Loved (Part III)

(Continues from below)

Do you remember our argument before the first split? It wasn’t a fight as much as the voicing of an end, a comma, perhaps a full-stop. At least, that’s what I felt.   

I celebrated at Keventer's. I bought myself a strawberry shake: thirty rupees, one giant glass, seven sublime slurps, a burst of dreamy whistling somewhere in between. I was sitting on the second stair of a flight of steps that led into the higher levels of the marketplace, my head four-feet above the ground, my eyes level with the waists of the many students who walked past, oblivious to my presence, gripped as they were by the complete sense of self-absorbedness that affects one at that age.

What did I do? I watched legs: some bare, some hairy, mostly blue.  

One pair of legs really caught my attention: they belonged to a fashionable young girl, who wore, as December would demand, a warm black blazer above her waist and, as fashion would demand, a pair of skimpy shorts that barely extended beyond the upper half of her thighs. On another day, I wouldn’t have noticed those legs at all; on another day, had you pointed them out to me, I would have pooh-poohed them, scoffing the peculiar demands that fashion makes of people.

And yet, that day was not just another day: I watched them approach and I felt myself breathe heavier; they were a beautiful pair of legs— long, sexy, suave –  the cobblestones seemed to roll-out in front of them like red-carpets. I watched them all the way to the corner of the road. Only then, did I notice my own self.

I was whistling softly, an old, flirty duet.

I was ogling. 

I was free.

*

Recently, a friend of mine told me she always sensed I was distracted, like I was running multiple trains of thought inside my head. I had this image of my brain as a giant railway junction: Neuron-Sarai, thought-trains criss-crossing,  running in parallels, a series of signals at the many intersections; and my own hassled self, working overtime on a single switch-board, pulling levers and ensuring the absence of collisions and cross-connections.

As my friend spoke, I was struck by the memory of a conversation you and I had, strangely also at a railway station. As you chatted about some character you had read in a play, a segment of my mind wandered with my eyes as they followed a greying man in a frayed suit, presumably the Station Master. He seemed flustered, like all the world had dumped its problems on him. I think you noticed my attention drift and paused. Almost on cue, I said, surprising myself: “But wasn't Igor an anarcho-communist?” “Exactly",  you said, beaming, as though pleased with the fact that I was indeed listening. I smiled, because it was wonderful to see you satisfied and talk away, a wave of stray, luscious hair reaching for your ears from across your forehead.

I smiled some more, barely believing my luck.

When I pictured myself in my head, as the switch-board operator of Neuron-Sarai, I seemed to bear a striking resemblance to that Station Master.

“See?” I found my friend telling me, “there you go off again, smiling to yourself”

*

If only love died abruptly. And if only such deaths could be foretold.

On his last night, Radheya, son of the Sun and the Mahabharata’s most heart-wrenching creation, sat by himself in his war-tent and recapped his life. I don’t know if we ever discussed this event: I don’t remember doing so. Fully aware of his impending death,  Radheya sits alone and walks his memory, deliberately—every thought, every event, every person is carefully (even lovingly) plucked out of his past, turned around, examined, and dropped back into the basket of forgetfulness. He could afford such an act, because he couldn’t bother with forgetting: death spells the end for things far worse than memory and regret.

I wish I could have done the same when you had moved on: mark out a night, drench myself in nostalgia’s heady wine, and walk out into a fresh dew-drenched morning, a new soul within, a new life to look forward to. But, I never gathered the courage to voluntarily walk down our past; and forgetfulness slowly chipped away at memory’s walls, until all I have now is a confused collection of thoughts, full of wonderful, visceral, floating emotions, not always moored to any context.

*             

I bought myself a string of fancy, decorative lights a few months ago. They are a series of small, yellow bulbs, encased in punctured, perfectly geometric, octagonal (almost circular) cases; and, as they glow, they throw the most fantastic, interconnected patterns of shadows on the walls. I love staring at those lights, they seem to stand for something new every time I look at them.

There are fourteen lights, the eighth doesn't glow, the bulb long being fused. Sometimes, I see those lights as metaphoric for my own self: difference facets of the same base working in various directions simultaneously and frantically, yet outwardly, projecting one whole image. An isomorphism—a real-world, visual equivalent of the Neuron-Sarai. 

The last time I looked at them, I thought of the one light that didn't glow: it stood, like the great Godel's Proof, as testimony to the fact that the most beautiful things are never complete, never perfect. What is the self, after all, but a continuous, iterative collection of past selves? Of a conscious made from memories, some scattered, some diffused, some fused with a being residing deep inside one’s subconscious? And memory, by nature, is chaotic, murky and often indeterminable. Consequently, the self, built on the bedrock of memory, is imprecise, yet affectingly beautiful.

Once I dreamt that you had married a rich, old businessman: his face was lined, but he wore a smart suit and a tie, and the news of his marrying such a pretty, young thing as yourself was the toast of the town, splashed across newspapers. When I woke up, I remembered that, in the dream, I hadn’t felt terrible that you had married, thereby rendering the idea of us, as two letters fused into one whole, forever lost to the realm of possibilities. I also remember being surprised by how long it had been since I had seen you and yet, how strange it was that I had dreamt of you.

Sometimes, the bulb that doesn’t glow stands for you: as the one that got away, yet exists somewhere, casting its own shadow on the rest, quietly, perceptibly: the beautiful blemish of imperfection on an incomplete self.  

(Concludes)

Smooth Kill-- 3

Continued from here

Krishna stands up and gives me a hand. I get up: my head is a little dizzy, my vision is strangely blurred. I put an arm around him, leaning on his shoulder, and he guides me back towards the house. As we walk back, memories flood my mind, in a sequence of pictures. It starts off with a dream—there is a woman who used to visit me often in my dreams, her face is veiled, but she wears clothes of the royalty, she is always crying and very silent. I ask her questions, she gives no answers, only continuing to cry more. As I grow older, the dreams are less frequent, maybe she doesn’t miss me anymore, maybe she is married and has children, maybe five other children.

Suddenly, we are at the Court, the atmosphere is tense; my eyes are red, red with rage and red with a haughtiness that I will regret for the rest of my life. Draupadi, a woman I respect as much as I respect Bhima as an archer, is crying; her hair is messy, her clothes even messier; she is appealing to the elders, to anyone, to restore sanity. My eyes are, however, on Yudhistra: he rarely flies into a rage and as I look at him, it is evident that this is one of those rare occasions. I am, honestly, terrified for I don’t know what to expect. He looks at me, with a loathing so deep, that it sends a chill down my spine, but I stare back, trying to be brave. And then I see his eyes trace the length of my body, down to my feet, and suddenly, he is calm, as calm as the mountains, as composed as a river in summer. Confused, my eyes follow his and I find myself staring at my own feet and I cannot understand. But now, I realize: they are not my feet he sees, but his mother’s. Our mother’s.
And then I hear a voice in my head and that fills me with pride and gives me strength. It is a voice from very long ago, the voice of my best friend—it is authoritative, filled with a conviction that no one around him seems to share: Can’t you see, can’t you see this man is not a suta? Can’t you see he has the gait of a lion? Can a deer ever hope to have such a walk?

“Lie down Radheya” Krishna is saying, abruptly bringing me to the present.
I look around. I am in my bedroom, by my bed, neatly made. I don’t know how I got there, but I manage a weak smile. I need sleep, need to forget. Things, though much clearer now, are jumbled. The pieces are all there, but the whole picture is too hard for my mind to grasp.
“Thanks Krishna” I say, tucking into my bed.
“Can’t say it’s my pleasure, but you’re welcome, I guess” he replies wryly.

In moments, I am asleep.

*****

I walk back from Radheya’s place much later than I initially intend to. My charioteer is sleeping; a couple of the horses are grazing, another is sleeping, the last one is staring at the sky and, in my opinion, contemplating existential questions. I tap my charioteer on the shoulder and he wakes up, a touch embarrassed. I smile easily and say:
“I suggest you continue your siesta on the chariot”
He gives me a quizzical look. I smile again and say:
“Go sleep on the chariot. I’ll do the riding” and take the whip and slap the ground exactly in the manner he does. The horses all come trundling back, each at its own pace.
“Its ok” he says, “I have finished sleeping”
“Oh, don’t think I am doing this for you” I say, “There is a war on our hands and I need practice”
“Oh” he says, comprehending.

As I tie up the horses and take my seat, my mind goes back to the events of the day: he is a fool, that Radheya—a very likeable one at that. He had and still has the power, if he ever changes his mind, to stop all that bloodshed and yet he doesn’t. Generations to come might see that as a selfless decision, but it is, in fact, very selfish. One cannot put loyalty and friendship over the lives of so many great warriors and thousands of nameless, brave soldiers.
Steering my horses down a steep incline, I ask my charioteer:
“Am I good?”
“Yes sir. I have never seen someone ride so easily” he says, and I see his voice has acquired a fresh tinge of deep reverence.
Unsurprisingly, of all my achievements, it is this one that impresses him the most.

No sooner do we travel a few hundred metres than we bump into Vrishala, the wife of Radheya, sitting contently on Radheya’s favourite chariot, evidently making her way home. I stop and get off and greet her. She falls at my feet. I bless her, a little embarrassed— my show at the court, earlier today, has obviously reached public ears. I ask:
“Where have you been? I am just returning from a visit to your house”
“Oh” she says, her face falling, ruing a missed opportunity, she asks, “Did Radheya look after you well? Did he give you something to eat? Did he quench your thirst?”
“Yes, yes” I lie automatically, “He is a great host”
She looks greatly relieved.
“I had actually gone to the temple” she explains, “Faith acquires a whole new meaning in these troubled times—I hear war is now inevitable?”
“Yes” I say, trying to put on my gravest expression, “Are you praying for Radheya?”
“Oh, I am not worried for him. Everyone knows he is invincible. And he has promised Duryodhana he will win it for him and Radheya never makes promises he can’t keep. My sons, however, are a little too eager. And like every mother, I am worried for them. Radheya, I know, will take care of them too. But, I still worry a lot”
“Yes, I know” I say in a voice that is not mine: her unshakeable faith in her husband’s abilities throws me off guard.
“But, Krishna” she says, suddenly, “I will have them all, won’t I? Even after the war?”
It is a question that leaves with little room: lie or stay silent. I choose neither.
“It has got really dark and I need to get going. You keep up the good work, Vrishala”

And I hop onto my chariot and crack my whip: the horses jump to life and we are away, in a swirl of dust, flying past mansions and houses, long-shut offices and markets that are closing down, empty parks and vacant streets; but nothing can distract me from the one thought that constantly plays in my mind, like a temple priest’s chant, except it is much darker: I am a murderer-- a clever, cunning, shameless murderer.

Smooth Kill-- 2

Continued from here
When I awake, I am disoriented. I wonder why Krishna is sprawled out on my sofa, apparently sleeping. And then it all comes back: the princess, the story, the vision, the happiness. But, the happiness was only momentary for now I am gripped with a deadly fear, a fear for my friend, a fear for my loyalty to the one man I love more than life itself.
Still feeling dizzy, I haul myself up. I need water, I decide. My feet take me into the passageway that leads to the entrance, away from the kitchen where there is water. I am intrigued, a little concerned even, but too dazed to disobey. In the silence, my footsteps echo. The only witnesses to my unsteady walk are the Seven Great Portraits that adorn the walls of the access, each diagonally opposite to the other, forming a perfectly chaotic zigzag pattern; painted by Sudeepa, known for his life-like portraits of people from all walks of life, these paintings, like most things in my life, are gifts from my best friend. I can almost sense their eyes—the cobbler, the eunuch, the archer, the writer, the court poet, the princess and Sudeepa himself, in an astonishingly accurate self-portrait— follow me as I make my way out.
When I am outside, relief swoops over me. For some reason, the passageway was uneasy and claustrophobic. It is a cloudy night: the moon peeps between two huge masses of grey; the stars are few and twinkle listlessly. The air is fresh though; and the night is alive with the call of the night-birds, the hoots of the owls and the gush of the wind through the swaying trees.
I suddenly realize where I am heading and pat my unconscious self on the back: our house-hold well, fifty feet deep, hitting sweet ground- water at a mere fifteen, is barely metres away. And as I draw water from the well, a picture comes to my mind. And, all of a sudden, two erstwhile minor details achieve a significance that only hindsight can bestow.

I am twenty-one; a proud but penniless archer, roaming the streets of Hastinapura, the greatest city in the world. I enter, quite inadvertently, a theatre. There is some sort of a tournament taking place for archers, big and small, have gathered, bows and quivers in tow, clad in shiny armours. All eyes are focused on one young lad, no older than seventeen. The very sight of him fills me with a deep sense of loathing, it is inexplicable. Maybe it is the manner in which he wields his bow—there is a certain practiced nonchalance that any experienced eye will tell you is put on, an act; he is fairly good because his tricks are very imaginative, but I cannot understand the need to be so theatrical. He is a star, no doubt—the crowd, seven thousand in all, commoners and aristocrats alike, seem to love him. And he seems very conscious of that fact, cockiness etched in every nerve of his body, every move he makes.

When they cheer him for the umpteenth time, for performing a trick I can blindfolded, I refuse to lurk in the shadows. I string my bow and there is a resounding twang and the cheering crowd is taken aback; and suddenly, heads turn, all eyes are focused on someone else. It is my moment of reckoning, I immediately realize: my one shot at greatness. I walk silently and the theatre has gone so quiet that I can hear my own footsteps. And then I hear murmurs, soft and quiet, politely inquisitive. I refuse to be distracted, not looking once in the direction of the audience. I simply take my bow and string it once more, this time it seems ever louder, for I am in the centre and that leads to multiple echoes and the crowd go dead quiet, all expectant, excited. As I shut my eyes to say prayers to my teacher and the Sun, my chosen God, there is a commotion in the inner stands—the queen, Kunti, faints. I pause and look at the white-bearded grand old man, sitting in the main gallery, who seems to be running the show: he simply smiles, nods and signals—the show must go on.

With a smile at the pompous, young archer and a bow to the aristocratic elders, I begin my exhibition. Initially, I simply repeat what their star archer had just displayed, doing each of his tricks with consummate ease: that gives me confidence. And then, I move onto my bag of tricks— skills that the archers of Hastinapura haven’t been taught, skills that they haven’t seen even, skills that even Bhagavan Bhargava, my teacher, found hard to teach, skills that I, however, have mastered so well that I barely notice I am performing them. What greets me initially is silence and that worries me, but stealing a glance at the crowd I realize that it is one of amazement, of incredulity. And then gradually, some men find their voices, others begin clapping and before long, the crowd are on their feet, roaring and hooting; some old men even have tears running down their eyes.

And with every trick I perform, the clouds grow darker, the air is thick with moisture, the pungent scent of rain prevails. And yet, much to my surprise (and that of most present), I alone am bathed in a fantastic, unearthly bright orange-yellow glow, almost as though the Sun, refusing to be outdone, has put its spotlight on me. On one end, there is the original star, Arjuna, son of Indra, the God of Rain, black-grey clouds looming large over his head. On the other, there is Radheya, the new super-star, unaffected by the threat of rain, for, unknown to him, his father is keeping an eye on him too.

I gulp my fill of water—three fourths of a bucket—and splash the remaining on my face in the hope that I would regain my composure and think calmly. My mind, failing to come to terms with the situation, is blank. My wretched body however can’t take it —my hands and legs behave as though I am on a chariot travelling on a pot-holed road. I cannot stop shivering. I rush inside, past the passageway and the prying eyes, past Krishna, still blissfully asleep, past the dining hall, the reflection of the lamp-lights dancing on the newly purchased silver cutlery and into my bedroom, where lay my bow and quiver. I pick them up, still shaking, and run outside.

Outside, the wind has picked up; the night, however, has gone chillingly quite: the owls don’t hoot, the insects seem to have been struck dumb. With one hand I draw my first arrow, my shaking other hand holding the bow unsteadily. The arrow’s tip catches the moonlight and twinkles briefly. I pull the string and let it go, at an angle to the wind, into the darkness. After the first fraction of a second, I cannot see it, yet I know exactly where it lands, my trained ears keeping track of its pathway. I draw my next arrow and repeat the action. I do this several times and gradually, my body gets into the groove, my hands and head grow steadier and steadier until they are as still as a statue; my mind is calmer, though it consciously avoids any thought but that pertaining to the act of taking aim and tracing the path the arrow takes. And then, in the near-silence (the only sound being that of the wind, racing through the dancing trees) I hear Krishna call out my name.
I do not turn around. Still continuing to shoot arrows into the darkness, I ask
“My mother—Does she know who I actually am?”
“Yes”, he says. He is now standing by me.
“Who is she?”
I know who she is, but I still can’t bring myself to acknowledging it. I need someone else to tell me.
“Kunti” he says flatly.
For a second, I turn my head slightly, still continuing to fire arrows, to look at him. He has an odd expression on his face, I cannot quite place it.
And strangely, maybe out of inactivity, my legs collapse and I am on my knees. I still do not stop taking aim though. And then the tears begin to flow; they are tears of anger. Anger at fate, for I have always managed to be on her wrong side, at the receiving end; anger at my father, the Sun—could he not once have told me? Anger at my mother, Kunti, for being cowardly and stupid; anger at Krishna for I know that this is also part of some grand plan of his; anger, most of all, at myself, for being so unlike a warrior, for letting my emotions get the better of me.
Krishna is still looking at me, with the same odd expression.
“It’s the act of taking aim in the darkness”, I say to him, a little too loudly, “all that concentration is causing my eyes to become watery”
I know they are stupid words, but they sting him like nothing I have said before. He seems to be in terrible misery, so much so that he is forced to look away.
“I understand”, he says simply; his voice is strained.
And then I can take it no more. I drop my bow and lie down on the ground, facing up, on the spiky lawn, carefully trimmed under the supervision of my wife. The sky has just two colours and shades of them both: black and white. The sky is a black blanket; the stars, mostly hidden by monstrous clouds, flash like white diamonds; the clouds are graying in the centre, and white at the edges, much like my now foster-father, Athiratha’s hair; the moon, shaped like a strained bow-string, is off-white, with patches of light grey.
“Radheya”, Krishna says softly “I offer you the Earth. If you join us, there will be no war. And you know Yudhishtra, if I tell him of your story, he will gladly renounce his throne for his brother. And Duryodhana will be equally pleased. You will be the Lord of the World”
For a second, I picture myself as King of Hastinapura, seated on the jeweled throne, surrounded by my brothers and friends. The next instant, I realize the King’s face is not mine, but that of another man: a far nobler, a far more powerful, a far more generous and importantly, a far better administrator than I can ever dream of being. It is the face of my best friend.
My decision is made.
“No. I will not come over your to your side. And Yudhishtra will not get to know. My name is Radheya and my mother is Radha”
“So you will put your friend over your brothers? Loyalty over blood?” he asks.
“I am simply putting my word over everything else. And I have promised my friend to fight the war and fight my very best and let him have his throne”
“Your friend is not a nice man, Radheya”
Those words cause me to flare up, like it is I who am being insulted, like I am being called a suta.
“One more word, Krishna, one more word about him and this discussion is over. I cannot harm you, but I can threaten to not listen. On the day of the tournament, when the whole world looked down upon me for being a suta, who came to my rescue? Who made me King of Anga? Who made me what I am today? Who saw my soul, who saw me for I what I truly was, a kshatriya, a warrior, a hero? I owe my life to him”
Krishna is silent, his face inscrutable. I look at his face, glowing serenely in the faint moonlight and my rage dissipates as quickly as it rose. One cannot be angry with him. I say:
“You know Krishna, if you weren’t on the other side, we could have been friends. The best of friends even”
He picks up my bow and examines it carefully, his long fingers gracefully stringing it tenderly; he even smells the wood lovingly. He then looks at me and smiles and says:
“I think we are”

To be continued.

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

My Favourite Superhero

RADHEYA(KARNA)
I held the" Mahabharatha" in my hand--it felt unnaturally light. It had been ages since I had seen the book. There was a time when I had to stand on the one-foot wall beside the wash-basin to peer into the mirror above and brush my teeth; a time when the book required two hands to be carried around on my head--not unlike coolies carrying heavy suitcases; a time when I would read it on a daily basis--picking out random pages and savouring every word of the master-epic. But, that day, I knew I wouldn’t open the book and start from just any page--I turned to page 649, to a chapter called "Radheya was my son". Every time I read that chapter, I would almost cry, my throat would cringe and my mind would feel exhausted. It was my favourite chapter--a beautiful but most painful one.

The Mahabharatha, for me, had only one hero. He was the only reason that, as a kid, I was heavily critical of the televised series of the epic. The first time I saw him come on screen, I was aghast. Firstly, there was the background music which made you wonder if he would say, "Mugambo Khush hua". And when he walked and patted his dear friend Duryodhana on his back, they both faced the camera and broke into wicked grins that broke my heart. My Radheya, the one that had been in my head ever since I had read the book, even when at his most displeasing, never had a face so contorted and cruel-looking as this. I ran away from the room, returning only after making sure that it was at least a good 15 minutes after the show.

If someone asked me to represent Radheya's life on piece a of paper, I would probably give sheet to a three-year-old and ask him to scribble--for that's how messy it is. The uncomfortable circumstances of his birth lay a somewhat shaky platform for a very painful life--his seemingly absurd craving to take up archery as a boy of sixteen, when everyone(including himself) thinks he is a sutaputra--a lower caste.; the shattering disappointment, the first of many, over the fact that he finds no willing teacher to teach him, a son of a charioteer--And when he does find one, the great Bhagawan Bhargava, he not only defeats him in battle(a feat that no one other than Bhishma had achieved before), but gets cursed--a curse that eventually leads to his death in battlefield. Such is his life, where brief periods of sunshine are overshadowed by massive grey clouds that eventually suck all the light out of his life like weeds sucking out the very existence of a flower-bed.

But, Radheya was a fighter--a true Kshatriya. A man, for whom adversity, as the cliché rides, was only a stepping stone to success--a path to making name, fame and earning respect. But, what appeals most to a reader is his love for giving; a trait that was exploited by Indra. When he gave his Kavacha and Kundala, knowing very well who the beggar in disguise was, he knew he had given away a part of himself. Here was a trade-off wherein he stood to loose and yet he took part with a smile on his face as blood dripped of his chest and shoulders. All that came naturally to him--just as his artistry with the bow punctuated with grace, flamboyance and characteristic poise; just as his unwavering loyalty to his king, Duryodhana, who had stolen his heart away for life with one act of supreme generosity; just as his love for his adopted mother in whose honour he had refused to be called by any other name, irrespective of the amount of insult it brought to him; just as his promise to Kunti, which heavily influenced the outcome of war.

No doubt, his character is stained. There is an obvious question-mark on his actions--the humiliation of Draupadi is a case in point. But, you cant expect a man to lead a blemish free life if he were to be put through such turmoil and controversy. In fact, his life could have been far worse--that he lived the way he did is nothing short of a miracle--something that speakes volumes of his ability and strong character. Long before the war commenced, he had realised he was on the wrong side, fighting a losing battle. But, he wasn't a man who would go back on his word--his unconditional love for his master and King called for him to be by his side until death drew them apart. For Duryodhana gave him what he always wanted--trust, fame and respect.

And as I read, slowly, every word of the chapter, I felt the old surge of mixed emotions flowing back--the shot of pride when Kunti tells Yudhishtra that Radheya was not a suta and asks him to perform his funeral rites, the excitement when the Pandavas exclaim "Not a suta!" and she relates the tale of his birth, the bitter pleasure when the Pandavas sit shocked, hand on heads, failing to come to terms with reality(Arjuna goes, "I killed my own brother") and finally, the immense agony when Bhima remembers the words of Duryodhana who had uttered, on that fateful day in the tournament, " Cant you see he is a Kshatriya. Dont you realise a deer can never have the imperial gait of a lion?"--those lines, for me, make the Mahabharatha truly magnificent--for even the greatest and the most humble of men,Yudhistra, couldn’t see what the scheming, jealous teenager could in a suta with a bow--A master and a hero. And fate's least favourite child.