"Dau, ek baat poochhun?"
The golden city that loomed large all around him was still new to the young boy. Still mysterious. Still not home.
Half-asleep and half-surprised at the question, Balram answered, "Chhote? Haan, bolo na!"
Krishna had never imagined life to be like it was then. All his life, he had been surrounded by family and people who felt more like family than family itself. He had never had trouble making friends because he was already so adored even before he was born. So loved.
"Aapko nahi lagta ki matashree kuchh vichlit si rehti hain?"
Not to say that he wasn't loved here. Quite the opposite. People could literally give their life away if he so wished. It was love alright. But different, somehow. More admiration than love. More respect than love. More gratitude than love. That was the trouble, all his life he had only known that all-pervading unconditional affection that cares for none of this. He had only ever known love – pure, unadulterated love.
He noticed Dau's surprise at the odd question, that slight glance which meant more explanation would be needed.
"Pata nahi Dau, jaane kyun aisa lagta hai ki kaaraagreh se mukt hone ke pashchaat bhi ve poorntah mukt nahi hui hain... yahaan aate samay unke mukh par jis muskaan ko dekhne ki maine aasha ki thi, woh toh kabhi pratyaksh hui hi nahi!"
But the lack of familiarity was not what troubled Krishna so much. It was his own inability to make these people comfortable enough to see him as their own that disturbed him so much. He didn't want them to treat him as their saviour from a faraway land, all he wanted was to be their own, their son. His mother's son.
It pained him to think of the horrible life she had endured. In killing the tyrant king of Mathura and all the sacrifices which the task required, the one thought that had kept him company was to see her free, happy, joyful even. All these days after, he still longed to see a genuine smile on her lips. She did love him like no one else, he could see it in her little gestures, in her eyes - so full of love it threatened to spill over. And yet, there was a glass wall between them he couldn't seem to transcend. It killed him to think that the one person she had longed for, all her life, just didn't know how to make her truly happy.
...
The same thoughts occupied the young prince's mind as the royal family sat for breakfast the next morning. No one paid much attention to his unusual silence, for he hadn't been as talkative here as he had once been back at home. No one but Dau.
Carefully choosing his place right beside his little brother, and leaning in, he asked, "Kanha, itna mat socho! Nayi jagah hai, naye log hain, tanik samay do unhe bhi aur swayam ko bhi... theek hai?"
He couldn't help but smile at how quick his Dau was in noticing every last one of his several moods. But he himself was too unsure to respond. Was it nostalgia that didn't let him see the beauty in Mathura? Was it the burden of expectations that had so suddenly been placed upon him? Or was it just a young boy craving home? He had no idea. Not yet. He simply nodded, gave a meek smile, and turned his attention to the glass of milk in front. Not a very good attempt at distraction, for all he saw beside his plate was a little clay pot, full of cool buttermilk just out of Maiyya's kitchen. His hand reached out for it, almost on its own. Only it wasn't buttermilk at all, it was milk, and a bit too hot.
"Maiyyaaa!"
It was an instant reaction, an age-old habit that could never really die. She had kept him so far away from every form of trouble all his life, it was impossible not to call for her even in the tiniest discomforts. For in darkness, do you not call out for light?
