I stand beside Krishna’s chariot at the gates of Hastinapur, handing him a cool drink of coconut water before he leaves for Dwarka. I complain that we hardly see him nowadays, that perhaps we were better off when we were wandering in the forest because there he came to us more often. He says, You needed me differently then. But in my heart I’m with you just as much! When he smiles, there are wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, strands of white in his hair, the first soft footfalls of age, hastened by the war he let himself be pulled into for friendship’s sake. Love takes me in a wave even as
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