Akrur came to take me to Mathura on a

special invitation from the King, the much-

hated, much-feared Kansa. Dau, Lady

Rohini's son, was also invited. Dau was the

son of Lord Vasudev. Lord Vasudev being

held prisoner by Kansa along with his second

wife Devaki for over twelve years. Dau used

to live with us. He was a couple of months

older than me. He was my brother, my

friend, and my confidante-most of the time.

The day Akrur came, I had been hanging out

with Radha all morning. A sense of

foreboding seemed to have been plaguing

her. I had a feeling it was more about me

frolicking about too much with my other

friends, not spending enough time with her. I

had been trying my best to lift her spirits, but

it was one of those days when even my

music could not hold her attention. She was

quiet, withdrawn, and sat lost in her

thoughts, unsmiling, uninterested.

Deciding to give some space to deal with

whatever was more important than me, I

headed back home feeling annoyed with

Radha, hoping to find solace in the

buttermilk ma must have kept aside for me.

I came home to chaos. Ma was crying,

shouting at Baba and a gentleman I had not

previously met. The story of my birth, the

secret, was finally out. That Ma was finding

it difficult to accept would be an

understatement. All the assaults on my life

had been the handiwork of King Kansa. I

was born of Devaki, the King was my uncle,

and he wanted me in Mathura. The King had

invited me as a guest along with Dau to

witness the glory of his dominion in the

Dhanush Yagya celebrations.

A month after Akrur had walked out of

Devaki and Vasudev's prison cell holding the

baby girl wrapped in a shawl leaving Kansa

confused and perplexed, one of the Vrishni

guards who had arranged the horse for

Vasudev had blabbered in drunken abandon

about the incident. The guard meant no

harm. He was loyal to the Vrishni clan and

Vasudev, just a little too fond of alcohol.

Alcohol has a strange and varied effect on

those who partake of it. It can make you do

crazy things, steep a coward in bravery, soak

a brave heart in fear. An introverted recluse

will seek company, and the gregarious will

become aloof. In this case, our normally

trustable Vrishni loyal was hit with a bout of

verbosity, and so he talked to his drinking

buddy, telling him how they had saved the

infant who was born to rid the world of the

evil Kansa. He told the story with pride,

feeling a sense of self-importance at having

played a part in shaping history. The

drinking buddy had not been similarly

inebriated and was hardly a buddy. He

reported the man to Kansa's aide, in return

getting twenty gold coins and a mid-level

position in Kansa's army.

My birth was an open secret within Kansa's

coterie of ministers and chieftains. Ma was

still unaware that I was not the child she had

given birth to. Until Akrur came to our

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doorstep, looking to take me to Mathura, she

did not know. Her heartbreak was twofold,

they told her I belonged to another woman,

and they said I was to go.

I had always known I wasn't born to ma and

Baba, at least since I was six. I had a cleft

chin. Ma and Baba did not.

I still believed, however, that they were my

parents, my father Nand, my mother,

Yashoda. They always would be. Years later,

I would continue to think of Devaki and

Vasudev, as Lord Vasudeva and Lady

Devaki, Baba and Ma would always be my

parents. Maybe it was painful for lady

Devaki, but to be completely honest, I never

did think of her much. I have loved many

women. I understand love in many forms.

Unfortunately, lady Devaki was not one of

them.

Ma was on the verge of an emotional

collapse when she had a sudden bout of

clarity, "where is the daughter I birthed?" she

asked Akrur, locking her eyes onto him as if

she would destroy him with laser beams in

the next moment if he were not able to

provide her with an answer.

Every story about my life has mentioned the

daughter born of Yashoda who was replaced

with me. They call her Yogamaya. They say

she disappeared into thin air. The reality is

different. Akrur was present that day in the

prison cell with Kansa. He took her away

with him and handed her to his most trusted

aide, who carried her beyond the borders of

our land. She was taken on a ship to an

island called Japan. The rumours about her

being in the Vindhya Mountains were just

rumours to throw Kansa off. All Akrur knew

was that the people who took her would keep

her safe. They called her Amaterasu, but

there was no way for us to reach her. I later

found out that Amaterasu was worshipped as

a goddess in Japan. I remember chuckling to

myself at the irony of it all. But Amaterasu

would never come back to her home, and we

would never meet on this earth.

I announced to the room, almost drowning in

Ma's incessant weeping, that I would

accompany Akrur to Mathura. I had killed

Kalia last year. I was not afraid of a human

being; however satanic a king he might be.

Dau would be with me. He was even

stronger than me, and together we could take

on the world. I was growing out of Gokul

Vrindavan. It was time to move on.

Even as I spoke, I felt my heart suddenly,

inexplicably sink. I would be leaving

Vrindavan. I did not know if I would return.

Yet, even at that tender age, I knew myself

self-enough to know that I would not turn

back to look at the past. I was going to

Mathura. This would be the beginning of my

life without Radha.

I headed out; I had to meet her. I needed to

explain. What did I need to explain that I

would come back for? Would I? Would life

permit me to? If I asked her to come to me,

would she? Radha never came to me; it was

always me who went running to find her. My

music flowed through me to reach her, keep

her enthralled by me. She did not need to

resort to such base tricks. She believed I was

hers and hers alone. She did not need to keep

me tied to her with intangible tethers. I was

afraid she would set me free. She did.

Radha had been apprehensive about the

future, a feminine intuition giving her the

sense of an ending. But when I reached her,

agitated, heartbroken at our parting, Radha

was calm. She was trying to smile now that

whatever she had sensed had come to pass.

She was able to accept it with equanimity.

I was bidding goodbye to Radha when I first

hugged her. It was the first time she held me

in the warmth of her embrace. It would also

be the last.