I lie alone on the grass, like a fallen great banyan, life trickling out of me with the trickle of blood seeping into ground from the open wound in my heel, where the hunter has shot his poisoned arrow. He thought it to be a young deer.

He was stricken when he understood the mistake and cried like a child. I told him it was destiny and sent him away, asking for peace and quiet in the last moments of my tumultuous life.

I have shaped the history of this land and its people. I shall be remembered here, forever, my story being the greatest of all legends. 

Foster son of a milkman, and never a king myself, I played with the most powerful rulers, and puppeteerd epic battles. But that is not what I choose to remember at this moment.

I remember the women.  Ah ! The innumerable women in my life! Beautiful and loving.

Since boyhood, women came to me, lassoed by an irresistible attraction. Hordes of them surrendered to me, milkmaids or princesses alike, pledging eternal love. 

I loved them dearly too, charming their lives into days of fragrant passion. Beloved and treasured every moment, now I lie alone on ground, limp with pain from the poison running up my veins, living the last moments of this life of mine.
 

***

Someone trades up in soft footsteps and crouches down over my head. I see two bright black eyes looking into mine from a keen young face with soft dark skin encircled by matted curly hair, the tip of a rudimentary bow sticking up from behind.

A tribal huntress, very young. She notices the peacock feather.

“My Lord!!!  Oh, my Lord!!!” Her voice chokes with grief and shock. I try to smile at her, but have no idea whether that smile has penetrated the haze of death to reach my lips or eyes. She sits down and gently lifts my head on her lap. 

My famously handsome head, my neck, and my shoulders are now resting on her thighs. I can feel the cool touch of her taut young skin. Glistening beads of sweat are rolling down her bare brown torso, through the valley between small rounded breasts, towards the deep navel. 

She lovingly fixes the peacock feather back in my hair. Her hunting dog, standing reverently at my feet, starts whimpering. She shushes it.

“Hush!!!! The Lord of the Lords is going to sleep!!!”

Darkness is closing in fast. She has nestled her head in the crook of my shoulder, her fingers gently caressing my forehead. Warm tears are wetting my neck. She hums gently:
“Sleep, Krishna, sleep. Sleep my Love.” 

I don’t know her. 

But now, everything feels right.  Because, whoever it may come from, a hug is always the right size.
 

***

Thus, the greatest statesman ever, quietly slipped into the embrace of death, from the arms of his last woman, a nameless young huntress from the forest tribes. 
He passed in love.