KRISHAVYAYAM

18. Quintessence

Kampilya had been in anticipation. A set of flares had come as blessings to the king and the queen who longed for angeliferous progeny. The children who came as apricity in fyole. Who came to inscribe the future of the subcontinent with their merits ; pawns of the ultimate game of chaturanga that the almighty was playing. Kampilya was in anticipation. For the union of the Purusha and Prakriti. Of Paramaeshvara and Parashakti. Of Kanha and his Hridayaa.

The teasings of bronze damsels, usherings of muscular servants and innocent giggles of the ever rejuvenating childhood swamped the temple of Goddess Haimavati— the daughter of the mountains who happened to be the eternal compadre of the vast ocean's scion. Seated upon the majestic ocherous lion with a frightening mane, the consort of Shankara looked gracious in her serene form as the trident of hers sported a gauzy crimson cloth around it. Sagarika advanced towards the prānapratishthita vigraha with gentle yet firm steps, the platter of reverence held in her pink lotus palms as she kneeled at her Sakhi’s heavenly feet.

Her Gauri Maa would never let go of her. All along her journey in the earth’s abode, she held her hands and led her way like the ever compassionate mother she is. Gauri Maa would never let her feel the lacuna of her own mother.

“It is often that one argues with oneself on the nuances of dharma.” Kamalnayani quietly muttered to herself, gazing at the goddess with warmth in her honey irises. “Mata, you have mentored me and always held me in your sweet blessings, much like you do for everyone else. Your mercy knows no bounds. I owe you everything that I am and have gained through pursuits, I only ask for bliss in the lives of the ones I hold dear. Let me trudge ahead in the paths of dharma alone, O Gauri Maa, and let it destroy me if I happen to thwart it.”

The closely guarded palace premises weren't atypical to the spectators for the stationed soldiers with lethal weapons in their callous hands had vowed to protect their state against every felony that might be charged at them in the nuptials of her, the woman who rose from the flames. Kamalnayani had made sure to peruse through the fortress herself for the sake of her own suspicion and worry while Yudhamanyu, Suratha, Vrika and Shikhandi looked after the capital city. Even a portion of the Narayani Sena under the leadership of Satyabhama and Andhaka clan’s Kritavarma had been deported to fend off Jarasandha’s repulsion against the Yadavas and the Panchalas, lest it came knocking to them. Dhrishtadyumna had taken it upon himself to make sure the bride and the bridegroom stayed away from the tensions, as did Draupadi and Ashwatthama along with the hospitality for the guests.

Speaking of whom, Krisha rolled her eyes with exasperation tinged with fondness, Drauni would only let her be present in the Nyaya Sabha for a brief period of time. She herself had had to give away the authority of the finance minister to a Somaka girl. And abruptly every all-nighter pulled to be diligent enough, every duty fulfilled to make Pita proud and every chore directed for perfectionism came as a floating memory of cherished times. A distant nostalgia with wistfulness for these plains which was her home.

And she was to leave them all, her family and her motherland. Everyone, for the man whose name her heart chanted like a canto. This was the law of the world and with the bittersweet saga came the euphoria of being his wedded wife, the hero of the era who was a blue lotus amongst the many blooms she would have known. Vahnijaa was walking on treacherous waters and she knew there was a thin line differentiating courage and self-sacrifice. She had known it was diabolical to be vague about her values, but she would not let any cataclysm break on her loved ones, no matter if it meant growing into recklessness. The fetters of grief caging her limbs had transmogrified into fret, and then nibbling worry.

But she would not let it feast upon herself. Not anymore. She must walk nimbly on the mire to cross it, and she would master the art eventually. If Savitri could save Satyavan and she herself had caused ruckus in the reign of tyrants, what could cease her will now. She had every right to be relieved in the moment and grieve no longer.