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Friday, July 24, 2009

Smooth Kill-- 1

[A little history: Krishna goes to Duryodhana's court as peacemaker. It fails miserably-- Duryodhana not only rejects the peace offer, but even tries to capture Krishna. Krishna then changes into his Vishwaroopa-- his original form, a sort of grander version of the usual Vishnu-- and with a few choice words, breaks free and leaves. Mission unaccomplished]

It is twilight, my favourite part of the day. On another day, I would be outside, dressed in plain robes, walking on the streets, watching children play marbles, their mothers keeping a worried eye on the road, wary of rogue chariots that speed without a care in the world; On another day, I would be at the market, listening to sellers complain and buyers haggle, striking hard bargains, yet finding time to crib about the new neighbor, the rise in prices and how fast their children grow up; On another day, I would be at the park, home of the very old and the very young, the children playing their games, the geriatric talking of the good old days. But today is not just another day: the proceedings in the Court have rendered my mind near-numb. The only sensation that persists is this continuous pain in my forehead, like the buzz of the amphitheatre crowd that persists in the ear even after they have been rendered deaf by all the shouting and the cheering.

Slouched in my arm-chair, overcome by fatigue, I shut my eyes. When I open them, after what seems like a few seconds, I see a familiar figure leaning against the wall, studying intently the uninspiring ceiling. I shut my eyes and open them again. He is still there, but now he is smiling at me. Still half-convinced I am hallucinating, I make to stand up, but he waves his hand, signaling me to remain seated as he flops into the chair opposite mine in a carefree manner that can only be his own. I manage a weak smile and say:
“Krishna”
He looks faintly bemused, a half-smile on his lips. Many find the smile irritating, mistaking it for a smirk, a sign of contempt. I like it; it is so typical of his joie de verve, always ready, at the slightest instance, to give way to full-blown laughter, like a full cloud waiting to burst.
“You look much older than I remember” he says, still smiling.
“Oh, I’ve aged a lot in this past one day: some people have this effect on me” I reply, returning the smile. And instantly, he laughs, the cloud bursts and I feel lighter, the tiredness of the day, and the wretched madness of the court a thing of the distant past now.
“Oh, I sort of lost control there” he said, not in the least distressed about it.
“I think it had the desired effect”
“I think I could have achieved that without resorting to such pyrotechnics”
Trust Krishna to say something like that: in a flash of majestic brilliance, of tremendous rage yet supreme calm, this man, earlier in the day, showed the world its past, its present, its future—Him. And he calls it pyrotechnics.
“So we are at war, Krishna” I say, trying to state it simply, without emotion.
“Yes, we are” he says, his voice echoing the gravity of the situation, yet steadfast.
And he looks at me, and I into those beautiful, almost feminine eyes and we burst out laughing.

“What would you like to drink?” I ask, once the laughter had subsided.
“Oh, nothing. Thank you for offering”
“But you must take something” I insist, “After all—“
“No one goes away from the Great Radheya empty- handed?” he finishes the sentence for me.
“No—I just thought you might have had a long day yourself, though you-- “ I pause, and look at him mock-appraisingly, “ don’t really look it!”
He chuckles and says
“That’s not true. I am not growing any younger. I think I am starting to grey. And when I don’t shave, I acquire a definite salt-and-pepper stubble. But, enough of small talk, Radheya” he says, and I notice the change in tone. It is darker, mirroring the events outside, for the happy hours of twilight have given way to a cloudy, black night. Even inside, the oil lamps flicker with less intensity, the air is still. I stiffen: I don’t like what I am seeing.
“Radheya” he says, “I have a proposition”
“I am all ears” I say cheerily, trying to lighten up the mood. But it comes off sounding strangely hollow, out of place, and I shift in my chair.
“Come over to our side. Fight with us”
I stay silent, disbelieving. Maybe I heard wrong.
“Radheya?” he asks, raising one eye-brow.
“I am waiting for the punch-line” I reply truthfully.
“There is no punch-line, Radheya. I want you to fight with us. I will be honest, I like you. You are flawed, like all of us are. But, unlike most of us, you also are extremely good”
“Krishna” I whisper, “You are afraid of me? You see me as a threat to victory?”
He smiles sadly and says:
“Oh, don’t give yourself so much importance”
I smile back and say:
“You know this is useless then, Krishna. You know there is no point. Duryodhana is my best friend, my Lord, my life. You, of all the people, must know all of this”
“But you are fighting on the losing side. And I respect and love you too much to see you do that. Don’t you see: we have Arjuna—“
“Arjuna, as you well know, is fallible and pompous”
“Bheema, Satyaki—“
“Krishna, Krishna” I say, smirking, “The truth is that they have you, not you have them”
“Yes” he says, grimly, stating the obvious, “We have me”
“Krishna” I say and for some reason, my voice quivers, “Do not fear for me. I know I will die. And I am glad I will. I sometimes welcome the thought of death”
For a moment, Krishna remains lost in thought: I study his face. It is true, he is growing older. But age has only enhanced his grandeur: his wisdom, earlier well hidden under a mask of youthful mischievousness, is now, with the passage of time, allowed to take centre-stage; his eyes that once set young hearts a-flutter, now evoke reverence, from young and old. Krishna is still handsome, still perfect, in a strangely asexual way.
He is wrestling with something inside him and though very unnatural, there is still a particular symmetry to the creased lines on his face and when they re-align themselves, as they have now, they are still perfect. He is calm once again and asks in a voice that is robbed of emotion, so detached that it is painful:
“So, there is nothing that I say that will make you change your mind?”
“Krishna”, I say, growing slightly irritated, “You know my answer. You knew it even before you came here. You even know what is to come. Sometimes” I say and pause, wondering if I am crossing the line, but then throwing caution to the winds, I continue, “Sometimes, I think living your life is a little boring—especially since you know everything”
Krishna laughs, slightly taken aback and then says:
“You have been to the theatre six times in the last seven weeks to watch a play you’ve seen being performed since you were five. What excites you, still?”
I nod, comprehending, but unconvinced.
“I am sorry” I say, as sincerely as I can, “but even if my mother asks me to fight against Duryodhana, I will not”
“Your mother?” he whispers, “why would you even listen to that heartless princess who left you to the mercy of the Ganga?”
Krishna’s face is strained, his voice unsure. I haven’t seen him like this before: ever. And as I stare at him, I forget, momentarily, all else. It is hard to see this man in pain, I desperately want to look away, but I can’t and so, I stare transfixed, numb. And yet, in the inner recesses of my mind, a word tosses around—one precious, golden word—like a baby in a basket, being tossed around by the waves of the Ganga. Princess. Princess, I mutter to myself and shudder, feeling something very hot traversing the length of my body. Princess, I say again, and now, my hands are shaking, my side-burns growing moist.
“Krishna” I say softly, trying my best to stay calm, “Do you know?”
Of course he does: he is the actor, the master of the script. And I have never seen him so pained. His face betrays fear, shame, pity and immense love: it is such a potent mixture, that it drains the blood off my face. He cannot see me in the eye and though I long to see elsewhere, my curiosity overpowers everything else.
“Who?” I plough on, and my voice is choked.
“She was a vivacious, brilliant girl” he says, wistfully, as though longing for an innocence that was long gone, and continues, “and the apple of her father’s eye; it was said, and it would seem remarkable now, that she could talk for hours and hours and never tire. You changed her life forever: her resplendent youth, the fountain of her happiness, went dry, and she transformed from a vibrant, colourful girl into a stoic and determined single mother of—“
“Who?” I interrupt. I want to know now, more than anything else.
Krishna is trying to prolong it: for some reason, he does not want to say. He stands up and walks around, running his fingers along the walls, until his path is blocked by a cupboard leaning against the wall. He studies the imported vase carefully, placed on top of the cupboard, given by my father-in-law as a parting gift to his dear Vrishala. He then proceeds to pick the now-wilting flowers and smells them. And suddenly, he places them back and I can see he has changed again: this is not the Krishna of a moment before— he is suddenly more determined, a little angry and his eyes are chillingly ruthless.
“As I was saying, this sixteen-year old princess—she was only sixteen when she had you—transformed into a stoic, monochromatic mother of five great children”

I dig my hands into the cushion. I can feel pins and needles all over my body. Maybe he is lying, maybe he is playing one of his tricks. It can’t be true. There are many mothers of five—many princesses who have five children. It can, of course be, anybody’s guess as to who she is. And yet, in the back of my head, I calculate furiously: she was sixteen when she had me, how old is Kun— I stop myself, I suddenly do not want to think, to know. Desperately, I ask:
“And my father—who is he?”
“He’s gone now. But, you’ll see him tomorrow. So will the rest of us”
“No riddles, Krishna” I plead, “Just tell me who”
“It’s funny how” says Krishna, sounding half-surprised at the discovery, “your father and your maternal grandfather share the same name—Surya
In the split second after my knees give away and before I fall over, I have a vision. Standing by Krishna, but more brilliant than anything I have set my eyes on, there is a man, bathed in an ethereal orange light, looking at me with infinite love and tremendous pity; and I trace the path of a single tear that runs down his face, down his shining armour, glistening blindingly golden; and we hit the ground together, the tear and I, and I am overcome with joy. Bliss. And black thereafter.
To be continued