#kanha

Lord Krishna

04 | Once Upon A Dream.

THE NIGHT WAS YOUNG AND OUTLANDISH TO HER WHO WOULD SPEND SUCH HOURS LOCKED IN THE PRIVACY OF HER BEDCHAMBERS, forgotten by creation and the world out of sight — out of mind.

Today however, she had multiple bags in one grip while clumsily adjusting a bluetooth earphone, and her bag slung from her drooping shoulder. From another end, a soft chattering continued. In the background, the city continued to breathe, consistently thrumming with vigour. The walk home was only a mile, and Ira had decided to make use of it by doing what she did best. Listen. Because listening meant she’d know something new and would be compelled to divulge nothing of her own, and know patience. She was going to need a lot of that and she also firmly believed not every discourse was meant to go both ways.

Maya had dialled — a myriad thoughts circling her mind and not enough of Ira’s physical presence to cling to.

“-aaand I might have done something,” Maya drawled, engendering a dramatic jump of brows. She wasn’t the kind to mince words, it was usually Ira and now the latter could virtually see her pouting.

Ira huffed, the knackered one does when amusement isn’t kindled by enough physical zeal but hopes to be conveyed quietly. “I’m listening, honey.”

That was the witch cooing, cajoling a spooked cat out of a pipe; a Professor being more of a confidant than authority to a shy pupil. These were the basics of peer empowerment in mental health first aid. Make the person feel safe and maintain a non-judgemental front, even if they’re questionable and you being judgy is a human response. Children especially needed to feel secure in their skin as a prerequisite to growing hale and hearty.

Maya did not appreciate being babied. Except maybe when Ira did it, because she was just so genuine and sounded so soft. You’d never hear her being a sycophant. As it turned out, her love language was not words of affirmation either.

Maya sighed, fiddling with her fingers all of a sudden. “I might have told Mom here that I want to be a celibate. I couldn’t tell you before but this is something . . . intimate to me. It’s just . . . it seems so hard but I know it’s the right choice.” She flailed her arms about animatedly as if Ira were actually across the table, intensely looking over her glasses. It wasn’t feasible for complex emotions to be condensed in a mere jumble of words, innit?

Ira nodded patiently, shifting the fruit plastic from one hand to another, the guavas heavy today. A cluster of lychees were tucked parallel to them. “That’s alright. Making the right decision isn’t always easy, nor pleasant. That doesn’t make it wrong.” Ira said, not a hint of whammy in her voice. Maya’s house was practically a mountain under an earthquake, but her best friend did not seem as rattled by the catastrophe.

Well, the way Maya blabbered made it seem like one. As if a league of gods would be personally offended by her resolve. No, Ira was sure none would bat an eye at it. Just give them four days, the four people questioning four things about your life will skedaddle their four own ways.

“I don’t want a family in the conventional sense, Iru. No husband and children. My career’s just taken flight and there’s so much to do. Being a homemaker is a full time job, uncredited and unpaid at that, and this profession isn’t for the weak! I shall be tugged in two areas of my life all the time. It sounds like a predicament. Mom wasn’t exactly upset but she claims she needs time to process it, given that I’m her only child. She really wanted grandkids.”

A brisk dip of a chin, followed by the signature Ira hum of when words would seem robotic or script-like. By this time she had reached The Daily Drizzle, but now she needed to go home. She’d text Nutan about it later, that she wasn’t researching for her essays today to spend time there. “I too believe that lifestyle isn’t for everyone. You realize the sacrifices family life demands, and the effort it needs. If it isn’t for you, stepping away now is a wise choice rather than regretting later. Are you relieved, Sakhi? We can look at other people later,” said the academic.

That had done it. Maya audibly sighed, as if merging in her settee, relieved to have someone just . . . listen and understand. Not tell her she was being selfish or impulsive, or that she might die alone — men on the internet did it enough to opinionated women of all ages. A few misogynist colleagues had already done that. She smiled, a sun in her ribs. Warm like a hug, tied like a cinnamon roll. “Very much so, Iru. It’s like a weight is off me. You’re not surprised?”

Ira mirrored her easy laugh, fishing out the apartment keys from her pleated brown trousers pocket. They jingled — the sound suspended like something sacred on the threshold. “Not at all, Maya.”

“How so?”

A playful roll of eyes. “It was obvious.” Maya was never heard speaking of men, despite having worked with the most handsome models and charming actors. She had an austere air around her, dwelling in the intricacies of flowy fabrics and silk threads with the single-minded concentration of a hawk, her work a penance.

Maya chuckled buoyantly. “Enough about me. Aunt Nutan is losing her head over a portfolio of eligible bachelors revolving in her friend group, and you’ve never so much as looked at a man ever since we know each other. Who do you desire, Iru?”

~ ° ~ ° ~

I’M HELD TOGETHER BY YOUR TEEMING AVOIDANCE; I SHALL BREAK AT YOUR VERY GAZE.

There were days she wove a thread to keep herself collected, there were nights she spilled like wine from warm chalice — entirely transgressing norms and notions. Wayward. There were times she’d be ruined by nothing but a lone name, the cosmos insignificant. She swam in and out of consciousness.

Ira had desired a lot from life. Most of what she now had was once a dream manifested by her actions, and many remained in the oblivion, but what remained neither lost nor found was just one thing in the pandora box of all other things. She’d never given words to it, because if so much as a tune could string the renaissance of green life, wouldn’t words be able to cement the abstract into something more real?

Ira would have to admit that she wasn’t carved of ice. That she was indeed made of flesh and blood and like everyone’s hearts, hers housed someone as well. Maybe someone would have been able to find querencia in emptiness, but when a chalice already brims with elixir, how can water be poured into it?

And if she did indeed give it words, what difference would it make? Would a star be sent to emblazon her world? Everyone knows what happened to Icarus, and how ravenous Sampaati had been. It wasn’t as if she lived in the swarth. She had enough people, enough space. Everything was fine, so was she.

Static buzzed somewhere near or far, she couldn’t tell.

A word articulated can never be taken back, nor does it go to waste. It shall manifest.

Well, yes, that’s how four people of a single family never could live under a single roof again. Of course Ira knew that. She had asked that of her patron, sealed the spell. Papa knew it. That was why he was outraged, disbelieving of her audacity. At her arrogance of power, her disregard for everyone she called her own.

“Well then,” Ira said, sounding hoarse and foreign to her own ears. “Hear me, you. I know you’re listening.”

The night had deepened, and not a soul would be awake in the witching hour. Some called it the devil’s hour.

For Hindus, it was the brahmamuhurta - the time before dawn when gods walk the earth. So if there was one indeed walking nearby, or merely just listening, she would have a witness to her confession.

A swish of turmeric yellow robes /bright laughter /unruly curls /roguish hazel eyes /rich dark skin /an infinite serpent /a deity /an ocean in the sky/ he blinks and lifetimes have passed. Vishnu. Vishnu. Vishnu.

There was a pain she was convinced would go with her.

“Grant me my one heart’s wish or leave me with myself. Please don’t make a fool of me.”

There was only so much a paltry witch could take.

~ ° ~ ° ~

IN THE REALMS OF DREAMS AND THE SUBCONSCIOUS, THERE WAS TRUTH: EXAGGERATED OR NOT. As if trapped in a fish-eye, everything warped, but nothing was paltry.

Each and every object of this realm was carefully orchestrated, to mimic every visiting witch’s persona. Every patron would come and go, to reiterate that only the highest souls had been endowed with magic and they had to use it to escape the cycle of birth and death. Or that they had a mission to complete, a lesson to learn. It could be partnering with another witch to surreptitiously eliminate a threat, or in general just . . . to be reprimanded for actions and thoughts that wouldn’t befit a god’s chosen one.

A god’s chosen and a god’s hated — it didn’t matter — both would be toyed around for the god’s sake.

Through soggy clouds and chiselled cloisters, the path gave way to a small parterre. Lush, ethereal, heimat. Or at least a gimmick of heimat.

She had waited. What for, you ask? She did not know. Only that she had. She always did. For something to happen. Something to change. For something to . . . click into place. It seemed as if there was no Ira-shaped corner in the world for her to slide into.

Ira floated ahead, amorphous and weightless. Beneath the amaranthine blue sky and above misty viridescence, on a swing with her back facing the witch, there sat her patron.

Butter yellow butterflies and palm sized sylphs danced in the air, a floral wreath balanced in their tiny grips. Nimbly it came to rest on the goddess’ blue black tresses, an unending sinuous cascade. There was a distinct savour in the wind, rosemary swaying by the hedge. She turned, beaming, and with her zeal the whole cosmos was aloft. Her emerald green irises glimmering with glee flickered to Ira.

Bhumidevi was wrapped in a diaphanous baby blue fabric, molten gold trapped in her skin and the flecks of her compassionate gaze. “I was waiting, but you just won’t sleep. It would have been insensitive to interrupt your me-time.”

The witch lowered her head as a show of deference, palms pressing against each other. “I apologize, Mother. The day had been . . . long, but it’s no excuse. I’ll be careful hence.”

The patron giggled, a sign of mischief. With her, the robins and the nightingales seemed to sing. She wholly turned in Ira’s direction now, patting the space beside her on the flower embellished swing. On the branches of the grandiose kadamba bough, chipmunks raced in pursuit of arboreal nuts. Little balls of fur — baby bunnies! — played hide and seek in her lap. “No, no, my dearest priestess. No need for the formality, I thought you knew that. I heard you. Come here,” mother-earth beckoned, her alta-painted palms resembling pink lotus petals, ever gracious.

Had Ira not spent the past two hours on bed curled into a worm, cursing the very hour the creator came up with the idea of her — she would not be gingerly scurrying towards her very beloved patron with the precise suave of a grasshopper. She lowered her head again, and this time around she hoped the very same deity would swallow her in her embrace, “That . . . rant might have been a display of tremendous spine-cringing foolishness on my part, please forgive me for that as well. I don’t know what took over me-”

Fortunately for her, and all of the ungrateful human race, the earth had plenty of patience. As if to a fault. If she didn’t, her children would have been disciplined sooner.

“I am entrusting you with a responsibility, Ira.” Bhumidevi crossed her arms, frowning just slightly. That was an anomaly on her magnificent features ever in the habit of composure. Besides, people like Ira weren’t the kind to make her fuss. “Stop apologizing. I’m not here to make you feel small. You are me, and I shall not retell how and in which ways. I see nothing wrong with what you asked for. Without my will, the desire wouldn’t have been born into you and you know it.”

Right.

Without the grace of Shri, Vishnu won’t even be a passing thought.

Ira’s face colored up.

03 | Honour To Us All.

ACCORDING TO THE PATRON GODS OF MAGIC: everything in the universe has a cadence, everything sings. Never has creation quit its music.

She would sing to the plants every dawn, a polite audience to her amateur skills. They'd sing back, gentle ones in piano keys and romantic ones in violins. Flowers had vocals, leaves merely possessed ticklish sussurus, and roots would serve as warm pads -- that was the most appropriate analogy she could come up with. It was hard to explain since how do you describe the giggling rivers, the chuckling self assured sky, and the soft humming lullaby of the patient earth-goddess?

Beneath Ira's fingertips a withering stem blossomed back to life, swaying to her gentle hums. It leaned into her touch seeking altruism with the innocence of a child, she could not help but grant -- dark irises glimmering, so brown they might as well have been pitch black. The universe comprehended itself through her, as it did with everyone. Ira could not for her own sake keep the flora alive, but she could mend her folly; whereas her mother was gifted with green thumbs. All the red button roses embellishing their balcony were her presents to Ira, thorned therefore protected.

Every exquisite thing in wilderness is vicious: to lure the foolish, warn the wise of superficiality.

"How do you end up killing desert marigolds, dear?" Nutan's voice resonated from the solarium, caught in an amused laugh as colorful as the painted glass windows. She knew how Ira did it. Ira didn't. She had tried to convey and failed, then decided against it. There was no need to nag, but perhaps the importance of demarcation of that from sound advice had missed her aging eyes.

The latter crossed her arms, too pleased with herself. "Why, I won't know that. No child of yours is a plant-killer."

"How-" Soft feet shuffled through the length of the gallery, concern filtering through several stages of confusion to conclude with epiphany. Nutan cocked a brow, then glanced at the swaying greens with mild surprise, a grin still in place. "That's a bit of cheating, Iru. I'm not a fairy like you."

They accompanied each other to the living room, clock lurching in the pursuit of work hours when they'd both be occupied enough to not reach for each other for six hours at least. That was relief, work always had been. Neither would feel useless, and familiarity wouldn't have the chance to breed contempt.

Ira poured her mother the herbal tea put to brew by the house help, bearing the self contained demeanour of a desi parent not in the habit of being denied. Nutan wrinkled her nose distastefully before accepting the cup. Typical.

"Everything's fair in love, war, and plant parenting. You don't want them dead, nor do I."

"Yes, bu-"

"No- no honey for you. Curb your sugar cravings, Mama. It does no good." -sigh- "And you run a bakery." I don't think I trust you with yourself.

Sheepishly, Nutan put her cup down. Ira had poured herself the same bitter tea, unsweetened and decaffeinated first thing in the morning. Breakfastless and with an awry sleep-schedule.

God knows how Oggy was looking after Papa for Ira could hardly be strict with Mama. "I'm being honest with my diet, child. You know I wouldn't deceive you," said Nutan, smiling the way she knew would abate the strictness of the health cop of the house.

"I do hope so." Ira sighed, flushed lips pulled down in a frown. "I'll only trust your reports."

Oh yikes.

~ ° ~ ° ~

KENOPSIA SETTLED INTO THE CORNERS OF THE DWARAVATI UNIVERSITY AS THE FINAL DISPERSAL OF THE DAY RID IT OF THE DISTANT MURMURING OF YOUNG VOICES, shoes clicking on the marble floors with the urgency that came with that specific age. Believing this to be prison.

Wait for employment, children. You shall get to the biblical concept of prison very soon.

Dwaravati - a locus of many gates. Originally Krishna's city, the lost truth that could explain Ira's hiraeth without getting into much of her. The staffroom too was almost empty, wistful with temporary abandonment. The professors did have their respective cubicles but for sheer paperwork they'd assemble here, bedevilled by the isolation of wooden compartments and the tireless flash of computer screens. Sometimes all one needs in a company is competency. Not comfort, only intellectual stimulation. The staffroom was the sanctum sanctorum of this temple.

"Bye ma'am. See you tomorrow!"

"Ira ma'am, bye!"

A selected few of those chattering prisoners had briefly stopped by, for no reason other than emotional support. Ira was the one providing it. They were half starved highly caffeinated undergrads, weary from the length of texts, often lanky and tall. She was also the one teaching English Communications as the Open Elective to first and second years, so students from other streams too knew her now. Dr. Ira, too quiet some days and too mirthful on another, sometimes cold during lectures if she deemed you were disrespectful towards her time. Nobody could quite put a finger on what day would foster which of her moods.

But it's fine, people with doctorates are usually questionable. Nothing new. Three years of relentless pursuit of wholeness with no promise, and sometimes the planting of an irreversible void does that to you.

"Take care, children. I shall indeed see you. Do be at time," she'd say softly, and if she were still in her cubicle some more time she would go into asking them about their homes, or if they were just houses they inhabited, or if a hostel could be a semblance of what they wanted. Not always did Ira have the energy for motivation and advice, but she always had the ear for venting. And if she didn't, one wouldn't know it anyway.

The ether pink and purple, the clouds were stark white at this time of the day. Wasn't it supposed to be afternoon? But then again, it was supposed to rain. That had been unceremoniously late this year. Nevertheless, no weather could surprise Ira anymore. She was raised in the suburbs of Mumbai -- cool in the mornings, scorchingly humid in the afternoon enough to convince one that Kumbhipakam in fact did exist and that too in the mortal realm, and starless nights. It lacked the serenity of Vadodara, and Ira could just no longer run all the time. So she had left -what was supposed to be- home for a degree, and never returned.

The supposed home had eventually followed her.

As if wind-up like one of those tottering toys, Ira rose so briskly she had a trip through the stars and the clouds and back, picked her things and stuffed them in her structured formal bag. The rapid clumsy action did amuse a few stray eyes and fewer half condescending chuckles from seniors.

Ira embodied the panic of waking up late amidst exams -- that too a maths one -- except those were shameful recurring nightmares and she had not studied math after high school.

Lord I almost forgot picking up Mama's reports from the hospital.

Striding out of the campus with as much dignity her delay would allow, she fished out her phone and dialled Agastya. It rang five times in total and just as she was about to disengage it herself, it was answered.

"Hey, Oggy," she said, breath irregular as she jogged to catch a rickshaw from the majestic ivory gates. All that trustee's money was going into that, and not availability of more books in the library. "I'm off to the hospital. Just wanted to check if you're . . . doing well. I know we met yesterday and then I just . . ." she worried her lip between her teeth, fumbling words in her own mind, "I could not see Rishika. My bad, you both seemed so taken with one another I didn't wish to interrupt. But I'm glad you found your person and wish you both the best. I'll soon make time. Also Mama's doctor could also apparently detect my stress and said on a call that it's nothing to worry about- her blood sugar levels are stable as of now. Her employees are fond of her so if she were to be sick they'd inform us, and manage until any of us is available to take over."

Sometimes she spoke too much, but this time it was needed, innit? How else was she supposed to ask her baby brother, if she was being the kind of sister he'd look up to? The kind he could blindly follow but not end up being like? The sort to bring honour to a family that had risen from nothing back from their Grandpa's time, majorly from their Father's hard work?

It wouldn't matter if he didn't. He was not Ira.

The voice that answered from the other end was not Agastya's. "That seems like a foolproof plan, Ira. Splendid. And what of your father? Does he get these extensive care plans and routinely check-ups? Why does he not get even a word from your mouth, let alone half-baked apologies regarding missed family times?"

Now, with all the honesty from the bottom of her soul -- Ira was not apologizing for anything. He was an adult. He could psychoanalyse himself and have general self-awareness about what he did wrong to make her what she was. Ira was not his therapist.

She was busy, and most of all, she was done.

Shaking her head against the white hot irascible ache blooming in her head, Ira listened. She always did, but wouldn't -or couldn't- speak. Not in front of Papa or Mama.

So she didn't.

A heartbeat.

Gautam's jaw set, the familiar silence flooding the line between them. He would not get the satisfaction of her rage. They'd been past that. There were limited things Ira would let anyone have, her energy was not one of them.

It made no difference. Nothing would ever change.

"Perhaps it is for the better that you haven't found anyone," Gautam continued, in one of his moments. He didn't always mean them, but nor would he apologize. And perhaps this time around, he didn't need to. He wasn't always wrong, he just knew to be a father with much experience of the cruel world.

But not Ira's Papa. It wasn't his fault his creature had come out being so inexplicable.

He said more, but Ira could only listen and remember so much. "How would you ever adjust? How would you be able to keep another family together when you couldn't live with your own?"

The rickshaw halted in front of her destination. The whipping air had obscured not one of his words but Ira's quiet presence. Now as she gingerly stepped out, he could hear her steady breaths again. Neither one bit of agitation, nor a grievance.

Horns blared in the background as evening yawned from its rest. At a distance, Ira saw a little girl hoisted up on her father's shoulders, the mother walking close with two candies. One her own, one the father's. The child laughed delightedly, not one bit scared of the height. Once in a while, she'd clutch at his hair and shriek if imbalanced, never harmed. Ira smiled unconsciously, then quickly averted her gaze so that they wouldn't feel her prying at their precious moment, her cheeks warm and her eyes on her feet.

Nothing followed. Nothingness had always followed.

Yamuna ke shant kinare jab badalon ne chand ko chhupa diya, tab nanhi Meera dar gayi. Kanha ki madhur bansuri aur kalpana ki shakti ne andheri raat ko phir se roshni aur khushi se bhar diya. Bachchon ke liye ek pyari Hindi bedtime story jo himmat, kalpana aur ummeed ka sundar sandesh deti hai.