Ayamaham Bho

5 months ago

proteeti

@sambhavami

“Ayamaham Bho!” Came a resounding voice, from outside their hut, waking up both Krishna and Radha with a jolt.

---

Almost a month had passed since they had arrived at Girivraja. Soon after the first week they had settled down into a quiet rhythm. In the last hour of every night, Krishna left towards the vraja-bhoomi with the rest of the cowherds. Once the sun rose, Radha too locked their home and went to work in the factory. Both of their co-workers had already grown to love and depend on them. Krishna additionally, had been drafted to play the flute for a play the village was planning to showcase for the royal entourage in the upcoming festival of Jara.

The villagers, looking at his stature and cadence had initially requested him to play the hero, but Krishna had politely declined in favour of Bhadra, the chief's oldest son and offered to retrain the supporting orchestra to a superior standard instead. Thankfully, the villagers had agreed. Krishna had no intentions of playing the hero before the very Emperor that he was on the run from.

Tamrasena, the local barber had written the play, stringing various legends from the Emperor’s childhood, and was directing with the help of a local shopkeeper. The oil-merchant's good-looking son Gandhavardhana had been drafted to play the heroine, the first wife of the Emperor. Ramapati, the doctor, was to play the Goddess Jara. Shakrapriya, the supervisor of the arms factory was cast as the main villain. Several of the nearby farmers were roped in to play the sakhis, guards and officers. The chief, Mahasena, himself had deigned to play the vidushaka. Deviraaja, the chief's son was deigned to play the Emperor himself. The women of the village had been tasked with weaving the costumes and brewing the alcohol, while the tribes living at the edge of the forest were enticed with free ration into building the stage

The men rehearsed every night after their jobs ended. Sometimes in their excitement, they often exceeded midnight. Hence often, the guards fresh off their shifts would also wander in to watch them.

Although women weren't allowed in the practice area, Radha still snuck out with Sumanti and the chief's young daughter almost every night. Mostly, to let Sumanti secretly watch her husband in action through a little hole they had dug out in the wall of the assembly house earlier in the first day, as her young man was too shy to re-enact any of it at home. While Sumanti drank in the scenes when her husband was on the stage, Radha revelled in the playful melodies of a flute wafting towards them from behind the scaffolding. Once they had been caught by her mother-in-law trying to sneak back into the house, but even she had come around once Radha had sang ornamented praises for her son's performance.

The villagers had also fought incessantly, as contrasting opinions had emerged through their interactions. Many friendships died at the altar of this production, while new alliances rose out of their ashes.

Once even Krishna, much to Radha's amusement, had returned fuming, “That Tamrasena! He dared to correct my tune! Mine?!” She had suppressed her laughter with great effort, as she'd attempted to calm him down. Only now, after three weeks, had the situation taken a discernible shape, as they were finally able to run through one complete rehearsal without any major issues cropping up. Now only a week remained for the actual performance, and the community had banded together to cut their workdays in half in order to assemble for heartier rehearsals as their venture took final shape.

“Ayamaham Bho!” The baritone called again, as Krishna hurried to unlock the door. Brahmans were quick to take offence here, especially since they considered the residents of Keekkata social climbers of a lower stature.

Opening the door Krishna found a tall man standing before him, adorned only in a single piece of copper-hued cloth and matted locks. In contrast to his godly attire, he carried a tall bow, and an axe.

Krishna's brows furrowed just a second, and then he smiled politely, ushering the sage into the hut. The sage Parashurama towered over both Krishna and Radha for a second, before sitting down on the floor, “I am hungry, dehi,” He spoke in the local dialect, “Is there something left from your dinner?”

Radha nodded politely as she retreated into the inner room. She was not too worried. Monks of all orders appeared at householders' doorsteps all the time. People might have been suspicious to see such a recognisable rishi at their doorstep but she knew that, just like them, after a long day at various workplaces, most people had already sunk into deep slumber.

Krishna however stood at the doorway itself, staring challengingly at the sage. Parashurama laughed quietly as he beckoned him closer.

“What?” Krishna whispered angrily, “How did you even know I was here? Who else have you told?”

“Not the Emperor, so relax.” Parashurama determinedly waged on a losing battle with his long, matted, white beard with a tiny wooden comb he had produced out of seemingly nowhere.

Krishna shook his head, “For now! I'll be investigated the very moment a guard sees you here! You should leave. Radha, just pack some rice quickly, there's no need to cook him a royal feast!” Radha, however, gave no indication that she'd heard him, making Parashurama chuckle indulgently.

Parashurama then sighed, “What are you even doing here, Krishna? You should be in Mathura, tearing up the the old guard, writing a new future! Instead, you are here, playing a cowherd's flute, hiding behind a silly canopy!”

Krishna smiled sadly, “Why must is always be me, rishi? Say what, why don't you take a crack at it this time?”

Parashurama let out a hearty chuckle, “Me? I am a relic of the past, Krishna. A mere wanderer, roaming from town to town, defeated by my own shishya. You need to return, Krishna. No! I know you do not care what I think, for I am merely the shadow of a bygone you. But you should know: your brother is tearing apart the world looking for you right now. Sooner or later, he will come knocking, Krishna. He needs you; the world needs you. We are barrelling towards a dark time, our rituals are rotting, our mantras are useless. You are the successor, Krishna. Not just of Vrishni, and Satyaka and Bhoja and Raji, but also of Aangirasa, of Vrihaspati, of Bhrigu, of Bharadwaja!” The sage's eyes were glazed over, as if he was seeing this vision anew, his face washed in a divine glow, “I've counted the stars and so has Markandeya, and Narada, and Vyasa. There's only ever you. You will write a new shastra. I have seen it so clearly, Krishna, word after word! Pouring, coalescing as mere vibrations of atoms, into the waters of the punyatoya Saraswati, germinating in Kalindi, blossoming in Jahnavi, growing in Godavari, fruitioning in Kanhoveni, ageing in Reva and surrendering in Kaveri. The words that will bind, the young and old, friend and foe. The words that will inspire a new dimension of life itself, ebbing and flowing, coursing through our blood, with every breath in and out, karmanye...nevermind!”

Parashurama sarcastically lifted an eyebrow, “How will you do it, Krishna? Churn out the very essence of the universe, if you do not even wish to leave your little girlfriend?”

“Easy answer,” Krishna still smiled, although his jaw had tightened, “I won't. Let it all burn! Why do I care? What do you call my life now, a leela, is it? So, this is my leela, I will play it however I like, for as long as I like, and you all can go to hell.”

Parashurama chuckled, “You do that.” He said with a sigh, “One thing however, mind you, Krishna, the one single thing that is more powerful than an avatara, powerful enough to drag you down kicking and screaming, is niyati. Believe me, Krishna, I know,” Parashurama ruefully raised his axe even as his eyes softened, his gaze seemingly travelling away from the present scene in the hut so scarcely lit.

With this warning, Parashurama rose, ready to leave, as Radha brought forth a leaf-bowl of steaming rice, which he promptly emptied into his own bhiksha-patra.

“Oh, and I almost forgot,” Parashurama reached into his hermit's bag where something was gleaming in the low light of the sole diya sitting in the middle of their un-ornamented room, “This is yours.”

“Sudarshana,” Krishna whispered, his gaze transfixed on the divine weapon, “I don't need it.” He said, but he couldn't peel his eyes off of it. Parashurama smiled kindly as he observed Krishna through his bright, wrinkled eyes.

Krishna forced a smile, “I can't keep it. I am a cowherd. Once and forever. Whatever will I do with it?” The chakra was calling out to his very blood. He struggled to keep his hands at his side, to keep his fingers from curling around it, “I can't, Rama. Take it. Give it to someone worthy of wielding it.”

Parashurama smiled kindly, and then turned to leave. Before exiting the hut, he turned around once more, “I have a message, Krishna, from Dwaipayana.” Krishna looked up, with an expression of defiance adorning his dark visage.

“There's no story without you.” Parashurama shot him a last smile before walking out.

Krishna locked the door once more, and crawled back to Radha. “Were we wrong?” He asked.

“I don't know, but we are happy. I think?” Radha replied softly.

When he awoke again, for some reason Krishna found himself opening the door once more into the silent night, leaving Radha asleep on the bed.

He stopped in his tracks. The chakra lay at his doorstep, with a little note on an invaluable piece of parchment: you, and only you are the one.

Krishna worriedly looked around, but he was relieved to find none of the villagers out on the road. He sighed and picked up the discuss. Immediately a wave of warmth ran through his spine, just like the embrace of a long-lost friend. He pressed the magical weapon to his chest wherein it disappeared into his skin, melting into his bones.

Krishna smiled softly as he burned the little paper in the dying flame of the diya. In the distance, Parashurama's voice still reverberated over the Rishabha range, ayamaham bho.

Ayamaham bho, I and only I am.