‘Satya, I’ve told you already. The swayamvar is for the Panchalan Princess to choose her husband from a throng of suitors. I merely need to ensure her choice aligns with Mathuran interests.’

Her eyes narrowed, ‘If you believe that this choice must be you, you are sick with a fever of the mind. Is that why you are going to Panchal a full moon ahead of the swayamvar?’

Krishna smiled. ‘I am going to the swayamvar, yes, but to prod, not to participate. I’ve already told you about my plan. Swayamvars are such exciting affairs, after all. And the Panchalan Princess is like my sister.’

Satyabhama snorted in derision.

Krishna changed tactics. ‘In fact, why don’t you come along? Just you and I.’

‘Oh yes,’ scoffed Satyabhama, ‘I can just hear them all talk. Lord Krishna, patron of democracy! What a damn fine fellow! So handsome. Born a cowherd, then rose to King’s Secretary. Then, killing the King, rescued the people, don’t you know? True heir to Mathura, you see. A hero. Then he went on to conquer the Eastern Kingdom. No breeding whatsoever, never one of us, but a damn fine hero for a cowherd. Shame about that upstart wife, too clever by half, and so violent. Only the third wife though. They say she wields a sword and fights in the army, and does not wear a saree.’ Satyabhama’s eyes flashed as her monologue fell to an icy whisper. ‘No wonder she can’t get him a child. Doesn’t even know how to curtsy, I’m told. Best to just keep away from that barren woman.’

Sighing, she looked away from Krishna. ‘You and I both know everyone will be happier if I just stay here. If I go, the men will ignore me, and the women cut me dead with their eyes.’

Krishna took her hands in his, rubbing the palms softly with his thumbs. He waited to be sure she was done with her words. Then he asked quietly, ‘Since when does the cow care about the opinion of the grass it eats?’

Satyabhama looked up at him, smiling sadly. She had never known wealth growing up. She had never flirted coquettishly at high society parties in tight fitting blouses, while swaying teasingly to the music. She had never sailed in the brief, tragically glorious ship of friends gossiping about lordlings, had never experienced a theatrical episode of courtship, a bit of pretend-game, to raise her above the sea of life. Come to think of it, she only had terrible hatreds in her life, irritation over the daily injustices that were so commonplace one would think they were part of a law.

But Krishna liked that about her. It had made her… realistic about things. She laughed with the knowledge that it wasn’t meant to last, and cried with the self assurance that it was futile. She was like a glacier, relentless and implacable. But eyeing the letter from Panchal, he reckoned that sometimes even a vast glacier could crack into crevasses under deer hooves.