KRISHNA CORIOLIS#4: Lord of Mathura by Ashok K. Banker

had changed almost overnight. Before, she had chattered constantly, driving Balarama crazy at times. Now, she had a quietude that he found comforting. She never demanded that they talk and was content simply to sit and stare at the clouds or watch the birds or fish or cattle. 
     
    Krishna took immense contentment from simply being one with nature. There was something about the natural rhythm of the world that he found very soothing. Whether it was rain falling on eaves, wind shirring across pastures of tall grass, koels calling to one another from high branches, or simply the sight and fragrance of flowers swaying in the breeze and surrendering their pollen to flitting bees, he could watch and listen for hours on end. It made him feel connected to the earth, to Bhoodevi herself. 
     
    After all, it was at her behest that he was here on this mortal plane, doing her work, saving her children from the cruel tyranny of asuras. So, like any child, he was content to simply lie in Mother Earth’s cradle and watch her go about her work through infinite forms and means. And the new Radha seemed to enjoy it just as much as he did. Far from chattering away the hours, she could find contentment in simply lying or sitting nearby and immersing herself in the sounds of nature just as he did, lost in the infinite song of the Earth. 
     
    He lowered his flute at last. 
     
    He loved the way the sounds of the world seeped back into his consciousness after a long session of flute-playing. It was like watching a new day dawn over the world: see the colours seeping into things, the earth become animate once again. 
     
    He heard the voices and laughter of the people in the meadow below, the splashing of the children in the lake, the contented lowing of the herds in the pastures…it was a beautiful day, overcast with gentle thin clouds that obscured the direct sunlight enough so one could lay on one’s back in the lake and float, staring up at the powdery blue sky. The water in the lake appeared lighter hued than usual, not its usual dense greenish blue. Birds flitted through the branches of trees overlooking the lake. A pair of woodpeckers were at work on one immensely tall tree nearby on the hill, working steadily at pecking a hole large enough to accommodate their family. The rat-a-tat sound was musical and pleasing in its own way. Even nature’s stenches were just smells, her noises part of the music of life and Krishna embraced it all, the loud with the soft, the roar with the whisper, the humming with the growling, the swamps as well as the orchids. 
     
    ‘That was your best ever,’ Radha said. 
     
    She was looking down the hill, at the lake, yet Krishna knew her eyes were wet and shiny with her response to his playing. He had sensed the changes brimming within Radha, had understood what they meant and what they implied; he knew what they would lead to over time, and it made him sad at times, for what she desired could never come to pass, what she felt could never be reciprocated. Yet she had every right to feel, to desire, to be what she chose to be, and he would not deny her that experience, even if it led to sadness eventually. 
     
    ‘I was trying to imitate the song of the earth on a summer’s day,’ he said. ‘A day like this.’ He was silent for a moment, still listening to the music of Bhoodevi all around them. ‘I didn’t succeed.’
     
    She turned to look at him, startled. ‘You succeeded so well! Your music is ethereal. Even apsaras in swargaloka can’t play music like you can, Krishna. Your flute speaks a language all its own. All eternity stops to listen.’
     
    He was surprised. The new Radha rarely spoke much, so such an eloquent and passionate speech was unusual coming from her. Apparently her loquaciousness hadn’t vanished completely, it had merely been sublimated into a more elegant avatar. 
     
    ‘The song belongs to they who listen,’ he said gracefully, acknowledging her praise and