Natyam | A Mahabharata Fiction

25.

I wanted to glare at him. He smiled as if he knew.

With a gesture, I led them to clear ground and we positioned ourselves. Kanha settled down behind the instruments he'd brought out.

As he started playing, I closed my eyes and listened.

Eyes closed, I moved at the first beat. As did the other two.

It had been an age since I had danced. My body knew what to do though. It moved of its own volition, an amazing feat. The music carried me and I felt the stoic walls break. I felt my walls crumble. And I was suddenly aware of who I was dancing with.

The aura of the couple dancing with me permeated through me–powerful and soft. Divine.

The man moved around me and feminine fingertips grazed my shoulders. Energy jolted through me.

I willed my eyes to remain closed as I felt the light touches of my fellow dancers.

And yet there was a light I could see, possibly a vision. Light curled around two figures, gently highlighting their silhouette. I concentrated on the vision.

And there—there stood a woman, graceful in her poise, holding a golden trident. Abreast stood a man who held another trident. His was much darker. Somehow, his trident sparkled.

It was the male silhouette's dark, matted hair that gave it away.

I audibly gasped. The matted hair of the man I was dancing with. Even the jawlines were the same.

But before I could open my eyes to confirm my vision, Kanha was there, whispering in my ears. "Concentrate, Mrinali."

With that, he enclosed one guiding palm around my forearm, slipped behind me and thrusted us both into a new sort of motion.

"Eyes closed." He cooed as my vision unfolded. Beside me, I could sense the other two dancing. The music came from. . . well, to this day I do not know who played it as the four of us danced. It must have been divine, who knows.

Raas. That was what we danced. And I could feel Kanha's thrill as he moved.

Only now, after my death, was I informed about Kanha's raas with the gopis. How he played with them every evening for hours. How he never stepped to dance after he arrived at Dwarka.

He danced with me. He danced with me.

Only then did I realise what a mighty honour was bestowed upon me.

*****

The exchange after the dance was an encounter that witnessed Kanha gripping my forearm fiercely as I bid the guests–Gods–goodbye.

The eyes of the dancers met mine and I could notice the illumination in the way they looked at me. Like they'd realized my uncovering their identity.

I remember thinking I should take their blessings. However, when I stepped forward to do so, my friend's grip on me just tightened.

I scowled. And the guests, knowing, offered me a deliberate smile.

So, I was forced to settle for a simple joining of the palms and the royal tilt of the chin to express gratitude and respect.

They thanked me (I do not know why) profusely.

And when their retreating figures at last turned around the corner and vanished, I whirled around.

Barriers broken, I spoke. "Kanha, that was—they were. . ."

I inhaled sharply, the images running through my mind.

"They were. . .Shiva and Parvati."

He gave me a knowing smile, confirming my suspicion.

"And the fact that you knew this! That would make you. . ."

I gripped his palm tightly. Kanha, with the elusive smile and the wiley tricks. The coincidences that were almost always too good to be coincidences. The wisdom. The power. The influence.

The knowledge hit me like a blow to the stomach.

I looked up and locked eyes with a god. The god.

His eyes seemed to challenge me. Egging me on. Even his expression seemed to be pushing me to speak. To think and act.

Brahma hardly ever came in avatars. But Vishnu certainly did. And he came often. The fish, the turtle, Narsimha, Ram and the rest.

I was never one to back down from a challenge, even when posed by a god. So with a wisp of fear, I declared:

"You are the eighth avatar."

*****

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