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LONG HAVE I WAITED
He sleeps. And I watch him.
Slim wrists cross each other. His long fingers are lightly bunched. His shoulders are relaxed and do not look broad and powerful. He is sleeping on his side. Kaustubha, the famous ruby he wears on a long gold chain, is trapped beneath his chest and will leave a mark on his skin when he wakes up. His waist looks slender like a woman’s. I often wonder where he keeps that strength, that immense earth-shattering strength that killed the half-demon King Kamsa of Mathurā, that time-stopping strength that wields the massive chakra that took Shishupāla’s head off.
In sleep, his face is tranquil and looks a trifle chubby. The wind blows a stray strand of hair across his forehead. I lean in to brush it away with a fingertip. I cannot resist myself and draw the finger along his cheek as well. A corner of his mouth turns up. Is he awake? I hastily draw back. He wanted to sleep, he said.
It is strange how the continued handling of weapons has no effect on his skin. I look down at my own hands. They are hard and callused to the fingertips. His are not. He heals easily, too. I remember the duel he fought with Shishupāla, and the scar the treacherous man inflicted on his arm. A faint pale line is all that remains of that fateful day. I am marked with scar tissue up to my elbows on both arms from the bowstring. I shake my head. He is born lucky.
He moves in his sleep, bending a knee into a more comfortable position. His dhauti rides up, exposing a well-muscled but trim calf that goes down to a pretty foot with a pale red sole. No wonder people gush about his ‘lotus feet’. I could say ‘dehi padapallavamudāram’ as well. But then he would poke fun at me for the rest of my life.
Odd how he looks more like the flute-player of Vrindāvana than the world-weary warrior of Kurukshetra. More like the lost child of Mathurā than the shrewd politician of Dvārakā. I smile to myself. Krshna never really was lost, was he? Perfect poise, perfect position… that was my cousin. My beloved cousin. My… beloved.
He sleeps. And I watch over him, just as I have watched for the past twenty years. And my heart aches with the weight of the truth untold. He asked me why I wanted him as my charioteer. I told him a pack of lies. I, Arjuna, lied to him, I lied for him, I who never lied. I wanted him to be safe, I said. I wanted him on the battlefield so that he could offer us instant counsel, I said. He smiled up sweetly at me and accepted the explanations.
Sleep brings out the kishora in him. But then he has always looked younger than his actual years. I cannot help but envy him. Even we, born of the gods, have lost the first flush of youth. He has not. His hair, curly and tousled in sleep, still has not a single strand of white. Yudhisthira is already salt-and-pepper, and I’m going grey at the temples.
I realize he is awake and looking intently at me. He smiles a soft, smug little smile, and prods me with a lotus-petal foot. And he begins to laugh, his shoulders shaking a little, a gentle chuckle growing in his throat. ‘Twenty years, eh?’ He shakes his head playfully. I am shocked. How did he know? How long… ? And I already know the answer, I read it in his eyes. Always. His smile grows deeper as he closes his eyes again. ‘Keep watching’, he says softly, and appears to fall asleep.
He sleeps. And I take up my watch, as always.