hole,


    like the child of a criminal, a convict. They


    say the guards fell into the deepest of sleep


    so I could be transported to safety. As a


    child, I found the story of my birth


    fascinating. It fed my sense of godhood.


    Imagine hearing that the very cosmos itself


    conspired to put more than a hundred guards


    to sleep at the same time so that one of the


    greatest extraditions known in human history


    could be carried out. The story does not end


    with me being whisked out of those


    dungeons; it carries on, talking of how the


    raging Yamuna River needed to be crossed


    on a stormy night. A river my biological


    father simply walked across, carrying me in


    his arms, raised above his head even whilst


    the waters of the Yamuna rose, dangerously


    so, just to be able to touch my toe.


    I come from a land whose greatest treasure is


    the stories we have. These stories are born


    from the wombs of the earth, the rivers that


    flow across snow-clad mountains and nearly


    barren peaks, fertile fields, barren lands, and


    all sorts of terrains, some rich, verdant,


    abundant, others stark, deserted, and plain.


    The River Yamuna was a goddess who


    craved the touch of her God. A god who


    found merriment and amusement in being


    born again and again in different forms,


    different shapes. A god who laughed, even as


    he was carried above a man''s head,


    struggling to cross a raging river, in the


    darkest part of the night. A god who decided


    that he might as well just dangle his feet a


    little lower and dip them in the waters of the


    Yamuna in case his so-called father might


    drown. The details of how this entire


    enterprise was brought about are not the


    point. The point is the elements of nature


    sensed the God in me and desperately tried to


    take me in their embrace.


    In some versions of the story, there is further


    fantastical detail where a five-headed


    mammoth snake, a king cobra, shelters me


    with his hood spread out as my father carries


    me to safety.


    When I first heard these stories, I was still


    young, and I let the storytellers weave their


    intricate plots. These stories sounded better


    than what I had heard from my biological


    father when I met him in Mathura.


    My father, Vasudeva, was a Vrishni prince


    and the true heir of the throne of Mathura.


    The Vrishni were an ancient race that


    descended from Yayati. The Vrishni traced


    their roots to Yadu and were known as the


    Yadavas. Yadu was the son of King Yayati,


    the son who refused to give up his youth for


    his father and was cursed. But I digress; this


    is not that story. This is the story of Vasudev


    and Devaki. The already married Vasudev


    agreed to marry the sister of a king, hoping


    to better his place in the world of kings and


    queens. Kansa was a usurper who had


    defeated Vasudev''s father, King Ugrasen,


    and proclaimed himself the King of Mathura.


    As the son of the defeated King, Vasudev


    was left with few options but to look for


    alliances that would help him regain his


    position in society. King Kansa wanted his


    sister to marry Vasudev so that he could keep


    any possible future rebellions under control.


    Vasudev was of the Yadava clan, a Vrishni


    hero, and it would be imprudent and unwise


    of Kans to have him killed. So, it made


    political sense to make an alliance, and what


    could be a stronger connection than a


    marriage with his sister.


    Unfortunately, the best-laid plans of mice


    and men often go awry (a poet will say this


    some thousand years later). A roadside


    fortune teller with a grudge against the royal


    clan decided to shout out just when the bride


    and groom were about to be driven back to


    the prince''s palace by King Kansa himself, a


    portent of things to come. The beauty of a


    fortune well-told lies in the listener''s state of


    mind. King Kansa was an intelligent, logical


    man on most days. But he had been drinking


    in the evening, in the revelry of the marriage


    party; he must have got carried away. He


    drank a little too much in the night,


    overheard a few courtiers talking about the


    groom and how the prince had made this


    marital alliance to be able to reclaim his


    birthright to Mathura when the moment came


    and what with one thought leading to


    another, King Kansa found himself in an


    irritable, annoyed mood which he tried to


    hide from his sister Devaki, whom if truth be


    told he was not fond of. She had grown up


    into an overly religious young girl and had


    developed a habit of moralizing over the


    silliest things.


    The fortune teller predicted a future where


    the sister''s eighth child would grow up to kill


    King Kansa, and as these dark words hit his


    ears, something inside the King snapped. He


    ordered his guards to chain the newly


    wedded pair and proclaimed all the unborn


    children of his sister traitors to the royal


    kingdom of Mathura.


    And so, the words of a random fortune teller


    altered the destiny of three people. My


    mother, my father, and my uncle Kansa. I


    speak myopically when I say three people. It


    also affected Baba, Ma, Radha, and me and


    maybe future generations to come. This was


    not the first time such a thing occurred. We


    hear tales of Lord Rama abandoning his wife


    Sita on hearing a washerman cast doubt on


    her virtue. Men have always been led astray


    by idle chatter. It has happened before; it


    happens now; it will happen again. We don''t


    learn. We don''t change.


    Baba was a friend of my father''s from when


    they were little boys, still unlettered in the


    ways of our world. As they grew up, he


    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.became my biological father''s go-to person.


    Baba was the one person who my father


    could trust implicitly. So, when I was


    smuggled out from the dungeons of Kans''s


    palace, my father decided that he would take


    me to Baba, knowing Baba would watch out


    for me and love me like a son. But before all


    that, how did they manage to do the


    impossible.


    When my biological parents, Prince Vasudev


    and Princess Devaki, were taken prisoners


    and sent to the Mathura Prison cells, the


    guards were a little uncertain and unsure of


    how exactly they were supposed to treat the


    King''s sister who had done no wrong. Prince


    Vasudev was a Vrishni Hero, and quite a few


    guards belonged to the Vrishni community.


    They found it unnerving to treat the man they


    looked up to like a petty criminal. However,


    as the days went by, the erratic behaviour of


    King Kans ensured that most of the guards


    felt sympathetic towards Devaki and


    Vasudev. Days turned into months, months


    into years. Six times my mother conceived,


    six times she miscarried. Vasudev, my


    father, had married Lady Rohini before he


    set his eyes on my mother, Devaki. Upon


    hearing of her husband''s imprisonment, Lady


    Rohini had been begging King Kansa to


    allow her to meet Vasudev. Her pleas fell on


    deaf ears. Finally, however, the head of the


    prison guards, who was a Vrishni decided to


    help the devasted grieving woman. He asked


    her to come an hour before midnight, and he


    would ensure a meeting with Vasudev. It so


    happened that the meeting that occurred


    ended up being of a conjugal nature. The on-


    duty guards had decided to take a smoke


    break, maybe out of respect or boredom, we


    do not know. But that one visit resulted in


    the birth of my stepbrother nine months later.


    My mother, Devaki, too conceived once


    again. She remained despondent, depressed,


    in a state of constant fear, sure that this time


    too, she might not be blessed with a child.


    Either way, she felt no happiness, no sense of


    excitement that most mothers naturally feel


    when they are to bring forth a new being into


    this world. The headiness that comes from


    having the power to create another entity was


    lost to Devaki, who was living the worst


    nightmare imaginable. If she had the baby, it


    would be murdered without having


    experienced the joys of life. She thought of


    the baby as ''it''; she dared not even


    contemplate gender. She couldn''t bear to


    think that far into the future.


    I was born on the eighth night of the Krishna


    Paksh in the month of Bhadrapada. Till I


    arrived, no one was entirely sure whether I


    would survive the birth or live to see the


    morning. But my father Vasudev had many


    loyal followers among the guards. They had


    been plotting for many days, deliberating on


    the best possible way to take the true heir to


    the throne of Mathura to safety. The same


    chief of guards who played such an


    instrumental part in the birth of my brother


    Balram helped the ex-Prince carry his son


    out of the prison cell to his friend and aide,


    Nand, the head of the Gopa tribe. Even as


    Devki, the mother who carried me in her,


    who was living in the prison cells of a palace


    where her brother was King, lay on the


    raised stone slab of the cell, a frail shell of


    woman, exhausted from the pain of


    childbirth, heartbroken at the thought of what


    was to come she lay on the stone slab, drifted


    into the oblivion of unconsciousness.


    Questions were later asked of my father,


    Vasudev, why he brought forth children who


    may never have seen the world. What kind of


    base, insensitivity compelled him to


    procreate within those prison walls? A mere


    expression of his manhood? What was the


    great Vrishni hero Vasudev thinking? I


    know. He was a warrior, a prince, craving


    revenge. He wanted to be able to ensure that


    if there were a chance the doom of King


    Kans was to occur by the hands of his


    progeny, Vasudev would ensure he had as


    many as a man and a woman together could.


    Vasudev believed in prophecies, omens,


    Karma, as did most people in those times.


    Most people still do. They may pretend to


    believe in logic, in science, in what they can


    see, hear, or touch, but there are moments


    where they will stumble, falter, fall, and hold


    on to whichever idea will help them pick


    themselves up move on. This is the nature of


    men and women, it has always been so, and


    so it will always remain.


    Kans had ordered the chief of guards to


    inform him as soon as the impending birth


    took place. However, the prison guards were


    instructed by the chief to wait till morning if


    the delivery of the child happened at night. It


    would give the mother a few moments with


    her newborn and who could dare grudge the


    poor distraught soul that. And so, when I


    decided to arrive late in the night, no guard


    rushed to inform the King.


    They should have. I was born in the fourth


    term of the constellation of Rohini; the stars


    foretold that I would be dangerous for my


    maternal uncle. My uncle ended up dying by


    my hand.


    Vasudev, my father, carried me out of those


    dungeons, the prison walls that had held my


    parents captive, helped by the chief of


    guards. The chief of guards had handed an


    extract of Ashwagandha to the cook who


    prepared the nightly kadha for on-duty


    guards. The guards were supposed to take the


    drink to ensure they stayed awake, alert, but


    the Ashwagandha concoction put them in a


    state of deep slumber.


    Divinity does not work in mysterious ways.


    It simply finds a being who can and will


    help. The rest is just creativity. The creativity


    of the narrators, the storytellers who will


    make the tale fascinating by little


    embellishments of words, with hyperboles.


    Vasudev had decided that the safest place to


    keep me would be with Baba, his friend in


    Nandgaon. A few days earlier, a message


    had already been sent through a man loyal to


    the same chief of guards.


    My father wanted to take me to Baba,


    himself, maybe some deep-seated need to


    have some more time with his son in his


    arms did not allow him to hand me over to


    some trusted soldier.


    And so, on that dark, stormy night, my father


    took me to Nandgaon, a village some forty-


    five kilometres outside of Mathura. The


    journey would take more than 9 hours by


    foot, and Vasudev needed to be back before


    morning, so he borrowed a horse and rode as


    fast as he could until he reached the Yamuna.


    However, the horse was terrified of entering


    the raging river. So, my father Vasudev


    decided to cross it himself on foot and


    walked an hour more before he reached


    where Baba was waiting for him with a


    bundle that looked suspiciously like a


    swaddled baby.


    Babies were exchanged. Words were said.


    Tears flowed. Sometimes, for the greater


    good, sacrifices are made. One of the most


    extraordinary sacrifices in human history


    was made that night, near a tiny village to the


    west of the Great Yamuna River. It was Baba


    who made that sacrifice.

 Chapter 3

    Life plays out the strangest coincidences.


    After years of living with infertility, Ma was


    expecting a child. She went into labour on


    the eighth night of Krishna Paksh, in the


    month of Bhadra. Just like Devaki. The pain


    of delivery rendered her unconscious, just


    like Devaki. Her husband Nand took the


    wrapped-up bundle from the midwife and


    walked out of his home, leaving the midwife


    to cater to Yashoda, his wife, my mother.


    Baba brought me into the house an hour later


    and laid me beside my mother. When Ma


    opened her eyes, she saw her son; she did not


    know of the betrayal that had taken place. A


    betrayal of love, unheard, epic, just like my


    story.


    Vasudev took the swaddled baby girl back to


    his prison cell in Mathura. Kans was


    informed of the traitor''s birth. The mighty


    King rushed to the prison cell, filled with


    royal rage and hatred towards his sister''s


    child. The uncle and King snatched the child


    from his sister''s arms, ready to throttle it


    immediately before it could harm his


    Kingship. Devaki howled, "It''s a girl; let her


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.live."


    The King''s confidante and counsel, a courtier


    Akrur was with him, and he took the little


    girl from the King''s hands. Akrur tried to


    reason with King Kans, reminding him of the


    sin of female infanticide. Maybe there had


    been a mistake. Akrur, the courtier, was


    wise, though the King rarely listened to him.


    However, his sister''s wails this time and the


    infant''s helplessness dulled his anger. He


    could not imagine how this slight wisp of a


    girl could destroy the mighty warrior King


    Kans. Devaki''s incessant crying was grating


    his nerves, so he told Akrur to take the child


    away and ensure she would not harm Kans in


    any which way.


    Before King Kans could change his mind,


    Akrur bowed low and hurried away, taking


    the girl with him. There was a sudden silence


    in the prison cell; Devaki had fainted. Kans''s


    eyes remained glued to the cell wall, where


    Devaki, while away her endless days and


    nights, had painted the likeness of the


    Goddess Durga in all her eight-armed glory.


    A sudden inexplicable fear gripped King


    Kans. He shook his head as if trying to


    remove a thought and walked out of the


    prison cell, his face devoid of emotion.

 Chapter 5

    When they tell my tale, they will say I was a


    baby when I showed Yashoda the cosmos


    inside my mouth. They will talk of how I


    sucked the very life out of a demoness


    through her breast. They will call it the


    vanquishing of Putana. You will also hear of


    how I lifted a hill on my little finger as a boy


    tending my cows.


    These are just stories, but they will turn into


    truths, as stories do when birthed from the


    pen of raconteurs with literary flair and skill.


    But they were always just stories.


    Govardhan hill was lifted and elevated about


    seven feet above the earth, not by me and my


    divine strength but by a group of men lead


    by an engineer with crazy ideas. I enjoyed


    hanging out with him in my boyhood,


    fascinated by his ideas and inventions. He


    was from a distant land, towards the west of


    the five rivers and the Hindukush mountains.


    I called him Haish.


    Haish was from a tiny country called Greece.


    An island nation full of gods much like ours.


    Haish was on a journey of self-discovery


    when he found me.


    I was standing beneath the kadamba tree


    playing my flute which I called bansuri, lost


    in the music I had created. It was the one


    time; I could disengage from everything


    around me: my solace, my pride. I loved the


    melancholic notes that hinted at secrets and


    promises. It reminded you of the cool


    breezes on hot summer nights and the


    warmth of the sun on your back in winter


    afternoons. I often felt it was not me who


    was playing the flute but rather the flute


    playing me. When my lips touched the cool


    shaft of bamboo, I felt like this was the only


    reality. I created pain, joy, rage, love,


    subliminal in its rawness and simplicity and I


    did it with a piece of bamboo and my breath.


    Haish heard my music before he saw me and


    was pulled in by the force of the bansuri''s


    refrains. He sat down near me, closed his


    eyes, and let the notes pass over him.


    "It brought me peace" he told me much


    later. When I stopped playing and saw this


    young man seated on the grassy knoll, I


    knew this was no ordinary mortal. We started


    talking, and the awareness of our true self


    that both of us held in our hearts lead us to


    realize the divinity in the other quickly.


    He was Hephaestus, the Greek, I was


    Krishna, of the Hindus, and so much more,


    for I was a form of Vishnu, a form of his


    Zeus. As far as divinity goes, both of us felt


    in tune with each other. Hephaestus was


    brilliant, bright, and starved as I am of


    equality in friendship, the three months spent


    in the company of Hephaestus were some of


    the best in my existence on Earth.


    One particularly humid summer evening, I


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.was chatting with Haish about the monsoon


    rains and the lightning strikes that come with


    them. "You know what, we could lift that hill


    in the west and raise it high enough to make


    a shelter for the people who get caught in the


    rain," Haish ventured. All he had been doing


    the last two weeks was listening to me


    playing the flute and chatting with Amsu, a


    friend of mine Haish seemed to have


    developed a fondness for, probably because


    of Amsu''s keen intellect and quiet


    demeanour. Although Haish was an inventor,


    he liked having his mind occupied by


    technology, physics, masonry, and forging.


    The idea stuck, and we decided to give it a


    go- lift Govardhan the human way. Haish


    built an underground hoisting system that


    could bear the weight of a hill the size of


    Govardhan. Metallic sheets were placed


    underneath to lift them. It took Haish a good


    two weeks to set it up. I knew men would not


    be able to replicate it even a thousand


    centuries later. We decided to give it a try


    when it would be raining.


    The next time one of the crazy downpours


    started to occur when it seems as if the


    heavens had opened up, wanting to submerge


    the whole earth in a deluge, I rounded up the


    villagers and took them to Govardhan. Haish


    pulled the lever that lifted Govardhan. It


    worked. Haish did not make mistakes. He


    didn''t like to be seen either. He was too


    conscious of his looks. I, ever the playful


    showman, decided to stand with my feet


    crossed and little finger raised, looking as if I


    was holding up Govardhan. The image just


    stuck, I guess.


    Haish had been travelling the world because


    he was running away from home. He was


    married to the most beautiful woman in


    Greece, a goddess, but she fell in love with


    his cousin, a high-ranking general in the


    Greek army, a god of war. Hurt, he did what


    a lot of men do, exposed their adultery, and


    then ran to find peace.


    A couple of months after the Govardhan


    Raising feat, something Haish would not let


    me tell anyone the reality about, Haish said


    to me that he needed to go back home. The


    three months in Vrindavan had made him


    calmer. He felt he was in a better place and


    could think more clearly than when he had


    left Greece.


    I let my dear friend go back. Haish was


    Hephaestus. He had a responsibility as a


    divine being of his island, and I needed to


    spend time with Radha.


    I had been neglecting Radha these past three


    months. She said I was enamoured by the


    Greek, going so far as even my flute was


    now playing a foreign tune. She hated the


    new music, which of course, Haish loved. I


    had changed some of the notes to suit his


    ears.


    Haish left, and I went back to Radha and my


    friends. The music emanating from my flute


    reverted to the familiar style loved by the


    people I was supposed to love. Thus I played


    on, my tryst with Hephaestus relegated to the


    back of my mind, a story that would not be


    told.


    But I never used that lever built by Haish to


    lift Govardhan again. It must have rusted


    over the years and broken down in disuse.

 Chapter 6

    They said I killed a snake. I did. A poisonous


    cobra inhabited the wet grass near the


    bamboo thickets that grew near the Yamuna


    River. Some of my friends had spotted it, and


    they said it was almost twelve feet long with


    a hood the size of a small room. It had


    always lived there, its poison turning the


    water a darker, murky brown.


    I had personally never seen the cobra,


    probably because I rarely ventured towards


    the bamboo thickets. I preferred the cooler


    shade of the kadam trees, and ma had in a fit


    of paranoia had forbidden me from going to


    the river at all, forget the part said to be the


    haunt of the dreaded Kalia Naag, the cobra I


    ended up killing.


    This is how it happened. Radha liked to


    make my flutes. My flute was the bansuri,


    made from a single hollow shaft of bamboo.


    It was painful and time taking work. The


    bamboo had to be cut down to an exact


    length, and the holes made keeping in mind


    the pitch. It required precision, a refined


    sense of music, tonality, a steady hand.


    Radha made my bansuri because she could,


    and also because she could not bear to have


    someone else shape the one object I held in


    my hands and kept with me always. The


    bansuri was not just an instrument I loved. It


    was a piece of her, crafted by her that I


    carried with me all the time. It was her hands


    that carved the hole into which my lips blew


    to create the music that touched not just


    everyone''s heart but their very souls.


    It is the maker of the bansuri who tunes it.


    The maker creates the hole and plays the first


    note. The hole must be enlarged if the note


    does not sound right. Radha made my


    bansuris. She was the first to bring the yet


    unfinished bansuri to her lips. I played the


    bansuri she kissed, laying my lips at the very


    spot hers had been, and the sound of love


    that the world heard when I played, its


    genesis lay in that very first kiss where our


    lips never met.


    Radha went to fetch the perfect piece of


    bamboo to make my flute, my bansuri. She


    went to the grove said to be inhabited by


    Kalia, the twelve feet long, hooded cobra.


    The grove where no birds or animals


    approached, and she went there for me. She


    thought she had found what she was looking


    for when she heard a hissing in the grass


    nearer the waters of the Yamuna.


    As Radha looked towards the noise, she saw


    the forked tongue of the beast flick out,


    This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.almost as if smelling her before an attack.


    Radha has always been the bravest person I


    have known. But at that moment, she was


    terrified. She had heard the tales of the


    deadly snake from our friends and Pindaka,


    so she ran back towards where we played our


    silly boyish games, my rag-tag bunch of


    friends and me.


    I heard Radha running, and she nearly


    collapsed by the time she reached my arms.


    "I think I just saw Kalia. It flicked its tongue


    out at me." She was breathing in huge gasps


    and taking in gulps of air, holding on to her


    side. Kinki, a friend, ran to get some water


    for her to drink.


    Radha¡¯s fear and helplessness did what very


    few could do. It angered me. Enraged by the


    creature that had troubled Radha, I headed


    towards the bamboo groves at the banks of


    the Yamuna. I did not have to look for it. It


    stood almost erect on its tail, a third of its


    body in the air, ready to strike out. The hood


    spread out it, threatening, intimidating. I saw


    it flick its tongue, and it brought back the


    image of a scared and breathless Radha. I


    would not let that tongue flick out again.


    I circled Kalia, staying a good ten feet away.


    Moving fast, I lunged at the cobra''s tail


    grasping it in my hand. The snake squirmed.


    It twisted itself into coils, desperate to get its


    fangs into me. But I was faster and could


    easily dodge its strike. Kalia wrapped his


    length around me, dragging me towards the


    river, possibly assuming I would be weaker


    in the water. I could feel the snake''s hold


    grow tighter as it tried to crush me. I kept my


    bansuri tucked into my waistband. I pulled it


    free, breaking it so that I may have a jagged


    edge which I pushed into the snake. Kalia


    was a monstrosity, but he was a snake with


    soft skin on the back. My bansuri used as a


    butcher''s knife freed me from the hold of the


    cobra, although it continued to hiss and spit


    venom, injured but still strong enough to kill.


    But I was no ordinary ten-year-old boy. I


    kept my grip on the snake''s tail. Soon


    enough, I felt Kaila tire. With one mighty


    heave, I swung the twelve feet cobra with my


    ten-year-old hand like a lasso and brought its


    hood down on the banks of the Yamuna


    River. Kalia was spent. I raised my left foot


    and brought it down on the hood of the


    cobra, raising my right hand clutching my


    broken bansuri in a moment of triumph, and


    that is how my friends found me when they


    reached the bamboo groves.


    Those stories you heard of me dancing on the


    hood of a subdued Kalia, merrily playing my


    bansuri- like I keep saying, just stories. A


    fictionalized account of what people saw.


    But these stories built the idea of me, so I let


    them add little changes as they recounted my


    exploits, embellishing them with details that


    turned me from one of them to so much


    more. I might not have been God. They


    ensured I became God.

 Chapter 7

    Radha was five when I met her. Radha


    opened her eyes for the first time when ma


    took me to see her. I was four.


    Radha was the daughter of the chieftain of


    Barsana, a few kilometres from Nandgaon,


    where I lived. Baby Radha''s eyes were shut


    tight when she was born, as most babies'' are.


    But, strangely, Radha''s did not open for five


    years. Whether she refused to open them or


    some muscle-weakening of the eyelids


    prevented her from seeing the world around


    her, no one could tell.


    Ma had been a close friend of Radha''s


    mother, but my birth and Radha''s had


    somehow driven them apart. Radha''s mother


    was wrapped up in her child''s affliction,


    taking her to men of science, religion,


    whoever could help her daughter open her


    eyes. Helpless to the vagaries of the


    universe, she yearned for her little girl to be


    able to see. Ma, on the other hand, was


    wholly engrossed in me.


    However, after one-to-many attempts on my


    life, ma decided that she needed to take me


    somewhere safe, if only for a little while.


    And so, at the ripe old age of four, the


    vanquisher of many a demon, me, and my


    mother went to visit her dear friend, Radha''s


    mother.


    Our mothers hugged, kissed, cried, and after


    all the necessary courtesies of two friends


    meeting after ages had been dealt with, I was


    taken to Radha''s room where she had been


    napping as most children do during the early


    afternoon leaving their mothers to catch up


    on neighbourhood gossip.


    I entered the room holding on to my mother''s


    hand, and Radha woke up and looked up


    from her bed at me, with large dark brown


    eyes framed by the longest eyelashes I had


    ever seen. And then she smiled. At me.


    I could not take my eyes off her. I walked


    towards her, my arms outstretched wanting


    to hold her, hug her, and never let go of her.


    But, instead, Radha laughed and jumped off


    her bed, running in a swirl of red, blue, and


    green, the colours of the long skirt she wore.


    She ran away from me. I chased after her.


    I could hear Radha''s mother chanting, "Oh


    my God, she opened her eyes" over and over


    again, sounding tearful and happy all at once.


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.Radha had opened her eyes for me. I knew.


    We stayed at Barsana for nearly six months


    Radha and I, Me, and Radha, always


    together. Inseparable. Even when Ma


    decided to go back to our home, I would


    keep thinking of ways to get Radha to visit


    or Ma to visit Barsana, taking me with her.


    The time I spent with Radha was the most


    beautiful in all my hundred and twenty-five


    years. It was an innocent time, full of love,


    laughter, and the naivety of childhood.


    As soon as I was old enough to venture out


    of Nandgaon on my own, I went to Barsana.


    There was an orchard of fruit trees between


    Nandgaon and Barsana where Radha would


    come accompanied by her friends. I found


    myself waiting for her almost every other


    afternoon. Our friendship had deepened with


    time. We laughed, danced, talked, and found


    innovative ways of spending more time in


    each other''s company.


    Many of my friends married as children. I


    wanted to get married too to Radha. I was


    still very young when I asked her to marry


    me. I told her she would not have to worry


    about talking to her parents. I would ask my


    parents to speak to her''s. We were already


    together much of the time; it would be so


    much fun. But Radha just laughed. I asked


    her again two days later. She said no. I asked


    her a third time a month after the second


    rejection. We had been hanging out under the


    Kadamb tree, me playing the bansuri, Radha


    listening with eyes closed. I had not been


    playing for nearly half an hour when I asked


    Radha to marry me again. Radha looked at


    me with a distant faraway gaze and asking


    me to sit down, and she said, "Why? Why do


    you keep asking me when you know I do not


    want to marry? You do know, don''t you?"


    I sat there, knowing in my heart that I had


    places to go, I would not be satisfied with the


    bucolic settings of Vrindavan, and Radha


    would never be happy away from it. We had


    the wisdom of centuries in our soul, what I


    had almost forgotten in the song and dance


    of the last ten years, Radha brought to the


    forefront. I had a purpose, separate from


    Radha. If we were together, we would seek


    nothing, finding completion in each other. To


    be able to accomplish our goals, the reason


    why we chose to be born, we needed to stay


    apart. To achieve, one must strive, and one


    can only persist when there is a part missing.


    Radha and I, we could not let ourselves


    complete each other; we needed to set each


    other free.


    I did not speak of marriage to Radha again.


    But I vowed to make every moment I spent


    with her count.


    I spent my childhood with Radha. I loved her


    with a purity that is rarely possible as a man.


    I loved in life, in death, and after.

 Chapter 8

    Akrur came to take me to Mathura on a


    special invitation from the King, the much-


    hated, much-feared Kansa. Dau, Lady


    Rohini''s son, was also invited. Dau was the


    son of Lord Vasudev. Lord Vasudev being


    held prisoner by Kansa along with his second


    wife Devaki for over twelve years. Dau used


    to live with us. He was a couple of months


    older than me. He was my brother, my


    friend, and my confidante-most of the time.


    The day Akrur came, I had been hanging out


    with Radha all morning. A sense of


    foreboding seemed to have been plaguing


    her. I had a feeling it was more about me


    frolicking about too much with my other


    friends, not spending enough time with her. I


    had been trying my best to lift her spirits, but


    it was one of those days when even my


    music could not hold her attention. She was


    quiet, withdrawn, and sat lost in her


    thoughts, unsmiling, uninterested.


    Deciding to give some space to deal with


    whatever was more important than me, I


    headed back home feeling annoyed with


    Radha, hoping to find solace in the


    buttermilk ma must have kept aside for me.


    I came home to chaos. Ma was crying,


    shouting at Baba and a gentleman I had not


    previously met. The story of my birth, the


    secret, was finally out. That Ma was finding


    it difficult to accept would be an


    understatement. All the assaults on my life


    had been the handiwork of King Kansa. I


    was born of Devaki, the King was my uncle,


    and he wanted me in Mathura. The King had


    invited me as a guest along with Dau to


    witness the glory of his dominion in the


    Dhanush Yagya celebrations.


    A month after Akrur had walked out of


    Devaki and Vasudev''s prison cell holding the


    baby girl wrapped in a shawl leaving Kansa


    confused and perplexed, one of the Vrishni


    guards who had arranged the horse for


    Vasudev had blabbered in drunken abandon


    about the incident. The guard meant no


    harm. He was loyal to the Vrishni clan and


    Vasudev, just a little too fond of alcohol.


    Alcohol has a strange and varied effect on


    those who partake of it. It can make you do


    crazy things, steep a coward in bravery, soak


    a brave heart in fear. An introverted recluse


    will seek company, and the gregarious will


    become aloof. In this case, our normally


    trustable Vrishni loyal was hit with a bout of


    verbosity, and so he talked to his drinking


    buddy, telling him how they had saved the


    infant who was born to rid the world of the


    evil Kansa. He told the story with pride,


    feeling a sense of self-importance at having


    played a part in shaping history. The


    drinking buddy had not been similarly


    inebriated and was hardly a buddy. He


    reported the man to Kansa''s aide, in return


    getting twenty gold coins and a mid-level


    position in Kansa''s army.


    My birth was an open secret within Kansa''s


    coterie of ministers and chieftains. Ma was


    still unaware that I was not the child she had


    given birth to. Until Akrur came to our


    If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.doorstep, looking to take me to Mathura, she


    did not know. Her heartbreak was twofold,


    they told her I belonged to another woman,


    and they said I was to go.


    I had always known I wasn''t born to ma and


    Baba, at least since I was six. I had a cleft


    chin. Ma and Baba did not.


    I still believed, however, that they were my


    parents, my father Nand, my mother,


    Yashoda. They always would be. Years later,


    I would continue to think of Devaki and


    Vasudev, as Lord Vasudeva and Lady


    Devaki, Baba and Ma would always be my


    parents. Maybe it was painful for lady


    Devaki, but to be completely honest, I never


    did think of her much. I have loved many


    women. I understand love in many forms.


    Unfortunately, lady Devaki was not one of


    them.


    Ma was on the verge of an emotional


    collapse when she had a sudden bout of


    clarity, "where is the daughter I birthed?" she


    asked Akrur, locking her eyes onto him as if


    she would destroy him with laser beams in


    the next moment if he were not able to


    provide her with an answer.


    Every story about my life has mentioned the


    daughter born of Yashoda who was replaced


    with me. They call her Yogamaya. They say


    she disappeared into thin air. The reality is


    different. Akrur was present that day in the


    prison cell with Kansa. He took her away


    with him and handed her to his most trusted


    aide, who carried her beyond the borders of


    our land. She was taken on a ship to an


    island called Japan. The rumours about her


    being in the Vindhya Mountains were just


    rumours to throw Kansa off. All Akrur knew


    was that the people who took her would keep


    her safe. They called her Amaterasu, but


    there was no way for us to reach her. I later


    found out that Amaterasu was worshipped as


    a goddess in Japan. I remember chuckling to


    myself at the irony of it all. But Amaterasu


    would never come back to her home, and we


    would never meet on this earth.


    I announced to the room, almost drowning in


    Ma''s incessant weeping, that I would


    accompany Akrur to Mathura. I had killed


    Kalia last year. I was not afraid of a human


    being; however satanic a king he might be.


    Dau would be with me. He was even


    stronger than me, and together we could take


    on the world. I was growing out of Gokul


    Vrindavan. It was time to move on.


    Even as I spoke, I felt my heart suddenly,


    inexplicably sink. I would be leaving


    Vrindavan. I did not know if I would return.


    Yet, even at that tender age, I knew myself


    self-enough to know that I would not turn


    back to look at the past. I was going to


    Mathura. This would be the beginning of my


    life without Radha.


    I headed out; I had to meet her. I needed to


    explain. What did I need to explain that I


    would come back for? Would I? Would life


    permit me to? If I asked her to come to me,


    would she? Radha never came to me; it was


    always me who went running to find her. My


    music flowed through me to reach her, keep


    her enthralled by me. She did not need to


    resort to such base tricks. She believed I was


    hers and hers alone. She did not need to keep


    me tied to her with intangible tethers. I was


    afraid she would set me free. She did.


    Radha had been apprehensive about the


    future, a feminine intuition giving her the


    sense of an ending. But when I reached her,


    agitated, heartbroken at our parting, Radha


    was calm. She was trying to smile now that


    whatever she had sensed had come to pass.


    She was able to accept it with equanimity.


    I was bidding goodbye to Radha when I first


    hugged her. It was the first time she held me


    in the warmth of her embrace. It would also


    be the last.

 Chapter 9

    Every ending brings with it a new tomorrow.


    It was the end of an era and also the


    beginning of one. I travelled to Mathura with


    Dau and Akrur. I was excited about what


    was to come. I was to meet the infamous


    Kansa. I knew with a confidence that is only


    present in the young and the naive that I


    could hold my own against Kansa. Dau was


    blessed with the power not to think at all,


    ever. He watched the sights on our journey to


    Mathura and spoke only twice, both times to


    ask Akrur if we could stop for a bite. He was


    feeling hungry. Dau was nothing if not


    focused on the priorities in life, namely food.


    Akrur seemed sad, gloomy as if he were the


    unlucky soul burdened with the


    responsibility of taking lambs to the


    slaughter. I should have talked to him,


    assured him of our superior skill. I was not a


    child. I had killed a demoness as a suckling


    babe. I could handle whatever Kansa had in


    store for me. I should have told Akrur all this


    and more. I did not. Time would show him


    soon enough there was never anything to be


    worried about in the first place.


    We reached Mathura sometime around dusk.


    It was the first time I had left home, and for a


    moment, as I stood in the market centre of


    Mathura, I felt a sliver of homesickness for


    buttermilk I had wanted the previous


    morning. Was it unnatural that I did not think


    of ma crying herself to sleep, Baba sleepless,


    pacing the courtyard questioning his


    acceptance of my choice? The choice was


    never his. It is always mine. I thought of the


    buttermilk, I thought of tomorrow, I took in


    the buildings, the shops, the houses, the walls


    of Kansa''s palace to the left of where I stood.


    Somewhere inside, Devaki and Vasudeva


    were held, prisoners. I had been born of


    them; I had a duty towards them. But that


    would come tomorrow, tonight I would roam


    the streets of Mathura, my last night the son


    of Nanda, tomorrow I would play the part of


    Devaki''s ninth.


    The world is only too familiar with what


    happened next. Dau and I went to see the


    The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.famous bow of Shiva that was on display.


    There were stories about how no man could


    lift the bow. I asked to try. The people


    standing by smiled at the young boy''s


    confidence, who felt he could hold Shiva''s


    bow. I picked up the bow, and I tried to


    string it. The bow broke. The soldiers


    standing guard took me to King Kansa in


    chains. Dau was with me. He was the one


    who egged me on to try my luck with the


    bow in the first place and then enraged the


    soldiers by laughing at them when they had


    stood there perplexed by what they had


    witnessed.


    I was placed in the centre of an arena where


    the famous elephant fights took place. I


    defeated Kansa''s elephant. I was simply


    more intelligent than the animal, just like I


    had been brighter than the cobra. The arena,


    which had been resounding with the noise of


    bloodthirsty, mighty warriors who apparently


    wished to be entertained by the sight of an


    elephant trampling a young boy, was all of a


    sudden struck mute. I am not sure whether


    they were more terrified of me or the anger


    of their King as he witnessed the defeat of


    his mighty elephant. It was no doubt a


    beautiful beast, and I felt a slight turn of


    remorse a second after I had slain it, but I


    was a warrior myself. There is no point in


    harping over what is done, especially if


    needs must.


    King Kansa ordered his right-hand man to


    attack me. Dau jumped in to defend me. He


    had been itching for a fight himself. Dau


    hated being left out if there was a fight going


    on. Seizing the opportune moment, I charged


    at King Kansa, my uncle, my foe, the usurper


    of my grandfather''s throne.


    King Kansa was a strong man, well built, a


    warrior, and I was a mere boy. But that


    meant I was younger. I was faster, did not


    tire, and had no battle wounds to bring me


    down. I defeated Kansa soundly and did


    what I was born to do, rid the earth of the


    scourge of my uncle King Kansa.


    Dau let out a triumphant battle cry, a


    whooping yell of victory. The arena was full


    of giants who did not utter a word. They did


    not move a muscle. They stood at the


    ramparts looking in. Some sat on their


    throne-like stone seats, turned to stone


    themselves.


    I could feel the blood of the elephant and


    Kansa on me. I could not feel. I had done


    what was needed. But I felt no joy, no


    exhilaration of a win. I stood there breathing


    in the iron, the metallic odour of spilt blood.

 Chapter 10

    I did not wish to the King yet. The crown of


    Mathura was not for me. My time would


    come, but I wanted to study the Vedas,


    ancient texts that were said to be the domain


    of the exalted few.


    This is what I told Lord Vasudev, Akrur, and


    the other courtiers. My grandfather Ugrasen,


    Lord Vasudev''s father, was to be the King of


    Mathura once again and my father after him.


    I wished to educate myself and would do so


    under the tutelage of the Rishi Sandeepani.


    I travelled with my brother Balram to


    Avantika. The rishi ran an establishment to


    educate students away from the distraction of


    family and home. I would learn the sciences,


    mathematics, languages, and the religious


    scriptures. I would learn to cook, chop wood,


    gather fruits, be responsible, be disciplined.


    In the idyllic environs of the ashram, I would


    live like all the others, in anonymity, without


    the spectre of fantastical foes.


    To become a great king, the first choice one


    must make is to seek wisdom. Was I to


    become a great king? Was I to become a


    king? At that point in time, as I prepared to


    go to what would later be called Ujjain, I was


    not particularly sure. Yes, of course, I was


    aware of who I was, what I was destined for,


    but that awareness was never something I


    dwelt on. I liked my thoughts to be occupied


    by the mundane trivialities of human


    existence. A friend once asked me the


    purpose of life, and I remember telling him


    that my life''s goal is to finish up all the butter


    before I am caught. When your mind can


    create universes and alter cosmic forces, it is


    wise to focus on the simple, the obvious, the


    temporal.


    I would focus on the daily rigors of student


    life in Rishi Sandeepani''s ashram. Maybe I


    would find myself evolving into a better


    human, the divinity in me finding the roots it


    was eternally in search of.


    I stayed sixty-four days in the ashram. I


    learnt sixty-four different aspects of


    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.knowledge, sixty-four different skills. I was


    apparently very good at learning. I made a


    friend, Sudama.


    There was a small pool called the Gomti


    Kund where Sudama, Dau, and I washed our


    writing tablets at the end of the day. We sat


    there on the cool stone steps that were damp


    with the waters, and as the moisture seeped


    in through the thin white cotton garments we


    wore, I felt more at peace than ever before.


    Sometimes we would sip the buttermilk we


    carried with us in earthen pots tied up into a


    cloth sling so that the buttermilk would not


    spill over.


    A young girl used to come to the Gomti


    Kund every other day. I would tease her and


    play with the lamb that accompanied her.


    The girl would always leave humming a


    melody that reminded me of a past I would


    be unable to return to. She never told me her


    name, and Sudama''s favourite game was


    making up possible names for her.


    When a student''s education was deemed


    complete, Rishi Sandeepani had the


    footprints of the student that he considered


    the best of the best, embossed on a stone


    slab. My footprints remained in my Guru''s


    Ashram long after I had left.


    In the sixty-four days that I spent at the


    ashram, I never once felt the heaviness that


    had enveloped me when I killed Kansa. And


    it was because of Sudama. He saw things as


    they should be, as they are. He was poor, was


    no intellectual giant, and was not very strong


    physically, but I loved him. I loved him


    because he behaved in the most irreverent


    way and I liked it. I liked it because he


    treated me like a friend. As I spent my days


    in the ashram pretending to acquire wisdom,


    but in truth getting over the deep-rooted


    anguish of having taken the life of a man


    related to me by blood, blood that I had spilt,


    Sudama helped me forget.


    But I forgot about Sudama once I left the


    ashram. The not-so-great side to my


    philosophy of being in the present, I suppose.


    I forgot about Sudama, who was forced to


    come to me seeking help. He should not have


    had to. I have very few friends. Sudama was


    one of them. I should have stayed in touch. I


    should have looked him up. I should have


    helped before he needed it so badly. Life is


    made of should-haves but didn''t¡ªeven mine.


    There are two regrets I carry within me from


    my days as Krishna. I let go of Radha. I


    forgot about Sudama.

 Chapter 11

    We built Dwarka, Dau, and I. Once we


    returned to Mathura from Avantika, the next


    undertaking was to have a haven for the


    Yadav clan since I, who should have been as


    great a warrior as I was a musician, found


    myself not interested in defeating enemies. I


    came back from the ashram steeped in an


    unwillingness for war. I was the prince of the


    Yadu clan, the grandson of the King, slayer


    of my uncle Kans. The people of my land


    looked at me with a mix of love, respect, and


    adulation. They wanted to worship me. They


    wanted to shower me with all forms of love.


    I cared for none, but I played along,


    sometimes overcome, sometimes just for fun.


    Uncle Kansa''s father-in-law was King


    Jarasandha of the mighty Magadh empire, a


    kingdom to the east of Mathura. Seventeen


    times, Jarasandha attacked Mathura.


    Seventeen times we protected our land and


    people. Jarasandha craved revenge. I


    suspected revenge had little to do with it.


    Cows were central to economic prosperity,


    and the Yadav''s had almost monopolized this


    vital resource. Wars are usually waged for


    monetary benefit, although intelligent men


    and even the gods often choose to disguise


    their intentions under false righteousness.


    I did not want to indulge in the idle warfare


    Jarasandha sought, so I chose to go where he


    would find it difficult to follow.


    I reclaimed ninety-six square kilometres of


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.land from the sea and built the city of


    Dwarka. A fortressed city surrounded on all


    four sides by the oceans, where the very tides


    would be our guards.


    We built Dwarka to be the most splendid feat


    of engineering and architecture. It boasted an


    opulence that was beyond anything anyone


    could imagine¡ªa city of palaces, towers,


    parks, and gardens. My own palaces were


    located at Bet Dwarka, a tiny island some


    thirty kilometres away from the main town.


    After my grandfather passed, I would be the


    King. Dau had categorically refused the


    crown and insisted that this particular wreath


    of thorns would best suit my head and hair. I


    had laughed at his joke, knowing that his


    love for me would not let anyone other than


    me bear the crown, including himself.


    I looked after my people from my rooms in


    Bet Dwarka, as long as I could. I built


    Dwarka to avoid war. I also built it to show


    the world what was possible. My city was to


    be the gateway to heaven. A getaway to the


    lands east of the Indus, a gateway to my


    country. Every ship from foreign lands


    would dock at my port. My city would show


    them the majesty of my world. It would be


    more than any other city on Earth. It would


    be what people aspire to achieve, a land


    where people crave to live. What I always


    knew and did not tell my people was majesty


    is always fickle, transitory.


    I had Dwarka built as a testament to human


    achievement and love. The stones that were


    used to lay its foundation had been sprinkled


    with the soil of Vrindavan.


    I had parted the ocean to snatch away from


    its waters a piece of land to call my own. The


    ocean would, in time, take it back.

 Chapter 12

    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.

 Chapter 13

    They named her Krishnaa because of her


    skin which was almost black, like mine. She


    was the daughter of the King of Panchal.


    There were stories around her birth too. They


    said she was born of fire, a colossal beauty,


    black tresses that cascade down her back,


    eyes that as easily flashed in anger as they


    twinkled in joy.


    Krishnaa was my friend, unlike all the other


    women in my life. I could talk with her about


    anything and everything. Unencumbered by


    the strings of jealousy, possessiveness, hurt,


    and all the drama that love brings with it,


    Krishnaa allowed me to be myself.


    She did not see me as the charming,


    flirtatious provocateur, an image I never


    understood I landed up with. She did not


    desire me in the physical sense. I never


    looked at her as a man looks at a woman. I


    saw her as Krishnaa, my friend, and she


    reciprocated with her gift, the gift of her


    friendship.


    I met Krishnaa for the first time at her


    Swayamvar. The swayamvar was a


    ceremony where a princess chose the person


    she wished to marry. It was a strictly


    invitation-only affair where eligible grooms


    from all over the world would be asked to


    come and participate in tests of their


    strength, skills, and valour. The victor would


    win the right to ask for the hand of the bride


    to be. The bride-to-be could refuse.


    I met Krishnaa for the first time at her


    swayamvar. I was not vying for her hand in


    marriage. I had come to Panchal knowing


    that Arjun would be there. Arjun was the


    third son of the late King Pandu of


    Hastinapur and my aunt Kunti. Arjun, my


    cousin, my friend, would try to win Panchali.


    I needed Krishnaa to say yes to him.


    This tale has been told millions of times by


    hundreds and thousands of storytellers, but I


    lived it. I pulled the strings that caused the


    events to unfold in the sequence they needed


    to so that the Mahabharata may be written.


    My presence at the swayamvar ensured


    Panchali said yes to Arjun after she said no


    to Karn. Karn, who was far more handsome


    than Arjun, to look upon Karn was to stare at


    the sun. The fire in Panchali''s soul would


    undoubtedly find its match in Karn. But the


    marriage of Panchali and Karn would never


    lead to the Mahabharata. In the absence of


    the war to end all wars, Duryodhana would


    be King of the most important Kingdom of


    the lands east of Indus.


    If they are to prosper, flourish, and achieve


    oneness, a people must be guided by a wise,


    balanced, good King. Duryodhana


    represented none of the qualities expected of


    royalty. He must not be the inheritor of his


    father''s kingdom. This was something I knew


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.with absolute certainty.


    And so, I asked Krishnaa to say no to Karn.


    Krishnaa listened to me. She understood the


    thinly veiled arguments I offered, believing


    in her ambition and pride to show her that


    my suggestions held value.


    Krishnaa married Arjun, my favourite


    cousin, and in a strange twist of fate, all four


    of his brothers. I married many women after


    Rukmini. It was expected of me, and I


    merely carried out my duties to the best of


    my ability. Is it strange that I, of the many


    wives, and Panchali of the five husbands,


    Krishna and Krishnaa became the closest of


    friends?


    As the years passed, my relationship with my


    friend''s wife grew deeper. It would be wrong


    of me to claim a brotherly love or say that


    she felt a sisterly affection. We were man


    and woman but unfettered in our


    companionship. I heard the words she did not


    speak; she understood all that I refused to


    reveal.


    Krishnaa''s husband Yudhishtir, the eldest of


    the Pandavas, and Arjun''s brother loved a


    good game of chaupar. A board game,


    played with wooden pawns and seven shells,


    a version of what some would later call ludo.


    A game of chance, it is said to have been


    invented by the God Shiva and first played


    between Shiva and his wife, Parwati.


    Yudhishtir could never say no to chaupar or


    to betting on the outcomes. His weakness for


    a common board game led to the most


    disgraceful occurrence in the history of the


    lands to the east of Indus. Yudhishtir bet


    himself, his brothers, and his wife.


    How a man as intelligent, as wise, as morally


    righteous as Yudhishtir could wager his wife


    as if she were cattle or an object in his


    possession is confounding. But he did. And


    he lost. His cousins, the Kaurava men, led by


    Duryodhana, refused to listen to reason.


    They demanded the wager''s fulfilment, so in


    a fit of toxic masculine power, Duryodhana''s


    brother dragged my friend from her


    chambers into the great hall where the game


    had just ended in utter humiliation for


    Yudhishtir and his brothers. In front of the


    courtiers and the giants of Hastinapur, they


    ragged Panchali, gesturing obscenely at her.


    The Kaurava brother did the unthinkable.


    They tried to disrobe her, pulling at her


    loosely wrapped yellow sari. In front of the


    so-called august assembly of the Lords of


    Hastinapur, they attempted to strip her of her


    clothes and her pride. Her husbands, all five


    of them, stood their heads bowed, valuing


    their promise more than her.


    Krishnaa, overpowered by the physical might


    of the monsters, closed her eyes and focussed


    every atom of her being into me, the one


    person she knew would never abandon her. I


    was not present in person at the court of


    Hastinapur, but those vile dregs of humanity


    who pulled at Krishnaa''s sari were unable to


    uncover her. No one understood how, or why


    but Krishnaa''s sari would not unwrap itself


    off her frame.


    But a land that bears witness to such a


    heinous crime must pay the price for its


    silence in the face of an unforgivable sin.


    Hastinapur and its hall of greats were


    doomed the day they watched in impotence


    the horror of their daughter-in-law''s


    humiliation.

 Chapter 14

    I have come to the part of the story which I


    have been dreading. The part of the story


    everyone knows about. The part that has


    been written, over and over again. I do not


    want to write about it.


    Yes, the war was fought. I orchestrated it. I


    did not want war, yet the alternative was out


    of the question, so I enabled the eighteen-day


    battle of the kings.


    The war that took place between the


    Pandavas on one side and the Kaurava clan


    on the other involved almost every empire to


    the east of Indus. They fought for the throne


    of Hastinapur. A kingdom on the banks of


    the river Ganga, one of the oldest, boasting


    such an illustrious lineage of Kings that the


    lands east of the Indus would derive its name


    from one. Bharat. A kingdom that was now


    staring into the eyes of civil war. Cousins


    were fighting for the crown. This is a story


    so well known that I do not want to recount it


    one more time.


    One billion, six hundred and sixty-six


    million, and twenty thousand men would be


    slain in the course of the Great Battle of


    Kurukshetra. The death of those men haunts


    me now, but it did not touch me as I sat as


    charioteer to Arjun. I had sworn not to lift


    my weapons on anyone in the war, but I


    could not forsake Arjun. I had to stand by


    him. He was Krishnaa''s husband. Before the


    war, when both the Kauravas and the


    Pandavas had been trying to find allies,


    Duryodhana and Arjun both had come to me


    looking for an alliance. My offer was my


    army to one, myself unarmed to the other.


    Duryodhana had the right of the first choice.


    He chose my army. The man itching to


    defeat a warrior like Arjun did not know that


    troops and soldiers never win wars; however,


    trained they may be, but by strategy, with the


    mind, by clever tricks and the spirit of


    indefeasibility. Duryodhana chose my army.


    Arjun always wanted me. And I had to be


    with him if Krishnaa was to be avenged.


    Arjun fell apart before the battle had begun. I


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.picked him up, set him right. I was his spine


    when he could not stand straight and tall to


    release fatal arrows on those he knew as his


    own. I stood by him and was the voice in his


    head that gave him the courage to find his


    valour, his warrior soul, and defeat the


    strongest army known to the world.


    The people of this land say I gave the world


    The Gita- the greatest treatise on


    transcendental knowledge. As I talked to


    Arjuna that day, at the heart of the


    battlefield, an army on either side, I showed


    him what it is to be a man, to be God. I


    showed him the one universal truth. I showed


    him the essence of the divine and the divine


    itself.


    The truth is I do not recollect what I said. I


    spoke for a long time, using all the loquacity


    and glibness I had at my disposal. I spoke


    from the heart. I spoke my truth. It was not


    something I had rehearsed. I knew that at this


    moment, it was imperative that Arjun should


    raise his bow and deliver, as per a warrior of


    his stature. This was not the time to dwell


    over the why and how of our actions. There


    is a time for indecisiveness, a time for


    mulling over our own deeper motives, a time


    to question the screenplay, the script, but that


    time is not when the curtains have parted,


    and the actor stands in the spotlight while the


    audience waits with bated breath, for the first


    act to begin.


    They call me a God, and I am one if weighed


    on the parameters that define godhood. On


    the battlefield that fateful day I saw Arjun


    pause, blinded by the spotlight, conscious of


    the audience before him. This was war. The


    audience was not meant to see the carnage


    that was to take place. They were


    participants. Arjun needed to run his sword


    through them, aim his arrows at their hearts.


    He could not do it, falling apart,


    remembering embraces, affection, and love.


    To be able to destroy, you must rid your


    heart and mind of every emotion. Arjun must


    not feel while he fought, and I had to ensure


    that. I needed to lock away his humanity for


    the duration of the war, which I did.


    And I did it with my words. I spoke. And my


    words became the most powerful weapon


    that unleashed the most mortiferous attack on


    those who chose the wrong side, the side I


    was not on.


    The first to fall was a young man named


    Uttama, the son of King Virat.


    Only twelve warriors survived the


    Mahabharata. I was one of them, but then I


    was not the one fighting, or

 Chapter 15

    Krishnaa came to me after the war as I rested


    beneath the Kadamb tree in the gardens of


    Hastinapur. Yudhishtir had been crowned


    King. The Kaurava''s were dead except for


    one of all the brothers of Duryodhana; only


    Yuyutsu survived. Their mother, Gandhari,


    cursed me, in anguish, in pain, heartbroken at


    such a terrible loss. She wished my people a


    death as painful as that of her sons. She


    called me the architect of death. I did not


    have the heart to remind her that I strived to


    counsel Duryodhana, begged him to do the


    right thing, give the Pandava brothers their


    right, their land, but to no avail. I accepted


    her words with equanimity. I too had a price


    to pay.


    Lying in the shade of the Kadamb, aware


    that the mother who lost her sons had voiced


    a prophecy that would come to pass only too


    soon, I tried to go back to the Kadam tree of


    my childhood. This tree was not the one


    beneath which Radha swayed to my music,


    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.and I felt the familiar ache of lost love.


    She came to Dwarka sometimes and stayed


    in the more spartan rooms of my palace. I


    knew that, but she never wanted to meet me,


    and though I did not talk of it, it hurt. I


    wanted to play the bansuri again. I wanted to


    chat with Sudama on the stone steps of the


    Gomti Kund. I wanted¡­ to not think for the


    millionth fraction of a second. Still, I opened


    my eyes for Krishnaa, who approached my


    apparent solitary self and sat down on the


    grass next to me, forgetting that she was the


    queen of Hastinapur now and it would be


    deemed unbecoming.


    Krishnaa sat in silence, her eyes grazed over


    some distant shrubs, they wandered up


    staring into the leaves that clung to the


    branches, they fell on me, looking into me, at


    me, and then coming to rest on the knot of


    wood near the roots. I remembered how her


    eyes used to blaze forth, alive, lit up, on fire,


    in anger, with joy. The fire was gone now.


    The Mahabharata did not end with the death


    of kings and princes alone. The victors also


    lost a part of their soul


    Yudhishtir ruled for thirty-six years. He was


    kind, just, and wise. His brothers were his


    strength. Krishnaa and I remained the best of


    friends.

 Chapter 16

    I died an old man. But they don''t remember


    that. I lived to see my people fighting and


    baying for each other''s blood. Gandhari''s


    words had haunted me since the moment


    they had been uttered. For thirty-six years, I


    waited for what I knew was the beginning of


    the end.


    Dwarka prospered economically. And with


    its rise, its people grew smaller. They drank


    Madeira and walked the streets of the city


    swaying and lurching, intoxicated to a point


    where they were lost to reason, etiquette, or


    basic human decency. They forgot how to


    treat the learned with respect. They forgot


    the necessities of showing affection. As the


    coffers overflowed in abundance, their hearts


    were depleted of all good emotion. Jealousy,


    rage, and other baser instincts took over.


    Infighting, insurgency, rebellions were


    ravaging the golden city of Dwaraka. For all


    my political acumen, my wile, I was unable


    to control my clan. They seemed to have


    been led astray, pulled in different directions,


    by a force I could not control. I knew what


    was to take place, but I could not let it


    happen without attempting to restore order


    and quell the storm of madness that seemed


    to hold every person on Dwarka in a vice-


    like grip.


    I decided to take my people with me to the


    Prabhas Sea. The confluence of three rivers


    that flow into the immense sea of the west.


    The waters might be able to do what I could


    not, cool down my people so that they began


    to see again. Prabhas Patan was often called


    the gateway to heaven. A holy place where


    one could absolve oneself of all sin.


    I did not believe in sin. Sinning, sainthood


    were both two sides of the same coin. It did


    not matter whether I sinned or practiced


    righteousness. Every action, every decision,


    came with a consequence. I was ready to


    accept the consequences of my choices. I


    would have preferred that my people did not


    have to suffer in the way they did, so I took


    them to Prabhas.


    Even in those beautiful, blissful environs


    steeped in the aura of those who came


    seeking moksha, the Vrishni could not find


    peace. Maybe the Prabhas did cleanse all


    mortals, and the purified soul moved on


    while all the filth was left behind, invisible to


    the human eye but dissolved in the waters,


    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.the sands, the reeds that grew along the


    banks.


    As I stood there at the banks of Prabhas, a


    sense of discomfort plagued me, a sense of


    foreboding of what was to come. Behind me,


    a fight had broken out my son Pradyumna


    born of Rukmini, Satyaki, a once valiant


    warrior now reeking of Madeira, and a bunch


    of other men who had taken part in the


    Mahabharata thirty-six years ago. One of


    them ran his sword through Pradyumna, and


    I saw Pradyumna fall into the tall reeds, his


    face dazed and confused, my son died in


    front of my eyes, and all I did was watch it


    happen. I was a God, and they a man whose


    face I do not remember stabbed my son with


    a piece of iron.


    Enraged, I pulled a spear that had been stuck


    into the earth by some forgotten soul ages


    ago and threw it in wrathful vengeance at the


    unnamed, faceless being impaling him on the


    ground. The wood of the spear was mossy


    green. I stared in rage at these fools engaged


    in a pointless random bloodthirst, and I knew


    it was time for me to walk away from all of


    it.


    Dau had come with us to Prabhas, but I could


    not see him in the crazed maniacal beasts


    that were killing each other all around me. I


    had seen him head towards the thicket


    towards the east a little while ago. I walked


    in search of Dau, leaving the Vrishni behind.


    As I entered the forest, I was pulled towards


    the clearing. I could see a little ahead, upon


    reaching which I saw my brother seated like


    a yogi, lost in a trance. My brother had been


    a bull, raging for a fight, quick to anger, easy


    to please. I was the sly one who charmed my


    way through life. Dau seated in the lotus


    position like a sage was my signal to leave. I


    stood there looking over Dau until the sun


    was in the west. I saw a shadow move away


    from Dau, slithering into the earth, a snake-


    like thing, huge, shiny, five-headed. It might


    have been the trees and the setting sun


    playing with my sight. It might have been the


    essence of Sheshnag. The mighty serpent


    leaving the physical form of the man who


    devoted his whole life to me.


    I walked away from Dau to a banyan tree I


    had crossed on the way and lay down to rest,


    closing my eyes to the world.


    They will tell you a hunter shot an arrow at


    my toe, mistaking it for a deer''s eye. Others


    will say I was sitting in the branches of the


    tree swinging my feet, and the hunter


    confused my feet with a pigeon he wished to


    kill. It does not matter why the hunter shot


    that arrow. It never does. It was time for me


    to leave. I closed my eyes to this world and


    opened them where Radha waited for me.