Her Lord Kishan’s birthday. There had been a lot of hustle and bustle in the palace since morning. The priest and his helpers were busy decorating the family temple. They were recreating the scene of Kishan’s birth – a prison cell where Lord Kishan’s mother and father sat huddled and shackled. Across the inner courtyard of the temple ran a zigzag piece of blue silk – the River Yamuna. And on the river a statue of Kishan’s father, Vasudev, carrying baby Kishan on his head in a basket and the snake god forming a hood over baby Kishan, to protect him from the torrential rains. Mili sniffed the air as the smell of sweetmeats and savouries emanated from the kitchen. She usually partook of the preparations with full enthusiasm, but this year she watched from afar. She was at home, in her room, in her palace in Mohanagar, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Why had Raven not tried to stop her when she had gone to say goodbye? Or said that he loved her? She would have never left Kishangarh if he had.
