My Days in Mahabharat

Petrichor

Dwarka

It was raining.

From dawn itself, a swerve of breeze chilled every flesh in the unexpected showers of entourage welcoming the stealth winters. By midday the gray overcast was as a monarch of that once azure ether. To noontide there was a stern serenade of rumbles and luminosity of lightning celebration, revelled the arrival of him.

I was not impatient. Despite several of considerations from my Krishna and his lovely wives for my intake of fuel, which I reasoned by swigging a glass of grape and pomegranate juices; the worries of Bhrata Balram and his wife for my temperature which I assured by keeping a velvet burgundy shawl handy, I couldn't wait longer to be in his querencia.

At the hour of dusk, I was in the lawn of paradise. Dwarka was a breath of elysian air which makes anyone mad and intoxicated in love, probably it celebrated my art of longing from the atelier of yearning for him, that was emblazoned in agape. Every bud and vine snogging, every flower and leaf embracing, every grain of a magical garden reminded me of him.

“When he'll come you'll know it, why so restless?” Krishna had enthused handing me another glass of peach saps and giving me a rose from his tended bushes which he twirled in his dark fingers. “Jambvati gives me roses and it is very endearing” he completed his psuedo dynamical alludes and exited from the lawn.

The dark sky was sheening a glimmer on the teal viridity of the gardens in gussermevi of tiny diamonds dancing down on me, drenching me in await. The blooms of fuschia flaunting their glowing wet petals hanging from the archway door of the garth giggled at my ardent burn for him and this was assisted only by their another flower friends who chuckled at my since the morning state. The serenade of high thunders ached me to soothe this so called ache in his arms and then the corsucating lightning pined to kiss him like these stormy winds.

And then I saw him.

Thunder was a lute's strings played by his heartbeats in his silver dusky sky, as the diamonds of my yearning slid down his anatomy as raindrops who stood as an oakwood amidst the flash of corscucating lighting gleamed on my wheatish face sobbing like a child appearing as an angel fallen from the haven, for him, like he calls me out of many names. Twilight was building a solitary escape in the city of the blue lord for them who were still to be one.

He was art. The gray silk clad nymphs weeped raindrops at his beauty such as drenching him in a melted silvery moon complexion casting him in the frame of dusk's gold. I was envious of the pouring showers which touched him, tasted him all along, after all I was the first woman he had ever—— touched. The white robes were sheer and I was grateful to them infinitely for they emphasized his anatomy, an aesthetic sculpture, finest and painful to even imagine another as him in existence.

I was cognizant. He will wear the hue of foamy froth of sea tides, of waves of rivers and of azure clouds. Hence, I was in a satin, sober, spring rose red lehenga. A longing core of flame, a setting sun's longing to be one with the water's horizon.

He was my prince, hero of my novel, my lover, my fantasy's reality, my husband. He walked to me like out of a dream, blurring the lines of reality and taking me to fantasy. He was not real, he was time, my bound time and I shall give my everything and have everything till the last raindrop falls from the hourglass of sky.

“You're here, for real” I whispered, a trail of blood embraced the rains on my skin as the thorn of the red rose pierced my cold flesh.

“I am my love” he husked, his lilac lips seeping the drops of rains and tears, a gasp he let out and his brows knitted, a breach to his vulnerablity as always.