Once Arjuna had begun remembering, he could not stop. Every easy,
everyday moment of their friendship came flooding back, and each one
now made him wince with tenderness and worry.
He remembered the games. The two of them racing chariots until the dust
rose in clouds, laughing, each teasing the other for being too slow.
He remembered resting — sprawled side by side under a tree in the heat
of the afternoon, Krishna dozing while Arjuna chattered on. He remembered
sitting together at gatherings, nudging Krishna, whispering jokes during
long ceremonies when they were supposed to be solemn. He remembered meals —
sharing food from the same plate, arguing over the last sweet, splashing
water at each other like two ordinary boys.
And in all those moments, sometimes for fun, sometimes without even
thinking, he had been a little disrespectful. A joke at Krishna's expense.
A careless word. A teasing remark he would never have dared say to a king,
let alone to the Lord of all the worlds.
Sometimes it had happened when they were alone, just the two of them.
Sometimes — and this made Arjuna's cheeks burn — it had happened in front
of everyone, in crowded halls, where others heard him tease the One the
whole universe bows before.
Now Arjuna folded his hands and bowed his head as low as it would go.
"For all of that," he said, his voice trembling, "for every joke, every
careless slight, whether we were playing or resting or sitting or eating,
whether we were alone or surrounded by others — for all of it, I ask your
forgiveness."
He looked up at the vast, blazing, boundless form, the form he could not
measure no matter how he tried.
"O Achyuta — you who never fall, never fail, never let your friends down —
forgive me. You who are beyond all measure, beyond anything I can hold in
my small mind — please, forgive me."
And in the asking, something eased in Arjuna's heart. For there is a
special freedom in finally saying sorry to someone you love — even, and
especially, when that someone is greater than the whole wide world.
