Aditya Tripathi (Teacher, P.S. Pratappur, Kothawan, Hardoi)–
The twilight of Dwapara Yuga was upon the world. The great Mahabharata war had concluded. Righteousness had been restored, but at a price. The mighty Yadava clan—once proud, united, and powerful—had crumbled under the weight of its own arrogance and inner conflict. The very race Krishna was born into, which he had guided and nurtured, was now lost in the dust of its own downfall.
Krishna, the Supreme Being in human form, had foreseen it all. He had known that the Yadu dynasty would perish—by destiny, by design. But even the divine must bear the sorrow of loss when it wears a human heart.
It was after informing his father Vasudeva of the end of the Yadavas that Krishna left Dwaraka—his beloved city by the sea. He entrusted the safety of the Yadava women to his dear friend Arjuna and retired into the forest. There, in the serene solitude of nature, he returned to his brother, Balarama, who now sat motionless beneath a great tree, immersed in deep samadhi.
Krishna approached quietly. Balarama sat still, not a breath moving his frame. Was he alive or had he already transcended the mortal realm? Krishna, honoring his brother’s final moments, did not disturb him and sat nearby, closing his own eyes.
Moments passed, or perhaps eternities. Then, from behind Balarama’s head, a magnificent serpent emerged. It was Ananta-Shesha, the primal serpent, the eternal companion of Vishnu. As Krishna watched silently, the serpent slithered toward the nearby sea, where the ocean shimmered in response. There, Vasuki, Karkotak, Shankh, Atishandh, and other divine serpents waited. The Sea God, Varuna himself, had come to welcome the departing soul of the great Balarama.
As Ananta entered the waters, Balarama’s lifeless body gently slumped to the ground. The elder brother had departed. Krishna looked upon him with deep affection, the weight of countless memories behind his gentle smile.
Now, alone, Krishna walked a little distance and laid himself down in the shade of another tree. Perhaps he was tired—not just in body but in spirit. The God who had never known rest now sought peace. As he lay in silence, his mind wandered through the corridors of memory.
He saw his mother Yashoda scolding him for stealing butter. He saw the banks of the Yamuna, where Radha waited, eyes full of devotion. He remembered the night dances, the music of his flute, the divine Rasa that united the Gopis with the infinite. He remembered killing Kansa, liberating Mathura, building Dwaraka from the sea, and marrying Rukmini. He remembered the fiery Syamantaka jewel, his valiant son Pradyumna, his aunt Kunti’s suffering, and the tears of his dearest friend, Draupadi.
The battlefield of Kurukshetra flashed before his eyes. The roaring chariots, the cries of warriors, the silence after Arjuna released his arrows. Krishna saw it all—the glory, the loss, the truth.
And then came the memory of the Yadava massacre, the blood spilled by his own clan, cursed by arrogance, fulfilling Gandhari’s dire prophecy. He sighed. Destiny had played its final note.
But his meditation was interrupted by a sharp pain. He opened his eyes and looked at his foot—there, buried deep into his sole, was an arrow.
A man came running through the trees, breathless and pale. He was a tribal hunter. Dropping his bow, he fell to Krishna’s feet and sobbed like a child.
“Forgive me, my Lord! I was hunting deer… I saw your feet glimmering in the light. I thought it was an animal. I never knew… never realized…”
Krishna raised his hand to silence him, his eyes filled with compassion.
“Why do you weep, my friend? What wrong have you done?”
“My name is Jara,” the hunter whispered. “I meant no harm. Let me remove the arrow and apply herbs to heal you.”
Krishna smiled and said softly, “No, Jara. Do not disturb it. First, tell me… do you know who I am?”
“You… you are Krishna. The Lord. The Savior. How could I be so blind to harm the One who is beyond all harm?”
“You see me as divine, and yet you forget that I have lived as a man. Have I not bled before? Have I not felt sorrow, pain, and loss? This arrow of yours is no sin, Jara. In fact, it is a gift.”
“A gift?” the hunter asked in confusion.
Krishna nodded, looking at the sky through the leaves. “Many years ago, a sage named Durvasa came to Dwaraka. All feared his anger, his unpredictable temper. But I invited him into my home. He tested us in every way. One day, he made a pot of sweet rice pudding—kheer—and instructed me to smear it on my body. I obeyed. He looked at Rukmini and I knew what he wanted. I applied it on her as well.”
“He made her pull his chariot through the city like a horse. Whips struck her back, but she said nothing. I was silent too. He wanted to test our humility, our discipline. Afterward, he blessed her and turned to me. He said, ‘Krishna, you have suffered silently. You have done your duty. Your body will withstand any wound. Wherever the kheer has touched, no weapon will harm you.’”
Krishna paused. “But Jara… I had forgotten to smear it upon my feet.”
The hunter’s eyes widened. “Then this…?”
“Yes,” Krishna said gently, “this wound is divine. It is the only passage through which death can reach me. Your arrow is no accident. It is Mahadev’s blessing. My time on this earth is complete.”
Jara’s heart broke. “But what of the world? What of us? Without you, who will guide us?”
Krishna’s voice was soft and steady. “The world was, and will be, long after I’m gone. Dharma has been restored. The Gita has been spoken. My role is fulfilled. But the war between right and wrong never ends. When unrighteousness rises again, I—or one like me—will return. This is my promise.”
Tears streamed down Jara’s face. Krishna smiled and touched his hand. “Do not grieve, my friend. You are not the cause of my death. You are the hand of destiny. Let go of your guilt. I long for silence now… a silence deeper than all sound.”
And with that, Krishna closed his eyes.
His breath slowed.
The wind stilled.
The sky turned golden, and the trees seemed to bow.
The flute of Krishna, once the melody of love and liberation, fell silent forever.
But in that silence echoed a truth greater than words—that every beginning must have an end, and every end gives birth to a new beginning.
Thus passed Krishna, the Lord of Compassion, the bearer of truth, and the destroyer of darkness.
The world wept but he smiled.
For he had given all, and now he simply returned… home.
