to part from them. He was quite certain that the rest of Mathura’s populace was doing the same. It was near impossible to leave one’s house, the domicile that had sheltered one’s family for generations, without taking some prized object along, if only for memory’s sake. He tried to put the sadness of the migration out of his mind and focussed on the task at hand, using the chariot to occupy his thoughts.
“And you fly this horseless chariot?” Tvasta asked.
Daruka beamed proudly. The sarathi’s cheeks tended to bulge on either side, lending him a chubby appearance which was belied by his slender body. The only chubbiness on him was in those cheeks which only made them all the more endearing. “It is my pride and privilege,” he said. “Although I do not claim to understand it. And no matter how well I master its controls, I am no match for our Lord. He maneuvers it as if it were molded to his mind.”
“And indeed it was,” said Krishna coming down the steps of the palace, Balarama beside him. Both brothers looked weary, reminding Tvasta of the same look he had seen on countless warriors returning home after a long campaign. But the battle with Jarasandha or the Yavana army had not yet been fought—indeed, it was to avoid that battle that they were undertaking this migration. Yet Krishna and Balarama both seemed war-weary in aspect and movement. Tvasta shrugged it off mentally, no doubt he was misinterpreting their tiredness. They were probably burdened by responsibilities of state.
“The chariot was in fact molded to my brother’s and my own thought patterns,” Krishna said, “and bearing that in mind, your ability to control it is nothing short of godlike, Daruka. Do not underrate your own excellence.”
Daruka blushed and smiled, his chubby cheeks flowering with embarrassment. “My Lord, you shower me with flowers too sweet to smell.”
Balarama laughed. “That’s a nice way of saying that you just embarrassed him, Krishna!” Balarama clapped the charioteer on his back lightly, yet the clap was almost hard enough to send the poor fellow flying across the courtyard. Tvasta caught him in time, smiling at the famed strength of Krishna’s brother. “Krishna’s right, Daruka. You certainly fly the pushpakas better than I do!”
Krishna greeted Tvasta warmly. “Good shilpi, thank you for honoring us with your presence.”
Tvasta bowered low, joining his hands reverentially before Krishna. “My Lord, it is my honor to serve you in any way I can. Even to sweep the dust from your feet would give me great pride.”
Krishna smiled and raised Tvasta up by his shoulder. “It is not your skill as a sweeper I desire, good Tvasta. It is your skill as a master of the Shilpi texts that can serve all Mathura today.”
Tvasta bowed. “Whatever you say, my Lord. Although I do not understand how my humble knowledge of the arts of shaping forms could serve Mathura, I shall do whatever you command.”
Krishna smiled. “You shall do much more than that, good sculptor. You shall build us a city today.”
Tvasta stared at him in dumb shock. Balarama chuckled at his expression and patted him gently on his back, then climbed aboard his own chariot.
Krishna gestured to the other chariot where Daruka had already taken his place at the reins. “Come aboard now, good Tvasta. We have a great distance to cover and a great deal of work ahead to be done, and barely a day in which to do it.”
Tvasta clambered aboard the chariot, swallowing nervously. “I have never been upon such a craft before, sire.”
“Well,” Krishna said genially. “You have been aboard chariots before? It’s much the same thing.”
Tvasta was about to answer that he had not had much occasion to climb aboard chariots, being a sculptor and not a warrior-lord. But just then the celestial vehicle rose up suddenly into the air and he found the palace roof falling below them at a pace as rapid as a
“And you fly this horseless chariot?” Tvasta asked.
Daruka beamed proudly. The sarathi’s cheeks tended to bulge on either side, lending him a chubby appearance which was belied by his slender body. The only chubbiness on him was in those cheeks which only made them all the more endearing. “It is my pride and privilege,” he said. “Although I do not claim to understand it. And no matter how well I master its controls, I am no match for our Lord. He maneuvers it as if it were molded to his mind.”
“And indeed it was,” said Krishna coming down the steps of the palace, Balarama beside him. Both brothers looked weary, reminding Tvasta of the same look he had seen on countless warriors returning home after a long campaign. But the battle with Jarasandha or the Yavana army had not yet been fought—indeed, it was to avoid that battle that they were undertaking this migration. Yet Krishna and Balarama both seemed war-weary in aspect and movement. Tvasta shrugged it off mentally, no doubt he was misinterpreting their tiredness. They were probably burdened by responsibilities of state.
“The chariot was in fact molded to my brother’s and my own thought patterns,” Krishna said, “and bearing that in mind, your ability to control it is nothing short of godlike, Daruka. Do not underrate your own excellence.”
Daruka blushed and smiled, his chubby cheeks flowering with embarrassment. “My Lord, you shower me with flowers too sweet to smell.”
Balarama laughed. “That’s a nice way of saying that you just embarrassed him, Krishna!” Balarama clapped the charioteer on his back lightly, yet the clap was almost hard enough to send the poor fellow flying across the courtyard. Tvasta caught him in time, smiling at the famed strength of Krishna’s brother. “Krishna’s right, Daruka. You certainly fly the pushpakas better than I do!”
Krishna greeted Tvasta warmly. “Good shilpi, thank you for honoring us with your presence.”
Tvasta bowered low, joining his hands reverentially before Krishna. “My Lord, it is my honor to serve you in any way I can. Even to sweep the dust from your feet would give me great pride.”
Krishna smiled and raised Tvasta up by his shoulder. “It is not your skill as a sweeper I desire, good Tvasta. It is your skill as a master of the Shilpi texts that can serve all Mathura today.”
Tvasta bowed. “Whatever you say, my Lord. Although I do not understand how my humble knowledge of the arts of shaping forms could serve Mathura, I shall do whatever you command.”
Krishna smiled. “You shall do much more than that, good sculptor. You shall build us a city today.”
Tvasta stared at him in dumb shock. Balarama chuckled at his expression and patted him gently on his back, then climbed aboard his own chariot.
Krishna gestured to the other chariot where Daruka had already taken his place at the reins. “Come aboard now, good Tvasta. We have a great distance to cover and a great deal of work ahead to be done, and barely a day in which to do it.”
Tvasta clambered aboard the chariot, swallowing nervously. “I have never been upon such a craft before, sire.”
“Well,” Krishna said genially. “You have been aboard chariots before? It’s much the same thing.”
Tvasta was about to answer that he had not had much occasion to climb aboard chariots, being a sculptor and not a warrior-lord. But just then the celestial vehicle rose up suddenly into the air and he found the palace roof falling below them at a pace as rapid as a
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