I did not wish to the King yet. The crown of

Mathura was not for me. My time would

come, but I wanted to study the Vedas,

ancient texts that were said to be the domain

of the exalted few.

This is what I told Lord Vasudev, Akrur, and

the other courtiers. My grandfather Ugrasen,

Lord Vasudev's father, was to be the King of

Mathura once again and my father after him.

I wished to educate myself and would do so

under the tutelage of the Rishi Sandeepani.

I travelled with my brother Balram to

Avantika. The rishi ran an establishment to

educate students away from the distraction of

family and home. I would learn the sciences,

mathematics, languages, and the religious

scriptures. I would learn to cook, chop wood,

gather fruits, be responsible, be disciplined.

In the idyllic environs of the ashram, I would

live like all the others, in anonymity, without

the spectre of fantastical foes.

To become a great king, the first choice one

must make is to seek wisdom. Was I to

become a great king? Was I to become a

king? At that point in time, as I prepared to

go to what would later be called Ujjain, I was

not particularly sure. Yes, of course, I was

aware of who I was, what I was destined for,

but that awareness was never something I

dwelt on. I liked my thoughts to be occupied

by the mundane trivialities of human

existence. A friend once asked me the

purpose of life, and I remember telling him

that my life's goal is to finish up all the butter

before I am caught. When your mind can

create universes and alter cosmic forces, it is

wise to focus on the simple, the obvious, the

temporal.

I would focus on the daily rigors of student

life in Rishi Sandeepani's ashram. Maybe I

would find myself evolving into a better

human, the divinity in me finding the roots it

was eternally in search of.

I stayed sixty-four days in the ashram. I

learnt sixty-four different aspects of

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

knowledge, sixty-four different skills. I was

apparently very good at learning. I made a

friend, Sudama.

There was a small pool called the Gomti

Kund where Sudama, Dau, and I washed our

writing tablets at the end of the day. We sat

there on the cool stone steps that were damp

with the waters, and as the moisture seeped

in through the thin white cotton garments we

wore, I felt more at peace than ever before.

Sometimes we would sip the buttermilk we

carried with us in earthen pots tied up into a

cloth sling so that the buttermilk would not

spill over.

A young girl used to come to the Gomti

Kund every other day. I would tease her and

play with the lamb that accompanied her.

The girl would always leave humming a

melody that reminded me of a past I would

be unable to return to. She never told me her

name, and Sudama's favourite game was

making up possible names for her.

When a student's education was deemed

complete, Rishi Sandeepani had the

footprints of the student that he considered

the best of the best, embossed on a stone

slab. My footprints remained in my Guru's

Ashram long after I had left.

In the sixty-four days that I spent at the

ashram, I never once felt the heaviness that

had enveloped me when I killed Kansa. And

it was because of Sudama. He saw things as

they should be, as they are. He was poor, was

no intellectual giant, and was not very strong

physically, but I loved him. I loved him

because he behaved in the most irreverent

way and I liked it. I liked it because he

treated me like a friend. As I spent my days

in the ashram pretending to acquire wisdom,

but in truth getting over the deep-rooted

anguish of having taken the life of a man

related to me by blood, blood that I had spilt,

Sudama helped me forget.

But I forgot about Sudama once I left the

ashram. The not-so-great side to my

philosophy of being in the present, I suppose.

I forgot about Sudama, who was forced to

come to me seeking help. He should not have

had to. I have very few friends. Sudama was

one of them. I should have stayed in touch. I

should have looked him up. I should have

helped before he needed it so badly. Life is

made of should-haves but didn't—even mine.

There are two regrets I carry within me from

my days as Krishna. I let go of Radha. I

forgot about Sudama.