@hindumythologyevent day 4 - Male characters / sources
Sometimes she wondered if the others could see it too.
The way he moved, with something more than just a warrior’s confidence and strength, more than just a prince’s grace and charm.
The way he smiled, the smile of a man who had seen everything there was to be seen, almost like he was watching the world unfold around him like a retelling of a beloved play.
The way he drew people towards him, commanded not just the respect but the love and adoration of those around him, almost effortlessly.
The way people turned to him for advice, approval, comfort, even in anger - how they always looked to him first.
The way his arrival would silence a room, make people hold their breath, make them gawk, not in fear or shock, but in admiration. He was beautiful, yes, but it was something more.
Were it anyone else, she might have thought him insincere, a man who put on an act, who rarely revealed his true colors, she might have even been envious - he cannot be this immaculate, not truly. But with him, there was no question of it.
She’d seen his mischief, his laughter, his practicality, his morality; his bluntness, almost outright rudeness towards those who didn’t deserve his respect, and his utter devotion and earnestness to those who did.
She’d seen him brighten her husband Arjun’s day with just a smile, lessen her own sadness with just a hand on her arm, calm even his hot tempered long suffering brother Balram’s anger with only a look.
She hadn’t often seen him rise to anger, despite the many situations that warranted it. She knew, of course, that his offenders were far beneath him, undeserving of not just his anger but his mere presence, but it made him all the more fascinating, the way their words had seemingly no effect on him save for amusement, how he so rarely acted in haste, or fell prey to his temper, yet how easy it was for him to smile, to laugh, to sing.
She’d heard the insults they threw at him - that he was only a cowherd, only a milkmaid’s son, no one to be respected, as if those were titles to be ashamed of.
She’d heard of eyes twinkling like stars before, but the stars she saw in his eyes felt real - too real.
She’d heard tales, from Subhadra, of his enchanting prowess with the flute. How his music would make the gopis dance, how everyone would flock to hear it, beg him to play it for them, how even the cows in vrindavan would come to him when they heard it. No , she’d wanted to say, it wasn’t the music, it wasn’t just the music, it was him.
She’d heard of the events that followed in his wake- of Pootna, of Mount Govardhan, of Kansa; she was no stranger to divine intervention, being born from fire herself, but it did not seem to her as if he had obtained boons from various gods, or as if he was under the protection of one, and that was what had led to the stories that followed him. Who was he, really? What was he?.
But for all her musings, he seemed almost inexplicably human, inexplicably mortal. She saw in him the sky, the stars, the heavens, but she also saw the dust from behind the wheels of his chariot, the blood his divine weapon left on his fingers, the love with which he held his wives’ hands, the tenderness with which he held her first son in his arms.
Krishna, Vasudev, Govinda , Giridhari, Keshav, Son of Devaki, Son of Yashoda, Son of Nanda, Her true friend, confidant, her partner in crime, the perfect match to her wit, and somehow, something more. More than anything she has ever known.
It’s why when she feels the most alone she has ever felt, the most angry, the most betrayed, the most helpless, the most afraid, she calls out to him.
Because she knows without a doubt he will hear her
