Mathuraraaj

৩

The last man for today went back home. He had brought his singing skills for the King of Mathura, and soothed his ears with the sweet melody of his voice. The king gave him a peacock feather plucked from the crown as a token of love, and happily, feeling fulfilled in life, he departed for his abode.

Was... the king fulfilled?

Perhaps he was. He had the softest silk, glittering heaps of gold, pearls harvested from the depths of the sea and robust horses for magnificent chariots. He had a palace like Indra himself and a throne far more beautiful. He had secret admirers who craved to have one glimpse of him. He received the affection of every man and woman.

He ought to be satisfied. He was a living God, wasn't he?

He felt like a carcass– a man who had a body to fool the world into thinking he was breathing.

Maybe Krishna was greedy. He had so much and yet he wasn't at peace. He wanted more, maybe? To destiny's mind, his demand was an audacious bargain. Separation from his beloved had blistered his soul. Princesses and noblewomen couldn't steal his heart. After all, he lived with none. He had given it to Radha years back, hoping it would be safe in her embrace. At least the core of his soul could be with her even if not his whole being.

Krishna sat on a swing and looked at the crescent moon, wondering if Radha was also thinking of him. She had wished for him to banish her from his memories, did she not? He failed in it. He desperately wanted to fail and losing this one battle made him feel even more victorious than the warrior goddess Durga. She had slain demons; well, Krishna had too, but he outshone her by having Radha. To have Radha was like having the entire samsara.

And yet, the samsara was intangible.

The gelid breeze played with his midnight black curls, copper-toned eyes flooding with tears. He wiped them with his lonely hands, unable to extract the warmth from within that otherwise was always abundant in Radha's caress.

"My king, there's a letter for you."

Krishna heaved a sigh. Plenty of them he got in a month, as if every citizen was eager to write to him. Sometimes he felt he was a true king of the people, made for them and alive only for them. Truth was, he would live as long as Radha did. He would die when she took her last breath. He would be able to sense her demise like a dog sniffing Yamaraj arriving on a black bull.

He groaned. He didn't want to think of her end, their end. Their story would be eternal, at least in the history of unspoken words and fruitless dreams.

Krishna took the letter from the messenger and the latter left his master in solitude. In the initial moments, he felt nothing, but as soon as some seconds flew by, came the smell of milk and rosewater wafting to his nose.

It reminded him of the golden fields of Gokul, of the cattle that licked his hands, and of course, of the floral aroma that exuded from Radha's freshly washed hair. The letter's fragrance was the same, so eerily similar that it scared him that he was hallucinating, that it scarred him to know that the long unconscious desires would suddenly want to be awake, only for futile.

He touched the letter. It was costly papyrus. Maybe some royal had written it, but there was no seal on it.

The wind tickled his ears. He quivered, bringing the letter close to his chest. That smell emanating from it was so strong and nostalgic that it made him afraid of reading it.

What if this was a mockery of fate?

The story of Shiva taught him to hope against hope, and maybe it had become now a habit, and so again he dreamt of being with Radha.

He was ready to be disheartened again. He was getting used to it. Krishna knew the tricks of Time well enough by now.

So with hope, and the strength to face its destruction, Krishna opened the letter.