Moments out of Time

Of Flutes and Friendship

@ayeshaindwarika Merry Christmas and advanced Happy New Year to you. (I hope you got tagged. I usually mess these things up😅, sorry)

Disclaimer: The following  is a work of fiction written purely for the purpose of entertainment and does not claim any compliance with canon. No copyright infringement is intended. Kindly do not reproduce the piece. 

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Krishna, nominal king of Dwarka, famed politician, and a much loved and loathed neighbor to many, watched in horror as the man at the gates pleaded with the scornful guards. The years had not been kind on the man, his once cherubic face was shrunken with malnutrition, and his strong limbs were slender with the lack of food. The skin under his eyes sagged, and his torn clothes played runaway in the playful sea breeze. He clutched at their hems in sharp, highly-strung gestures. And yet, Krishna had no trouble recognizing the obsidian black eyes, the curly raven hair and the softness around the wrinkled lines of his brow that suffering and misery had failed to obliterate. Oh yes, Krishna recognized, and Krishna remembered. Oh, how he remembered!!

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Then, he was just Kanha. And Nandlal. And Yashodanandan and Makhanchor. He had stepped out with his Dau for the first time, to lead a herd to the pastures. They had met up with the other boys, his brother's friends, and later, his. 

"Kanha." Dau had proudly said, gesturing at him in way of introduction, before proceeding to recite the names of the eleven boys before them, names that would form the pillars of his often idyllic, sometimes not, childhood. 

Kanha had tried to memorize them, and at his failure, had been alarmed. Dwarkadheesh would never be alarmed, he would simply pull out a parchment and pretending to write the name, ask the person to spell it. But Kanha was not Dwarkadheesh. He was just Balram's little brother. 

Sudama had been the first to speak to him, pulling him aside as the rest skipped ahead, and warmly smiling at him had said, "Welcome, little one."

At Kanha's apparent nervousness he had squeezed his fingers. No questions, no consolations. Just silent support. Such was Sudama.

Sudama had taught him to first make flutes out of hollowed bamboo stems. They were terrible, but they were his.

Sudama had been the first to notice his infatuation with Radha, even before he had, and the first to tease him about it. They had been snoozing under the lone banyan tree that stood staunchly amid the green fields around them when the village girls - the gopis -  had turned up, giggling as they carried pots of water from the Yamuna. Kanha had languorously opened an eye and lifting his catapult, shot at someone's pot. Radha had seen him. She had marched right upto him, put her hands on her hips, and given him an earful. Kanha had not bothered to listen, mesmerized by her fair face studded with her large doe eyes and full lips thinned in fury. 

Later, Sudama had nudged him and asked him about it. Kanha told him, and found himself on the receiving end of several weeks of good natured teasing.

Following that, everytime he and Radha would meet up, Sudama would cover for them.

When Kanha left Vrindavan, everyone had wept. Everyone except Sudama, who held him in his arms and said, "May you be forever successful, Krishna."

Krishna had always been successful. Kanha? Not so much.

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Krishna, Dwarkadheesh, looked down where Sudama was kneeling before the now annoyed guards, tears in his eyes. He could pretend to sleep, as everyone expected him to, and the guards would never let him in at this hour. He knew, if they now turned away Sudama, he would never come back. 

Kanha, brave and daring Kanha, would jump around and invite him in. Krishna, the Dwarkadheesh, who used brains where his brawn gave away, was wary. To bring in Sudama would be to bring in Vrindavan, to remember Radha - the lover he had deserted, and Yashoda - the mother he had left behind.

But Vrindavan was also days spent in joyful silence, the dust kicked up by their herds returning home, the globs of sheer butter dripping from high-hung pots. Besides, if he now turned his friend away, Sudama would be another Drona, and him - another Drupad. However much Krishna loved Draupadi, he could not bring himself to like the stubborn, hot-headed king that was her father.

So, he rose from the chair he had been lounging in, and rushed out of his chambers. Nagnajiti and Mitravinda, seated in the latter's chambers, looked up, startled, as he flew past them. Little Pradyumna called, "Pitashree!"

But Krishna did not hear. Nearly knocking down a servant carrying a tray of glasses, he started dragging open the huge doors, scoffing at the others who hastened to help. Dwarkadheesh, each of whose seemingly eccentric acts were woven with the utmost care - as befitting a politburo of the Pandavas, would have been appalled. But Kanha, the boy now trapped in a man's body, could not care less. He leapt into the sun-drenched lawn and yelled with a jaunty wave, "SUDAMA!!!"

The boy that had lived, the man that was, lurched towards him. Noticing their King, the guards moved away. Kanha bounded forward and threw his arms around Sudama's shoulders, pulling his tear-streaked face onto his own, and feeling his angavastra turn wet. And although he could feel his friend's shoulders hunch in misery, and his ribs poke out from parchment thin skin, he could also feel the smile on his lips.

"I'll make everything alright." He told him, and believed it.

Glossary:

Dwarkadheesh: King of Dwarka

Dau: Elder brother, here Balram

Angavastra:  An upper garment worn by royalty

Pitashree: Reverential salutation to one's father