Krishna

(A silent monologue of Krishna (Shrikrishna) addressing Krishna (Draupadi). It is purely work of fiction based on various anecdotes of ever relevant epic Mahabharata)

Who knows how many years I was lying here, by the edge of this pond, until Krishna picked me up? A black Shaligram (fossilised stone, considered as manifestation of Vishnu, found in the bay of Gandaki river now in Nepal), a pond of deepest black waters, its darkness intensified by the shadows of ageless trees standing at the bank with their feet dipped in the water. Krishna gently placed me in the cool water. A shiver ran through me at the touch of that coldness! Was it the water or her touch? The water seemed to yearn to embrace me further. My gaze drifted to Krishna's face. That look, which could burn hotter than the fires of a great war, appeared serene, profound, like the water of this very pond. And what is this? Krishna has untied her hair today, the very tresses that were the cause of this immense destruction and will also bring about its end. A desire to beg forgiveness from Krishna welled up within me. Truthfully, it has many times before, but I never did.

Why would Krishna leave her hair unbound? Why was it even tied up in the first place? Don't you recall Bhima's thunderous roar? In the midst of the royal court, Duryodhana slapped his thigh, gesturing for  Krishna to sit – that very thigh Bhima would later shatter with the force of his mace! Through deceit? Who? Tell me, who did not resort to deceit? Was the sole right to deception reserved only for Shakuni and the Kauravas? Yes, deceit was employed, but wasn't Duryodhana ultimately slain? It was Dushasana who, grabbing these very dark tresses, dragged Krishna, in her menses and clad in a single garment, into the royal assembly. In that court, before the elderly, wise men who sat with bowed heads, rendered powerless by their helplessness, before the blind father Dhritarashtra, who, consumed by perverse delight, urged Vidura to continue his narration, it was Dushasana who dared to disrobe Krishna. And then, Bhima thundered, vowing to tear open Dushasana's chest, drink his warm blood, and with those blood-soaked hands, tie up Krishna's hair. This Bhima, with his four brothers and Krishna's five husbands present, could not prevent the violation of his wife. Where lies valour then, if not in revenge? They say revenge was taken. "Because I took revenge, Krishna, you will not tie your hair; I will tie them. With my hands, still dripping with blood", Bhima braided Krishna's hair. Where did she ever truly bind her tresses? If I had not been there that day, what would have transpired? It is better left un imagined. You were made an empress, and what kind of empire was it? Thousands of thousands of widowed women, grieving mothers, countless innocent orphaned children, and the cursing old parents of fallen warriors. What did Krishna gain as a mother? To be the mother of as many as five sons, yet destined to die childless, wasn't she? Krishna, however much I praise you, it is but a trifle. Even in that dreadful situation, you preserved your presence of mind and liberated your passive husbands from servitude. I knew this was how it would unfold.

No! Krishna, despite the countless times the urge arose, my tongue never dared to utter an apology. I could have prevented it. Could I have prevented all of this?

The water had now completely enveloped me; below, above, all around was water. Slowly, releasing the air beneath me, first on one side then the other, I was descending towards the bottom. Bubbles of air escaped to the water's surface, bursting silently and creating ripples. Krishna's gaze followed those ripples, tracing them to the edge of the pond. Seen from within the water, Krishna appeared breathtakingly beautiful, not a trace of the endless suffering she had endured marred her beauty or had agony on her face. It was not as if I was unaccustomed to beautiful women in my life. Innumerable Gopis whose names history failed to record, Radha, Rukmini, Satyabhama, I was the husband of sixteen thousand women, yet the essence of Krishna's beauty felt uniquely profound today. Like the light of Diwali, ablaze with a thousand lamps, the sharp, blinding brilliance of lightning, and the serene glow of a lamp in the sacred niche in the place of worship. All are manifestations of fire, but one is not like other. Each demonstration has its own, distinct quality. So too is with beauty!! Do not be deceived by the innocent, soft radiance of the lamp's flame. Approach it carelessly, and it will surely scorch you. This tranquil, dignified beauty also played its part in the great war. Hearing tales of her gorgeousness, enchanting beauty mighty warriors and kings had gathered at her Swayamvara, including Karna, Duryodhana, and numerous rulers who would later fight on the Kauravas side in the great war, and got annihilated. What proved impossible for all of them, my closest friend, Arjuna, accomplished with ease. Of course, no one acknowledged my presence at that time. But the smile Krishna bestowed upon me after Arjuna garlanded her, spoke volumes. She was Yajnyaseni born from the flames of the yajna, a very embodiment of fire. To burn and consume was her inherent nature. Why did she bind herself to five husbands? She would burn, and they too would be consumed. I knew that no one would truly find happiness in this arrangement. Krishna, how many times did I stand before you, wanting to beg forgiveness? But I never mustered the courage to meet your eyes.

I could have prevented it. Could I have prevented all of this?

With a gentle, caressing touch, the water carried me to the bottom. Even the sand on the bed of the pond seemed to shift aside, making space for me. Settling onto the soft, yielding sand, I looked towards Krishna again; she seemed to be awaiting my gaze. For a fleeting moment, I perceived reproach in her eyes. No, how could that be? Krishna's eyes could only hold love, and nothing but love, for me. I am Shrihari, her Sakha a constant companion, her friend who rushes to her side with a single call. The abhorrent event in the Kauravas assembly, or the miracle of the inexhaustible plate, overturned and yet still serving rows upon rows of delectable food, saving the Pandavas from the wrath of Durvasa Muni – such a friend, a remover of obstacles, always there in times of need. Her reproach is utterly impossible. Or are these merely the phantoms of my own mind? No, not reproach certainly, but perhaps a trace of sorrow, of sympathy? I have always felt that Krishna knows everything, understands everything. Yet, I should still have sought her forgiveness. I could have prevented it. Could I have prevented all of this? Truly? Could I really have prevented all of this? I call myself the doer, the orchestrator, so how could I have failed to prevent it? Do I truly act of my own volition? Or, knowing precisely what is destined? am I merely the instrument, the sole actor enacting a prewritten script?

The sun had apparently begun its descent. The shadows had deepened further, and within them was Krishna. Krishna had chosen to let her hair loose falling around her face. Her face is not clearly visible. Her gaze too remains elusive. Perhaps that very elusiveness is what Krishna's gaze intends to convey. Even I am not exempt from the dictates of destiny. Otherwise, how could the hunter's arrow have struck my toe with such unerring accuracy? Seeking forgiveness is also a part of my greatness. Consider this: I fought on the side of the Pandavas; if Pandavas had been left to their own devices to bring about destruction of Kauravas, result could have been different. Then, I am the one truly responsible for the demise of Kauravas. Yet, except Gandhari who cursed Yadavas, no one ever blamed me or tarnish my image. I always remained worthy of reverence. Karna's story, however, is different. Karna, why should I recall Karna at this moment? My relationship with Krishna and Karna was it similar?, doesn't it seem so? Those who are destined for extreme suffering naturally feel a closer affinity to me.

Now Krishna is almost completely out of sight. Primarily because she is dark-complexioned, and the darkness seems to gather more intensely around her. Forgiveness? What forgiveness was I even going to ask for? Could I truly have averted the Mahabharata? I, who knew every step of destiny, was helpless, a mere witness in the Human Incarnation!

For ages, I lay by the edge of this pond, a Shaligram. When the Pandavas renounced the world and departed for Swarga (Heaven), Krishna reached where I was lying, and I received my release at her hands. How could I, possibly ask her to be more graceful?