#krishna fics

Balpan

Shyamala is trying on a new saree. The green border on the deep red saree looks lovely on her. She fixes her kumkum between her eyebrows when she hears a sweet gurgling sound by her daughter.

The little bundle of joy, Shankara and Shyamala's Brahmi stood on her chubby little legs, her arms outstretched towards her mother.

Little Brahmi takes a step forward causing Shyamala to excitedly rush to her baby girl. She stands near the door and sits on her knees, her fingers motioning for the little girl to come to her mother.

"My sweet daughter is taking her first steps. Come, come. Come to your mother." Shyamala coos at Brahmi who only laughs and carefully makes her way forward.

Carefully balancing, she takes a few steps ahead. Brahmi's body sways a little and Shyamala crouches near to her daughter in case she falls down. She doesn't.

And with three more steps, Brahmi walks right into her mother's arms.

Shyamala hugs her daughter and kisses her face. Brahmi only smiles and emits a cheerful laughter. Holding her baby at her hip, Shyamala runs to Bharati to tell about her daughter's milestone.

Across the Yamuna, the little dark jewel of Nanda's household totters on his little feet. Yashoda leaves the ropes and hurriedly walks to her son, her fingers snapping excitedly to attract baby Krishna's attention as he walks towards his darling mother's arms.

Nanda who had arrived after visiting the village council quietly stands near the courtyard entrance, silently observing Krishna walking towards his mother.

After Yashoda kisses her son in delight, he enters the courtyard and hugs Yashoda and Krishna. Krishna nuzzles into Nanda's chest and closes his eyes, his little hands curling around his mother's neck.

***

"Today I will tell you about the story of our Yadu prince, our princess and how Vishnu took birth into our world, Brahmi. Listen to me carefully," Shankara says, holding Brahmi's hands as she sits on her father's lap.

"Vishnu? The Vishnu whose idol Maa worships secretly? He is a stone, Baba. How can he take birth. A stone can't be a baby." Brahmi's argument makes Shankara smile. He chuckles and ruffles her hair. "Oh, you are still young to understand. Take it as a story."

Despite being a guard in Kamsa's dark and dreary prison cells, Shankara harboured a talent of story-telling. When Shankar and Shyamala were shy newly-weds, Shankara would often narrate different folk stories and tales from old texts to win Shyamala's heart, affection and trust. A pregnant Shyamala would often ask him to narrate stories from the sacred texts so the would-be born child would be a wise being in the future.

Brahmi listened to her father with wide-eyes as he narrated what happened on that fateful night when God was born. The little girl of five summers could not take in the brutal murders of Krishna's siblings, so he had skipped that detail. He would tell her about those brutalities some other day when his little Brahmi would grow older.

For now, she only had to know that the world's saviour, the protector of Dharma had taken birth, and would soon return to his birthland.

"So this Krishna will come back to our Mathura?" Brahmi asks.

"Indeed, my child. He has to avenge his parents, save Mathura from this tyrant king."

"If our king is evil, then why do you go to work at his palace, Baba?"

A wry smile takes its place on Shankara's lips. He kisses her forehead. "Because, we also need to live. For survival, one also has to bow down to the evil and bad. Everybody cannot be a hero."

Brahmi blinks her large eyes at her father. "But Baba, that night, you did not tell anyone about this boy's birth. You did not tell the king." Pecking her father's cheek, she continues, "You saved God. You are a hero too." Brahmi looks at her discarded doll on the floor. "Oh, Baba, my doll is asking for food. I will come back later for more stories."

Shankara's eyes glistened with tears. Brahmi did not realize the meaning behind her words. Indeed children were manifestations of the divine. Their innocence is untainted by the rigid rules and regulations of society. They are pure.

Shankara looks at Shyamala playing with her doll. He mutters to himself. "Who am I to save God? God saves us. I only performed my duty to my God."

***

Brahmi arrives from her school. Shankara and Shyamala had begun sending her to a nearby priestly couple who taught the scriptures, literature and arithmetic when she turned seven. She huffs and sits inside the kitchen while her mother who had been cooking rice asks, "What happened? Why do you look so cross?"

"I saw a guard misbehaving with a woman. They even slapped her. Her husband stepped in, but they beat him up too and took him to prison. What kind of a king do we have? His soldiers have been given full rights to do anything with the public. The Shastras talk about how a king must behave with proper conduct. But look at that demon king!"

Shyamala makes a hushed sound. "Careful, Brahmi. His men are everywhere now. We cannot speak ill of him."

Brahmi turns her face away. "But this is sheer injustice. A place where a woman is insulted can never prosper."

Shyamala brings two plates. Brahmi angrily serves rice on both the plates--one for her mother and one for herself. Shyamala whispers, "Yes, but he can't even show mercy to his sister. Will such a man care about other women?"

Brahmi moves her finger around the hot rice on her plate. "I wanted to argue. Pranava held my wrist tightly and stopped me."

"It was the right thing to do by him then. You would be thrown into prison. Nobody, not even your Baba could get you out."

"So we keep tolerating this?"

"Yes, until our saviour arrives."

Brahmi gulps her food. "This endless waiting will only bring us ruin. We should first help ourselves and then God will help."

In the beautiful land of Vrindavana that boasts of lush green forests, green pastures and abundant Tulsi plants, Mathura's hero bids farewell to his house, his parents, his friends and his childhood sweetheart.

"I must head towards my karmabhoomi, O people of Vrindavana. Bid me farewell with your blessings instead of your tears."

Brahmi lays on her cot and looks up at the night sky. The moon shines brightly, its gentle moon beams falling over her. Now a young age of fourteen, a little wiser and bolder, Brahmi thinks about the future of her homeland.

A cool wind blows. She hears a knock on her door. Unlocking the latch, she finds her father, smiling at her with exhaustion marring his face. "You didn't sleep, Brahmi?"

"I will go to sleep in a while, Baba. Come in. Maa is waiting for you with hot dinner prepared."

She watches her parents talk with each other as Shankara slowly eats his meal. Brahmi thinks about her childhood conversation with her Baba.

"Baba, will this Krishna be my friend too when he comes back?"

"He is Vishnu. He accepts everyone."

"What did he really vanquish all those demons?"

"Yes, Brahmi. He is supreme strength personified, my child. He is God in a mortal's body.

Brahmi crosses her feet and sighs, her eyes drinking in the beautiful silvery light of the moon. Her mind replays her father's description about Krishna as narrated by Devaki and Vasudeva who heard it from secretly visiting sages and messengers.

She whispers in the dark to the silent confidante, the sparkling moon. "You will be the prince of Mathura like the rightful heir you are. Here everybody sees you as Mathura's saviour, as their protector and the upholder of Dharma. Baba might make me meet you so I may see you as the glorious God in mortal form. He says he has been a witness to your divinity. I haven't. You could be God, true, but in case if you want a friend here, I hope you find me."

Shyamala peers from the window. "Oh, you wild wild girl, come inside. Don't sleep in the open. Bad spirits will come to you and tie that hair."

Brahmi groans and braids her hair.

***

But she'd still love him.

(Please listen to the song on a loop while reading)

2. Pratiksha

There were many ways in which he came to her.

Like the breeze, gentle and delicate and soothing as if he understood that nothing could bring her the feeling of solace that he did. Nothing but him was that serene to live.

He also came like the rain, dropping all over her body, places where she would only ever allow him, no one else. Like the rain, he carried an attractive melancholic ambience with him, just like the rain, he was erratic and captivating. Like the rain, he brought with him a distinct scent.

Sometimes, he was in the sunny sky, painful to bear but beautiful nonetheless. Like he was the giver of life and death, glowing so luminous for the whole world and somehow still just a sliver of his real light is perceptible to her.

The soil, he for sure was a part of. He'd let people walk on him but when it was too much, he halted his stillness and responded to what was must. He bore so much life, that no one could exist without him, his essence and true personality.

Moon too was just him in guise. When the moonlight would glow in her dark chamber, a small part of the room would light up. Those places were the ones he'd always sit on.

Her soul was him, a part of him. He was her himself. She knew he was every part of her, her mind, her heart, her body, her soul and all her features. He was her flowing hair, her black kohl and her sharp nose. He was her.

But her favourite way of him coming to her was when he was her Kanha, her Keshav.

He'd come to her in so many forms, yet Krishna was the one she could never oppose. 

In the form of Krishna, he met her so many times and never at the same time. He was Krishna but not the one she'd see in the crowd, not the one he'd see with Maiya Yashoda or Nand Baba or even Balram Dau. Not even his companions, or other girlfriends. He'd come to her like a Krishna she had never seen before and it stunned her each time.

He was blissful, ecstatic and euphoric all together when he came to her. As Krishna, when he'd step into her room through the window with his lotus-like feet, freshly smeared allta, she knew he'd leave behind traces, few more seeable than others.

When he'd come to her, Pratiksha would accept him in any form.

His hands would grip the periphery of her window on such nights, and she'd keep looking at him with learning eyes, how he must have lied to Maiya Yashoda about going out with his boyfriends. She'd look at him with mischievousness as he would hold the window for dear life.

"Sakhi, help me at least?" He would say out of weariness when sweat would wet his hair and he'd have to toil to keep them off his hair. Then he'd shake the sweat away, looking so lovely that she'd let him struggle. 

However, when he'd bumble a bit too much for even her liking, she'd approach him, slowly, a little tormenting retribution, out of pure devotion. She'd hold his hand, his fingers enveloped all around her wrist as he burdened her with his weight and finally climbed up her room.

After she pulled him up, he'd collapse just on her, not even allowing her to breathe, and she'd laugh the loudest she was allowed to without waking her parents. Sometimes she thought all of it was just a play to him, so she'd help him up and he'd catch her in his arms.

"Kanha, I'll die " she'd try to push him up as he just rested, "I'm too young right now."

"But Sakhi, " he would fake taking deep breaths.  "I'm too tired to move now."

"Come on, oh Nathkhat," she'd finally breathe ad he would lift some of his weight off  "Thank the lord, Narayana,"

He'd grumbled whenever she'd take the name of Lord Narayana, along the lines of, 'Literally in front of you,' but she would pay no heed to him.

When he finally stood up, he'd make himself relaxed on her bed, laying on it like a starfish, his exquisite redolence, colouring her room. She'd go and sit next to him, and using her chunri, she'd wipe the sweat off his forehead. He'd close his eyes but a smile would be present on his face.

He'd hold her wrist and stop the whole wiping thing after a while, "Come on now, Sakhi," he'd sit up, her wrist still in his hand, "I'm not here get coddled," he would roll his eyes, "Or I would've stayed with Dau or even Maiya."

She'd snatch back her hand, a smile threatening to come over but she hid.

"Then Why Are you here?"

"You tell me."

"Tell you what?" Her brows would turn up and he would ever so gently lift his fingers and ease them. Then she'd smile.

"Tell me, why do you let me in?" He would stand up from the bed then, and approach her dressing space, a small hand mirror placed there that he would pick up and make the moonlight reflect on her face, "Why do you let me trouble you almost every consecutive day?" 

She'd look at him, and he would raise his brows in question, and then She'd blush and look away at the moon every time.

"I let you in because-" she knew it was impossible to find the right answer to his inquiries, no matter how straightforward they were.

What could possibly be the reason if not him?

His smile, his complexion, his existence. Weren't they good enough reasons? Would she have to answer to the world as to why she would allow a not-so-ordinary cowherd boy into her room in the dead of night? Would she have to prove to the world her intentions to protect her laaj?

But those had been secondary issues then, Krishna being her prime. And She'd endure all the world's allegations if it went to be in his presence for a small while. 

"I let you in because I'm selfish." She'd answered truthfully, not caring if it would make her seem wrong. She was selfish enough to want him but it was the most selfless she'd ever been.

He'd look confused, though with a hint of mischief in his star-like thinking eyes, "Selfish?" 

Then he would approach her again, the mirror still in his hands as would sit in front of her, "I'd say, it's quite the opposite." He would raise his hands and tuck a stray piece of hand behind her ears, "Isn't it so, Sakhi? It's selfless."

She'd keep looking at him, the beauty of his beetle eyes capturing her into the slow trap he'd set up.

"It's love."

She'd not blink, how could she?  He would be in front of her and she'd be sinned if even a second was spent without his glimpse.

Her voice would be lost too, the thirst of her throat for water or words, she wasn't sure but she'd desperately need it.

There would be silence worth a thousand words in those few moments. Just Pratiksha and her love personified as a beautiful blue boy.

"Wouldn't you know so much about love?" There was yet again fun in her tone, something that she'd noticed only happened with him.

"Me?" He'd fake being surprised, "Don't be funny, my mohini. You know love so much better than me."

She'd entwine both their hands and kiss the back of his, the skin so soft and cold yet warm, just like she remembered. 

"Indeed I do." She'd look at him, tears overwhelming in her eyes, "For you are what I think is Love. And I know you,"

He'd smile then, not out of a trick or joke or fun poking but genuine, his tulsi smile, too pure, "Better than me?" He'd ask.

"Better than yourself." She'd nod with firm faith and he'd pull her in his arms and she would allow him, every night.

As she would lay on his chest, he'd soothe her mind with his soft head touches which would often lead to a dismantled hairstyle, but they'd ignore it and open the braid completely. 

Pratiksha would then take the hand mirror from him and keep it at a distance from them so she could not waste even a second by not seeing his face, which would also do wonders for his ego.

"I must say, " he'd say between the silence, "Your Lord Narayana must've blessed me with quite a beautiful counter face."

Till then, she'd be in an already deep trance most would call sleep but she would love. 

With no answer in return, Krishna would turn to the mirror to look at her reflection,  mostly finding her in a euphoric stance. 

He'd then allow himself to turn a little, not moving much but to face her. He'd trace the flower pattern above his eyebrows and on her forehead,  the one he'd only make each morning, before bidding farewell for the day.

It would be a comfortable routine for them, dancing through the day and enjoying a slumber together, with peace and silence. 

The next morning when she would wake up, her kahna would be awake too, mixing the fresh flowers he'd brought somehow, and readying the paint for their faces.

She'd stand up, laziness still deep in her body as she'd approach him, "How do you always wake up before me?"

Only then, he'd notice her presence and try not to laugh at her dishevelled appearance, "You look especially beautiful in the morning, priye."

She would be too tired to get angry at his jokes but just look at him who still looked like a world full of happiness and laughter.

She'd sit next to him on the seating in front of the mirror, looking at the colours he'd prepared. 

"Your hair is a mess, Sakhi, " he'd tug on her open hair, "Come, let me tie them."

She'd keep quiet and let him, as she would snuggle deep into her own embrace, the morning dew making her cold. He'd keep pulling some parts of her hair, braiding them as she'd just feel his fingers all through her hair.

After he'd made the hairstyle, as beautiful as all the waterfalls of the world, he'd turn her around, and bring a wet cloth to her face and wipe away all her sleep and paint from yesterday. 

"What flower do you want today, priye?" He'd pick up the bronze bowl with colour and a peacock feather, "What should I paint today?"

"Do as you wish," she'd look into his big dilated eyes, "I know it will look good."

He'd keep smiling as the peacock feather dipped into the white colour and the flowers and bela he'd start drawing. With each delicate stroke of the top, a petal would be created, and with every six petals, a flower would be complete. Like this, the hours would pass and they would read each other with love, colour and laughter. 

And once again, Pratiksha would be reminded that her favourite way of him coming to her was as Kanha, Krishna. 

The routine existed no more. 

Pratiksha no longer exists.

Neither did her room or her friends. 

Vrindavan too is gone now.

They'd cease to exist the day her Kanha had gone away forever. 

Now what existed wasn't what it used to be.

Vrindavan cried now, every second of her existence was spent with sadness now, her rivers bare, stripped of their waves and joy, her mountains, not stable enough to handle the loss of their favourite cowherd. 

No Gopi in Vrindavan truly smiled anymore. Smiles had faded into frowns just the way day faded into night, slowly, taking its sweet time.

And Pratiksha? She hadn't awakened in months.

She'd spent all her days just like she was right now.

As she lay motionless on her bed, her eyes were finished if all the tears she could hold in her two eyes.

Her heart was beating, not with life but with pain, misery and discontent and as she tried to stand up from the bed, her body gave up. Pratiksha was plagued by memories, plagued by him.

She finally gathered all her might, taking the support of the bed still to reach the window of her room.

The window.

It was still there, unlike him. That Makhan chor wasn't there anymore.

Each night, just like today, she would crawl up to the window still from where he would come to her. And just like today, she looked down there, no sign of him, no sign at all.

She would then sit with the support of the opposite wall, looking at her room, which was filled with him. From the floor to the ceiling to the wall to the flowers by her bed, all was him.

How was one to forget it all?

Now no one would climb up her window late at night, no one would beg her to help him up. No one would pretend to be exhausted and lay on top of her till she begged for mercy. No one would call her Sakhi anymore, not like he did.

She'd wait for him, penance endlessly to see his face again, to hear him laugh and giggle again, to hear the madhurya sound of his flute and hum along it once again. But he said he won't be back ever, that history was waiting for him. And who was Pratiksha to anger the immortal she?

But that didn't mean losing hope, right? No, she'd still wait for him. Wait for him to climb up the window yet again someday, and to call for her with the same amount of immense love. She'd wait till her teeth rot and her skin falls.

But right now, she'd cry tears of a lifetime, because her Keshav was gone.

Now she had to wake up alone, bed empty.  No one was there to caress her cheek, to lovingly stroke her hair and turn them into a mess. Neither would anyone wipe off her tiredness with a bare cloth. No one would be able to love her, no one but Kanha.

She had no one to look at now, through the hand mirror, no one to lay on the chest. No one would calm all her fears with a sleight of hand. No one would ever come close to the experience of him.

She wouldn't allow anyone to, no. Her love was only for Kanha. How dare anyone think that she'd forget her Shyam ever?

Krishna was in her, was her and forgetting herself wasn't a decision she was gonna make. She'd wait for her Kanha to come back one day, a year later, 5 years later, a decade later, a lifetime later. She'd stay.

But hey Narayana, for long would she have to cry for her Kanha? Would he never visit her now? Was that the last time she got to look at his face? Was that the last time she touched him, played with his soft fingers, rested in his lap and braided his long curly hair? Would he be able to live without her for so long? She certainly wouldn’t. 

Even thinking of spending a lifetime without getting lost in his dark beautiful eyes was a sin.

His flute, how would she not hear it at least once again? 

No, this was pure torture, and he was the ever-enjoyer.  She comforted herself with many arguments, one being that this was all a big joke, a text of her prem like he always did. But he had to come back. He had to or she would lose her mind.

Did he expect her to let go of this easily? Wasn't she his priye? Which honoured lover would leave his priye to spend a life long in wanting? No, he was Nirmohan but not to an extent that could kill her. He realised this, right?

Then Why did he cry that day, when he came for the last time? Why was he unable to keep his hands from shaking as he tied her braid with flowers? 'Param Shringar' he had called it, the most beautiful he'd made her ready.

He had painted her hand with the leftover flower and tears. 'It'll stay forever, a reminder of me in case you forget,' he had smiled with tears and kissed her palms, some paint on his lips too.

As she looked at her hand now, the smudged part was still visible after so long, the whole palm filled with colours, black and blue petals and flowers. 

He was gone, wasn't he?

A sob came up again, and Pratiksha didn't try to stop it. She sobbed as much as she could, loud and livid, her head throbbed with pain and exhaustion and nothingness and her Kanha. Where was that boy? Why wasn't he here, with her head in his lap? 

Her eyes longed to look at the face of her Nirmohan, oh how he was living up to the name.

He'd come to her as the breeze, uprooting all her beliefs and taking them away with him. As the wind, he would dry up her tears, when he physically couldn't. She'd still love him.

He'd come to her as the rain too, in her dull life, trying to some life to her death. He would fail miserably and then fall on her face as small droplets, mixing with her tears. She'd still love him.

These days, he'd shine less, not troubling her even more. He'd let her escape from his rays and feel more of his might and shine from wherever he was. She'd still love him.

When she would go on the bank of Yamuna to bring back water, he'd stuck to her feet, making her laugh for a second, but then she'd remember. She'd remember how she'd been like that too, the day he was going away. She'd still love him.

On nights, when she'd exhaust all her tears, he'd fall on her as the moonlight, emitting grace and his colour. That would make her cry again, but she'd still love him.

Her soul? It was already a part of his existence. Once he was gone, he'd take her with him. She'd still love him.

But her favourite form, her Kanha? Oh, how she missed. All night she would wait for the morning hoping he'd play his flute and declare it all a big crack. All day she'd wait for the night, so maybe, just maybe he'd climb up her window once again.

He'd disappointed her both times. 

She'd still love him.

She'd still wait for him.

When he would marry all his wives, she'd still wait and love him.

When he would finally become dwarkapati, she'd still wait and love him.

When he'd protect Draupadi from men and their sorts, she'd still wait and love him.

When he'd lead Arjuna to the war, and become his sarthi, she'd still wait and love him.

When old age would dawn upon and her hair turned grey with patience, she'd wait for death. 

And he would come to her, in her favourite form yet again, for the final journey. And she? She'd still love him. Because that was all she ever remembered. 

Shankara was a newly recruited guard appointed by the defense ministry of Mathura, under its new ruler, the tyrant Kamsa, who had forcibly imprisoned his father and the former ruler of Mathura, Maharaja Ugrasena, and usurped the throne.

In addition to this folly, he had made his dear sister's life a living hell. The young and beautiful daughter of king Devapa, Princess Devaki had tied her nuptials to the handsome son of Shurasena, Prince Vasudeva, and was about to begin her marital life when a holy voice boomed from the blue skies announcing Kamsa's death by the hands of Devaki and from that day onwards, Mathura saw torture, pain and bloodshed, every day, every moment and every breath.

Shankara had been married to a wonderful girl from his village a month ago before moving to Mathura for work. Shyamala, his wife, a doe-eyed innocent beauty was in awe of the grand city, and had slowly begun blending with the people here.

It was late evening when Shyamala realised her husband hadn't arrived their humble cottage still. The sky had donned on the dark shades of purple and blue. The moon in pale silver was slowly illuminating the sky, and her eyes restlessly roamed outside the doorway searching for her husband.

"Shyamala, are you inside?" Shyamala hears Bharati at the doorway.

Bharati was the wife of Mahendra, their neighbour who worked with Shankara at the palace.

"Jiji... yes." Shyamala wipes her hands with a small towel and jogs towards the door.

Bharati looks up at Shyamala and says, "My husband had sent a message to you from Shankara bhrata. Bhrata has been assigned night shifts starting from today at Mathura's prison."

Nodding her head in understanding, Shyamala replies, "I see. That is why he hadn't come home by evening. He generally sends me a letter though if he shall be late home, but he didn't today."

Bharati sighs. "Well it might be because, your husband is tasked with holding the two new hostages in tight security. Devaki and Vasudeva have now been moved from house arrest to the dark prisons."

Shyamala's eyes widen in shock. "What!"

"Yes. The king is afraid and obsessed with the divine forewarning about his death, so he decided to shower all atrocities on his one's dear sister and her husband."

"Poor woman!" Shyamala laments. "A princess reduced to a prisoner. A newly married woman has so many dreams, but look how cruel her fate crushed it all."

Bharati rests her hand on Shyamala's shoulder. "Anyway, we mere citizens can't do much. Let's pray that the newly weds are delivered of their suffering. You take care of yourself." She looks around at the dark skies. "It is getting dark now, and well thievery and dacoit activities have been on a rise."

"Sure. Thank you." Shyamala smiles and closes the wooden door. Locking the door from inside, she double checks the lock before heading inside towards their single bed chamber.

Shyamala sits on a thin mattress. Her eyes drift towards the pale silver moon. Closing her eyes and folding her hands in devotion, she mutters an earnest plea. "Oh Vishnu! Take care of Devaki."

A gentle breeze blew by carrying the fragrance of sandalwood.

--xx--

Shankara stretches on the bed for a good moment until sleep and exhaustion evades from his limbs. His eyes automatically squint at the afternoon glaring sun causing him to rub his palm over his face.

"Shyamala...?" He calls out.

Shyamala enters their room. "Oh! You are awake."

Shankara tiredly smiles and nods at her. "I felt so tired that I couldn't wake up early. I feel as if I have slept an entire day."

Shyamala sits beside her husband, and presses her soft palms over her husband's shoulders. "I figured it out that you were exhausted. That is why I didn't wake you up." Looking at her husband's reddened cheeks from his deep sleep, she continues, "Why don't you freshen up? Lunch is prepared. You will have to leave for your duty soon."

A groaning Shankara replies, "Yes, those dreary dark dungeons await my presence."

Shyamala passes a small smile and gets up to go towards their kitchen when she hears Shankar speak. "By the way, Princess Devaki is pregnant with her first child."

"Oh," Shyamala mutters. "Such a shame that she must experience the journey of motherhood in a dark and dingy cell."

Shyamala heads to her small kitchen. Peeling of the lid from the cooking pot, her mind thinks about the Yadu princess and her pregnancy. A mother to be forced to be a prisoner.

She takes in the aroma of rice and dal. She wonders if the princess would be properly fed or not to support the existence of the foetus as well as to nourish the mother's body to sustain new life.

"I am done. Let's eat together. I can feels the rats hungrily running inside my stomach." She hears her husband.

"Coming." Shyamala thanks her stars. Sure, she did not lead a very luxurious life like the royalty. She was just a simple village girl, slowly blending in with the city. Far away from politics, throne usurpers, and brothers who attempt to jeopardize their sisters' lives.

She often thinks of the princess sometimes especially when praying to the tiny idol of Vishnu. Maharaja Kamsa had banned the worship of Vishnu. Shankara had asked Shyamala to hide all images of the deities in case some eager follower of the king would report them for committing treason against their king.

Shyamala had sculpted a tiny idol of Vishnu and placed it under her sarees.

She gazes at the ceiling and mutters another prayer for the poor couple. "Chakradhari, take care of the mother and the child."

--xx--

Shankara blinks his eyes and averts the sweet call of sleep when a shrill baby's cry wakes him awake in both body and mind.

The guard beside him runs off to alert the other guards to carry the message to Kamsa.

Shankara looks at the tired body of Devaki. The thin white sheets are drenched in blood and maybe a few dark coloured tissues, he marks, before sadly muttering to himself. "There isn't even an healer to check upon the princess."

He looks at Vasudeva who pats Devaki's hair. He gently kisses her head and looks at the baby boy cradled in her arms. The baby is still crying out loudly, as if, he is fearful for his life ahead.

Devaki coos at the crying child. Gently laying its head on her bare chest covered with her now patched saree, she tries calming the baby.

Vasudeva's eyes meet Shankara's who quickly flits his gaze to the ground, and turns his back to him.

Kamsa's booming footsteps alert the guard. Shankara immediately holds his spear in his hand and straightens his spine. Kamsa stands near the iron bars with a servant unlocking the small prison door of their cell.

Devaki sits up and holds the child tighter in her arms as Kamsa bends down towards the crying child. A menacing maniacal look harbours in the king's eyes, as he comments, "You gave birth to a beautiful baby indeed, my sister. Alas! He isn't blessed to live a long life like his parents."

Snatching the crying child by his leg, he laughs. Devaki shrieks and pleads, "This is the first child, Bhrata!. The warning had mentioned the eighth child not the first one. Leave him, please!" Her hands are outstretched to her brother who smirks evilly.

"The gods always have some trickery up their sleeves. I don't trust them. Every child of yours shall be killed by me, sister. Let me see, who shall then defeat Kamsa then."

Devaki stands up holding her bloodied saree. Shankara's body had gone cold hearing Kamsa's plan on killing every child of Devaki's.

Doesn't he have a heart at all? Who kills an innocent baby that too of one sister's? Shankara wonders but keeps his thoughts quietly to himself.

Kamsa dangles the child like a toy in his burly arms. Devaki cries and screams for her brother to let go. Vasudeva holds his wife to his chest, fearing if Kamsa decides to kill Devaki for asking her son back so he may prove the divine voice wrong of their prediction.

Devaki hits at Vasudeva's chest."Do something. He is your child too. He will kill my son. Why are you standing like a statue?"

A tearful Vasudeva embraces Devaki tighter in his arms.

Kamsa brings the baby in front of his eyes. Shankara turns his head back slightly to check on Devaki and Vasudeva only to meet a gruesome murder of a baby.

Kamsa had banged the baby's head against the wall.

Thud thud.

Devaki screams until her voice turns hoarse. Shankara catches Vasudeva's gaze causing the former to gulp.

Devaki had expressed her rage and grief but he noticed that Vasudeva nursed only a silent rage as he caressed Devaki's back with gentle hands.

Kamsa haughtily carries the dead baby's corpse in his hands and laughs with glee as he walks through the exit doors.

And soon the Yadu princess looses her consciousness. She lies on the dirty sheet drenched in her blood as well as her lost child's. Vasudeva sits down on the ground, his dejected eyes pinned to the flowing blood of his child's from the wall to the prison's floor.

The prison dungeons were lit by fire torches at night. Shankara looks at the burning flames and prays to Vishnu.

"Come soon, my Lord. Come soon."

--xx--

"I saw the king kill the child, Shyamala."

"But the voice had mentioned the eight son, hadn't it?"

"Looks like he doesn't want to take any chances."

"How is the princess?"

"Can you lend me a few of your sarees? We have an extra blanket too. That shall suffice I think."

"Sarees and blanket for what, swami?"

"For Devaki and Vasudeva. I can't free them, but I can help ease their dreadful days a bit. Not even a healer was made to visit, Shyama. I saw her lay on bloodied clothes.

"I will pack a few nutritious meals too then."

--xx--

A loud wail makes Shankara turn towards Vasudeva's cell.

He sees thick blood drip down her legs as she presses her palm to her lower stomach. Vasudeva helplessly stares at Shankara and shakes his head at him.

Devaki had miscarried.

The seventh born had died in her womb itself.

Vasudeva makes her sit against the wall. He holds her hands in his and whispers something in her ears. Shankara can't hear him but his eyes moisten too at their plight.

He had seen how the evil monster of a human Kamsa had killed six of her children. Sometimes he would bang the child's head or if he felt too malicious, he would slice the little one in two with his sword.

And this man called himself the strongest warrior. A warrior whose sword is drenched in the blood of innocent children.

Vasudeva with great difficulty had made Devaki go to sleep. Shankara observes the exhaustion on Vasudeva's face.

"Aren't you tired, my prince?"

"Of what?"

"This. Why bring in children when you know what fate they will meet at the end. Kamsa spared none. Why must you both go through such grueling moments. It is only bringing you pain." Shankara points at Devaki. "How more pain must a mother go through? Losing seven children. Seven!"

Vasudeva answers, "This pain is written in our destiny. The only reason we want to bring children is because we both still believe that He shall come. He will take revenge for harassing the mother, my Devaki and for the lost innocent babies. I know that one day I shall see that Kamsa die. He made a spectacle of my children's death. I shall see Kamsa's death be a spectacle too. The Gods need a mother to enter the mortal world. Devaki and I must do our part." Vasudeva's eyes light up with a surge of energy. "The path to reach God has never been easy for a devotee. Then how can the path be easier for the ones who shall bring the God to our world, Shankara."

Shankara goes quiet. The light in Vasudeva's eyes raises goosebumps on his skin. He quietly fidgets with his bag. Looking around to avoid any snooping guards, he passes a bundle filled with fruits and nuts to Vasudeva.

"My wife sent it."

"Thank you, my friend."

"Only doing my duty, my prince."

A small smile curves into Vasudeva's lips. He places the bundle in the corner before heading to rest near Devaki.

Devaki's tears have left dry paths over her cheeks. Vasudeva wipes them off and whispers, "Our Lord shall arrive soon, my dear."

--xx--

Lately Shankara had been noticing a different glow on Shyamala's face. She was humming some melodies under her breath, would secretly smile to herself while fondly gazing at his face in the early hours of dawn, and was now eating a lot of sweets these days.

The rooster crows at the onset of dawn as Shankara makes his way towards the narrow lane of his house. The sun is barely up in the sky. It looks pale as if the Sun God himself is slowly rising from slumber.

Some parts of the sky are shrouded in darkness with the faintest hues of blue diverging from the dark blanket enveloping the skies. The moon still illuminates his path ahead and Shankara rubs his arms for warmth as a gentle cold wind brushes by.

It is the month of Margashirsha, the first month of the winter season. He observes how the days have grown slightly cooler. The temperature at night feels just the same everyday thanks to the desolate prison at the hill top. The lonely hill and the surrounding forest cover always feel cold. The hundreds of fire torches don't bring warmth to the prison ever.

This is why he carries a shawl with himself, and now with the beginning of the winter season, he had decided to smuggle a shawl for Devaki and Vasudeva too.

He makes a mental note of that thought and walks ahead, his eyes waiting to land upon the walls of his home and the familiar presence of his wife waiting for him.

The high pitched crowing of the rooster reaches his ears again, but this time Shankara has reached the dusty path of his house. To his surprise, he notices his wife standing at the doorway, her eyes immediately finding his and brightening.

With hurried steps, Shankara stands in front of her, asking, "Why are you standing here? It is cold. You should be inside." He holds her hands and checks for the temperature. "See, your hands are cold now. You fall sick easily, priye."

Shyamala laughs. Shankara looks at her laughing face. The sound of her laughter is music to his ears. It takes away all his dark and dreary moments from his rounds at the prison cell.

He observes how glowy her face looks this early in the morning and wonders how he must look with sunken and reddened eyes from lack of nightly sleep.

Shyamala stops her hearty giggles and pulls him inside the house, shutting the door with an excited slam. "I have some news for you, husband."

"News? What kind of news?" Shankara asks. Marking the constant smile on Shyamala's lips, he says, "It definitely must be a happy one which is why you are smiling and giggling so much."

Shyamala nods her head rapidly in agreement. "Indeed it is. You will be happy too. Joyous even."

Squinting his eyes in confusion, he looks at his wife, wondering what wonderful news could she bring to him that made her wait for him so eagerly.

"Okay. Go ahead."

Shyamala shyly smiles and looks to the floor. Shankara tilts his head thinking what is making his wife blush like that at dawn.

'Surely, I am not looking handsome enough after work this way which might make her want to-' All his thoughts come to a halt, when he feels Shyamala take his hand and press it to her stomach.

She looks at him with a bashful gaze and bats her eyelashes at him, her eyes look at his, searching for the look of realization in those tired eyes.

Shankara looks at the hopeful and love-filled gaze in his wife's eyes and then at his hand over her lower stomach, at her womb.

Realization strikes him like a thunderbolt.

"You..." He holds her by her shoulders. "Pregnant?"

Shyamala beams at him. Shankara immediately brings her into a bone-crushing hug.

"We are going to be parents!" Shankara exclaims before peppering Shyamala's face with kisses.

Happy tears spring up in her eyes as she nods at him. "Yes, and I have conceived in the holy month of Margashirsha. Vishnu's month."

With all the love and warmth, Shankara could muster in his eyes, he gazes deeply into Shyamala's eyes. Holding her face as gently as he can, he says, "Let's hope our child is born healthy and in the time when God walks on earth again, annihilating sin and vice."

Shyamala leads him to their bed. "Come, rest, swami. You must be tired."

Shankara closes his eyes as soon as his head hits the soft pillow. Shyamala darkens the room by drawing the curtains over the windows. He can feel his wife gazing at him, but he pretends that he has dozed off.

The sound of anklets lull him to sleep as Shyamala hums a morning melody to herself. Her feet exit the room, and he slips into a comfortable dreamless sleep with no thoughts of bloodied babies and wretched motherhood.

--xx--

In the quiet hours of the night, Vasudeva beckons Shankara closer to the iron bars. Some other nearby guards were dozing with loud snores, and the soldiers meant for hourly rounds still had an hour left to come back for checking.

Vasudeva whispers to Shankara. "The eighth child. Devaki is pregnant."

Shankara's eyes drift to the sleeping form of the Yadu princess. Unlike her previous pregnancies, Devaki looked the most healthiest and happiest in this pregnancy.

Her face suffused with a divine glow. She looked as beautiful as the motherly form of Shakti. Her frail body, a consequence of the poor diet and nutrition standards of the prison had plumped up. She was happier now, Shankara observed.

The primary motto of her previous pregnancies had been to quickly bring the children to the world, watch Kamsa kill them and patiently wait until the one who would avenge her would finally take form in her womb.

Of course, she would be heartbroken each time Kamsa mercilessly slaughtered tiny babies in front of her, but with time, the gods had blessed her with enough mental strength to push through and bring Kamsa's killer to earth.

Shankara quickly scans the guards behind him. Some were idly chatting while the majority had dozed off.

"Perhaps, God will descend soon now. It's only a matter of time." Shankara bows his head, his mind thinking of Shri Vishnu, the Preserver of the Universe.

Shankara opens a pouch and fetches a small ladoo. Offering it to Vasudeva, he says, "My wife is with child too, prince. I would like to offer this sweet to you." Motioning to Devaki, he hands over the entire sweet containing pouch into the hands of Vasudeva. "Please feed the princess too and share the happy news with her too."

Vasudeva's eyes soften. Not one soul in the prison except Shankara had shown kindness and compassion to him and Devaki. Some would pass a few sympathetic glances at them, but that was all. A friendship had blossomed between the guard and the former Yadu prince.

Vasudeva wanted to embrace the guard, but the large iron bars proved and obstacle. He shakes his hand with Shankara, saying, "You have shared a happy news with me, Shankara, as a friend. I would like you to feed the ladoo to me as a friend."

Shankara stutters. "Me as a friend?" He smiles but his shoulders shrug uneasily. "Kamsa may have imprisoned you, but to me, you will always remain my prince. I am a mere guard, a commoner."

"Oh, Shankara, what joy has being a prince brought me? You are the only soul who has shown kindness and compassion to the both of us." He passes a glance at Devaki and then turns to Shankara. "We will forever be indebted to you and your wife."

Vasudeva eats the ladoo from Shankara's hand. "May your child be healthy. Take care of Shyamala and send our regards to her."

Shankara bows down to Vasudeva and turns ahead. Grabbing the spear in his hand, he assumes his role as a guard once again.

--xx--

It was the eighth day of Krishna Paksha in the month of Shravna. The morning had been bright, but as the day progressed, the skies had grown overcast.

Low breezes blew throughout the evening, telling everyone the news of the incoming storm that was making its way ahead.

Shankara hears the wind howling around the prison. The sound is eerie, and he is reminded of scary ghost tales which the old grandfathers of his village often narrated to the kids at night.

The large fire torches feel the brunt of the wind too. The golden flames dance to the wind as dust blows in. Shankara hurries back to the prison to check on Devaki.

To his surprise, he sees every guard fall to the ground, their eyes closed in deep sleep. Not one being is standing awake except Devaki, Vasudeva and him.

Devaki however clutches her stomach and crouches on the floor. Grabbing Vasudeva's arm, she yells, "My eighth baby. He is coming."

Vasudeva begins assisting Devaki in giving birth while Shankara decides to check for any soldiers nearby for their hourly rounds.

Not one soldier in sight.

"Strange," Shankara thinks to himself. "It is as if everybody passed out."

He walks back to Vasudeva's cell and rubs his eyes in shock.

A beautiful baby boy lay beside Devaki.

"No way, did a baby come out so fast." He looks at Vasudeva. "I was away only for mere moments some time ago. How come-?"

In the loud rumbling sounds of the thunderstorm, a sweet breeze carrying the smell of sandalwood fills the prison cell. Shankara hears the divine sound of the conch in his ears, and he wonders if it is the loud thunder or has he lost his mind.

The prison cell glows in golden light. On the brown wall of the prison against the golden light cast inside the prison, a tall shadow forms.

The four armed lord, each arm holding a conch, a discus, a mace and a beautiful lotus, stands in front of the trio.

Shankara's eyes grow moist in devotion until the divine spell breaks. Vishnu vanishes and he hears a charming boy giggle.

A beautiful baby boy with the complexion akin to stormy clouds beams at him. A smile equal to the radiance of a thousand suns light his face.

The baby coos and Vasudeva's chains fall to the ground.

Vasudeva holds the baby in his arms. The prison lock falls to the ground with a loud clang, yet not one eye drifts open.

"I must make way for Gokula and hand him to my friend, Nanda. This boy shall be safe there."

Devaki kisses the baby's forehead for one last time and bids farewell to her child.

Shankara bows down and presses the baby's tiny feet to his forehead. "Om namo Narayana."

--xx--

Shankara doesn't drag himself to his house. He rather sprints the entire way back, to eagerly tell the news of Devaki's eight born to Shyamala.

He notices Bharati stand at the doorway. Ushering him inside, she leads him inside his room. He spots a sleeping Shyamala, her face bearing a peaceful expression. Sweat beads shine on her forehead.

Beside her lies a little girl wrapped in a cloth secured tightly around her.

"Ghar mein Lakshmi ka aagman hua hai, Shankara bhrata."

--xx--

@krishna-priyatama @krsnaradhika @krishakamal @ma-douce-souffrance @jukti-torko-golpo @prettykittytanjiro @thegleamingmoon @krishna-sangini @chaliyaaa @kaal-naagin @ramcharantitties @inexhaustible-sources-of-magic

I guess this was a long post. I had this idea on janmashtami. I actually have my internal exams going on. Still squeezed this through hehe so here you go. I hope you all like it.

I never wrote on krishna's birth and i began thinking of some good guard helping out devaki and vasudeva. Then somehow added shyamala as his wife and provide glimpses into their life. Hope you all enjoyed it.

Literally no one:

Not even Arjun:

Surya putr Karna:

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

⚘मेरे प्यारे कान्हा⚘

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

❁A Krishna Sakhi❁

1. CHANDRIKA🌻

2. PRATIKSHA🌻

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

❃MY HEADCANNONS❃

1. THE WAY KANHA IS🌻

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

❃MY DRAWINGS❃

1. KANHAIYA🌻.

His love is really not a matter of genitals, of material love-making, though that element is present. He is even a coarse, material Lover, if this is the way we want Him. But actually this is symbolic of His real love. If His real love were totally manifest to us, we would melt in its fire. His real love is there, but we have up to now been satisfied only with its symbols, with tokens of His love, and have interpreted these on the level of love between humans. Love between humans is on a finite, timely and limited plane. But love between man and Krishna is infinitely more complex.

His devotee knows that these are only symbols of the Lover, that His avatars are only indications of His courtship. He drops signs and loveletters between cracks in the pavement. He writes His messages across the stars. Or He places them in little corners and crevices for us to stumble upon. These signs only drive the devotee madder for Him

// Krishna fics masterlist //

The wedding celebrations were over and all the esteemed guests were preparing to leave for their respective kingdoms except a choice few guests who were close to Krishna stayed back, including Aarnika who was specifically requested to stay for a few more days to meet the new bride. 

The Vidharban princess looked more angelic even closer and as blessed as she was with good looks, the princess's soft demeanor and kind heart won Aarnika's heart too. 

"It must be adventurous and a little liberating, isn't it Rajkumari? You get to rule an entire city on your own terms," Rukmini said. 

Aarnika smiled and thought about her father's punishment that had given her this indepent ruleship to her and said, "I agree, princess. I am glad that my people support me and help me handle things there. I am glad to find a place in their heart, and though it's a small city, my city is growing which makes me proud." She held Rukmini's hand. "Do come to Kanakgarh sometime. We would love to have you and your family, besides," she winked, "my city will be the talk of Aryavarta if the royal family of Dwaraka arrives."

Rukmini laughed and nodded, "The queen of Kanakgarh must not request us, and certainly not her friend now. I will definitely ask Krishna and plan a visit there soon." Pretending to whisper, she continued, "You are anyway a wild topic in Aryavarta. A woman single handedly running a kingdom is unheard of."

"It's a small city, Rukmini, not a kingdom."

"I believe, a kingdom doesn't have to be large to house too many provinces and grandeur. A small place with the right ruler, for whom people have immense love in their hearts to help their land prosper is a kingdom." Rukmini patted Aarnika's shoulder. "I have been talking to you since the past two days, and the time we have spent together is enough for me to know that you are and will be a great ruler, no matter how large or small the province is."

The princess's words made Aarnika beam with pride and happiness. Nobody in her family except her mother had acknowledged her abilities and talents. Hearing Rukmini after spending only a brief amount of time was an achievement for her.

"And in what deep conversation have you pulled my dear wife into, sakhi?" asked a honeyed voice.

"Nothing much. The princess was bestowing some generous compliments over my rulership over Kanakgarh," said Aarnika.

Krishna passed a bright smile and sat beside Rukmini who blushed when surrounded by him. "You give yourself too less credit, Aarnika. The feats you have managed are a wonder. You paved the way for women to be a part of the workforce. Trade and businesses are flourishing. I think it will rival your capital city in the next few years."

A bubbly Subhadra in orange garments twirled and entered the chamber, saying, "But won't Aarnika didi be married off? How will she keep developing her city then? Would her husband allow her?" She held her ear and looked at Aarnika. "Sorry, I overheard you all."

Aarnika gently pulled Subhadra's nose. "My choti sakhi, don't worry about that. I am not marrying for a very long time so I am going to keep developing my city."

"But didi, do you have someone in mind whom you want to marry?"

Krishna cleared his throat and said, "Subhadre, it is not appropriate to ask such questions. She is older than you."

Pouting, the little darling of Dwaraka looked at Krishna and finally at Aarnika. Her eyes lit up with brightness and said, "Well, you can always count on me. I might help fix an alliance."

Krishna pulled Subhadra's ear, making her wince, saying, "You never listen to me, do you?"

"As if you listen to Balaram dau?"

Rukmini laughed and commented, "Now Subhadra won. Fair and square."

Warmth seeped into Aarnika's heart as she watched the siblings and Rukmini interact. If only her household could have been like them – full of love, fun and friendly banter.

***

"I wish you stayed with us for some more time didi," muttered a sad Subhadra hugging Aarnika. "Especially with me."

Aarnika ruffled the young princess's head and patted her cheek. "You know that my doors will always be open for you. If you are ever bored of Dwaraka, my city would provide you a wonderful retreat."

Revati too had come to see off Aarnika. Both of them did not get much time with each other due to the wedding work and other queenly duties the former had to carry, but she had found time to bid farewell to Krishna's special guest. In three days, the princess of Mahishaka had charmed her way into the hearts of the family of Dwaraka. Her simplicity and humble personality was endearing to all. 

"Do visit Dwarka again, princess. You spent time with Rukmini and our dearest Subhadra, but not with me. I shall hold it against you," Revati said, as she hugged Aarnika. 

Aarnika's heart was full. She climbed into her palanquin and replied, "The Queen must not be crossed. I shall come back soon and I believe you all must too."

"As for me, I will keep writing letters sakhi. You must be updated with Dwarka's latest gossip." Aarnika chuckled and nodded at Krishna. "Yes, your highness, I shall await the latest gossip in your letters."

"Take care, Aarnika."

The princess looked up at Krishna for one last time. His eyes as gentle as the moon, looked into hers and a friendly smile curved its way on his lips causing her to smile too. A slight pang in her chest, and a lone tear burning in the corner of her eye, Aarnika whispered, "You too, Krishna."

He left his hand from the palanquin and waved at her. Following him was Subhadra who had already begun to shed tears and waved frantically at Aarnika as if her didi sakhi would immediately stop and return back. 

The ever so graceful Rukmini hugged Subhadra and waved at Aarnika who bowed and covered her palanquin with curtains. Each step took her away from the land of her beloved, but she was happy to find new friends in Subhadra and Rukmini. 

Who knows when this alliance would play a role in her future? 

By the end of the first prahar, her entourage had reached the beautiful green hills on the borders of Dwaraka which made Aarnika feel nostalgic about the moment she had first arrived here and witnessed their majestic beauty. 

The morning sun fell on a slope of one of the hills, illuminating that section. The trees on the hill gently swayed with the soft sea breeze and its leaves shone bright under the rays of Surya. The sea breeze allowed its into the palanquin and gently blew over Aarnika's face. She closed her eyes and imagined the sea waters of Dwarka. She hadn't found time to visit the sea shore. 

The gentle sea breeze slowly lulled her eyes to sleep with fun filled memories of the wedding and new companions until she would find herself back home in her palace, devoid of those friendships. Aarnika loved Kanakgarh and her people. She also had some of her trusted handmaidens who would swear their lives on her, but she also yearned for such loving friendships in her lives, for people to be with her and not only in curved letters of a letter on paper. 

Maybe someday I wouldn't be this alone. 

*** **** ****** *** ** **** **** *** ***** **** ****

This was a filler chapter because I wanted to wrap up the wedding so we can get back to aarnika's work life in her city, Kanakgarh.

Also do read and tell me how it was I wrote it after a long time so maybe it won't be that good but I would still love your reblogs and comments.

Have a good day! 🌸💕

The whole village has gone to sleep. Not a sound can be heard. The cool night breeze is blowing just lightly, without letting a leaf rustle in the forest. The village guards too are dozing as the wind lulls their eyes to sleep.

But, there is one boy in the village whose sleep has been robbed off. The young youthful milk maidens of Vraja often talk about this boy amongst themselves and with their dear companions as the boy who robs their sleep and peace with his lovely face and smile.

'He comes in my dreams and steals sweet butter from my pot. When I reprimand him, he smiles sweetly and kisses my cheek. But, when my eyes open at dawn, I find my mother sprinkling water over my face.'

'Isn't he such a charming lad? I don't think there would be any other handsome boy apart from him in all the three worlds.'

The boy in this conversation is none other than the darling child of Yashoda, wife of Nanda Maharaj, who was also the chief of the cowherd community. He was the most beautiful child in Vraja and in adolescence, handsomeness was naturally bestowed upon him.

Skin as dark as the magnificent monsoon clouds, curly hair as soft as silk which sported a band or sometimes a crown of peacock feathers. His limbs were annointed with fragrant sandalwood paste which made his presence distinct from the other boys of Vrindavan. His eyes shaped like beautiful lotus petals, and when he would bat his eyelashes at any maiden passing by his path, she was bound to lose her heart to him. He would often wear yellow clothes and strut the streets of Vrindavan with his friends while causing mischief that annoyed the womenfolk on the outside, but on the inside, they were delighted each time he and his friends would engage in pranks, for then they would have a glimpse of his divine form.

What's his name?

He goes by many names. For Yashoda, he is Kanha. The cowherds call him Gopal, the protector of the cows. The elder males sometimes call him Nandlal, the son of Nanda. Young girls who fawn over him call him Mohan, the one who enchants and sometimes they refer to him as Madanmohan, for he is attractive than the Love God, Kama also called, Madan. He is Muralidhar for he is always seen with a flute on his lips and is called Krishna by all for his noticeable dark monsoon cloud complexion.

When he plays his flute, all the gopis and cows throng to the forest, enchanted by his melodious tunes. The ladies would make amusing excuses to leave their house on time to meet this charming boy on the riverbank of Yamuna, then why was this boy all alone in a flower bower deep in the forest with eyes gazing longingly at the moon that was soon to disappear amongst the night clouds?

A certain maiden of Vraja bhumi has stolen Krishna's heart. She walks with the grace of a swan and her voice is sweeter than the koyal. Her fair complexion pales the beauty of the moon for she is far dazzling than the Purnima moon. She possesses curly hair just like Krishna and decorates it with flowers and beautiful ornaments. With jingling bangles on her wrists and jewelled ankle bells, she dances with him on some nights in the heart of the forest. Those bangles and anklets themselves play a mellifluous melody in rhythm with Krishna's flute.

Wouldn't such a beauty charm this notorious charmer? What is her name?

She is Radha, the daughter of Vrishbhanu.

"What is taking her so long? She is never this late." Krishna murmurs to himself as his fingers gently caress the back of a baby squirrel that has nestled itself on his thigh. "Look, even you have fallen asleep waiting for your dear Radha."

Time passes by. The chirping crickets have given themselves to sleep, but there is no sign of jingling anklets making way into the forest. No boat is rowing down the river. The forest is empty.

The silver moon has donned a dark golden robe around her it seems. When Krishna had first arrived her, the moon was high up in the sky, illuminating the bower and the entire forest, but now its colour has darkened. In no time will she too go to sleep to make way for dawn.

Sighing, he gently places the baby squirrel down on the ground with his mother. Covering their themselves with leaves and twigs, he mutters, "Looks like, she won't come. I should get back home."

Pulling his uttariya that was hanging from the branches of a tree, he drapes it around his body and rubs his arms. The flower garland in his hand withered a long time ago. A dejected look on his face makes him appear as if all the stars in the night sky have lost their light. Walking down the forest path, he approaches the familiar turning that leads the way to the village when he hears the sound of anklet bells.

His heart soars and he walks faster towards the source, knowing it would be his dear Radha only. For a moment, he wonders why do her anklets sound different. 'Maybe, she is wearing a different pair today.'

He sees a figure draped in a black shawl -- its face covered to avoid any recognition. As the figure approaches closer, he smells the scent of jasmine flowers and roses in the air, as a bright smile adorns on his lips.

He jumps in delight and runs towards her direction. Whatever tiredness that had approached him earlier had disappeared in a jiffy. I do wonder how the arrival of a loved one after a long time feels for the one in waiting. A little jitters and excitement makes house in the heart.

Fair hands gently part away from the shawl, and Krishna wastes no moment in clasping them. "Radhey, I thought you would never come tonight. Even though it's quite late now, but I am glad you did come here. Let's not venture inside the forest now. It would be better we walk on the river bank and talk, and then we both will leave for our homes." He shows her the withered garland. "Oh, and I made you this, but it isn't fresh and vibrant anymore, nor does it," he smells the garland, "emit its fragrance like it did initially. But don't worry, I will make a new one tomorrow when you come to meet me."

The fair hands in Krishna's grasp still and our charming cowherd wonders why Radhika hasn't spoken a single word until now. The hands then slowly slide the shawl from their face making Krishna pull back from his position, a shocked and confused expression all over his features.

"Manjari?!"

"The one and only."

"What are you doing here?"

Manjari removes the shawl and places it over her shoulders. Brushing her braid with her fingers, she says, "You aren't the only one who meets your lover in the forest. I am here to meet Anant."

"Then why do you smell like jasmine and roses. Radha uses that scent and Its pretty distinct." Krishna says dejectedly while pouting that it wasn't his beloved Radha.

Manjari couldn't help but laugh at his plight. "Oh, I actually borrowed it from her. I love that scent and I have been looking for it in the market, but it got over. Anant came back from Mathura after a month, so I decided to surprise him with a new fragrance."

"In that case, I better leave you to meet him while I go home and sulk because my lover hasn't come to meet me. You go and enjoy."

Manjari laughs again and pats his shoulder. "She told me that she was supposed to meet you tonight. She leaves her window open. Check her house, she might have dozed off dreaming about you."

He hums and takes her leave while twirling his flute in his fingers. The sounds of those anklet bells soon fade in the distance and our darling Krishna is alone once again.

****** ******** ******** ******** *******

Bonus addition (I am generous)

"You slept???"

"I don't know how. I was getting ready for you and somehow my eyes drooped while braiding flowers in my hair."

"Manjari was right then."

"I am sorry. I kept you- wait what? What on earth was Manjari doing there?"

"We aren't the only ones who go to the forest alone at night, Radhe"

"Oh. Well, yes, she had told me that Anant was coming back which is why she borrowed my perfume vial."

"Also, it's okay. You need your beauty sleep, besides in a way it serves me right. Haven't I troubled you so many times by reaching late?"

"That has helped come with many creative and convincing ideas to make excuses to my mother, Krishna. I think it's a good exercise."

"Well, let's meet in the evening today then? Don't sleep early."

Both of them laugh and Radhika nods. "Not this time."

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*: ･ﾟ☆｡ ･:*:･ ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆