"You're a prophet, K," she said quietly while playing with his long, tasseled shawl.

"Oh no, no, darling," he retorted, quoting Zachariah, ""I'm no prophet, I am an husbandman; for man taught me to keep cattle from my youth.""

She laughed out loud at the irony of the situation. So would you, were you in her position. Especially if you knew that K was a shepherd once upon a time, fond of milk, butter and curd like no other. And if you knew how he got punished by mother for stealing an entire month's butter in just a couple of hours, you'd definitely laugh. The little K was, indeed, very naughty. If you knew him, you'd feel exactly what she felt for him.

The feverishness kept boiling like a thousand curry pots on fire — as if all of them were placed across her body, strategically. He stayed close enough to be warm, and far enough to not get burned by the heat of her sunny skin. This is no vacation. This is work at its most lethal. She was his Myrrha, the poison on his arrow, smeared with absolute passion, and she will spread across your bloodstream like how the ashes of ancestors do commingle six feet down under with the water of life. It was magical, yet it was just nature running its course.

She snatched the diary out of his hand and wrote in an unruly hand,

"I, Myrrha,.. I feel that I'm a leaf that the wind took away from my Lord's lap. I float, mid-air, like a cannon-ball in action. When I reach you, I will fall, back into your lap innocently again. Then you may smile... Smile knowingly, and I shall understand the silences. In you, I am safe, my Lord."

She tore out the page, stuffing it into her pocket, and whispered in his ears.

" Find me. "

Krsna woke up as if from a trance. When was the last time he slept? It must have been a hundred years ago! He was God to many, but in reality, he was a man who worked more than any of those slaves in those ancient times. He was, after all, the Lord of the Seven Universes.

Earlier on, they took turns to look after the worlds, but ever since he gave up his human life entirely, the responsibilities fell into his hands. For a hundred thousand years, he's been toiling every single day, like no one ever before. He has lost everything over this period. His friends trickled away as he no longer had time for fun. His consorts had left him since he couldn't be the lover he once was. How did he manage to have 16000 wives at a time, back in his heydays? Impossible! His old self was like another person altogether, even for himself. His children must have all died and generations must have passed. He had nothing left to life anymore, nothing to live for.

It was time he took a break.

He pulled out a parchment and a feather. Dipped it in ink, and wrote,

"Dear Minister,

I know you might be the only person who cares about me, and therefore, I shouldn't be doing this to you, but I've had enough. By the time you would find this, I'll be long gone. Please do not look for me.

Yours,

K.

P. S. IF you're looking for a replacement, Sive might be the best bet. "

He rolled the parchment and sealed it with a wax stamp. A smirk slowly spread across his face.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The weather was stormy. Mira was supposed to leave the shop before 8, but a regular customer had stopped by and they took an hour to browse the new arrivals. The bookshop didn't have many customers these days as most people preferred ebooks. But Mira never lost hope in the power of the printed word. It was her first love. These words helped her sail through the tumultuous seas of life's hardships.

Mira was only 18 when the bookshop was passed on to her after the death of her aunt, her only relative. Not technically true because she has a brother who was adopted way before her birth. Her parents didn't have the money to raise a child then. But she's never met her brother, not even on her parents' funeral. He must either not know about them or else he might be hating them for abandoning him. Anyways, with aunt Jani gone, she was left in utter desolation. For weeks, she didn't even come out of her room. Then one day, she got a call from a customer, asking her for a copy of an old classic. That's how her journey began again. It has not exactly been a joyride from then on, but she's managed to earn her living with just this shop.

Once Mrs. Beige, the last customer, left, Mira started to shut down the windows and lock the doors. She was just about to turn the lights off when the storm roared through the front door which she had left open as she was about to leave. She ran to close the door; moisture was the last thing she'd want in her shop. The moment she got hold of the door, another hand held it over her hands. It helped to close the unwilling door against the wind. She was now inside the shop with a stranger. She raised her head to look at him.

Dark, curly hair that fell till his shoulders. Dark eyes with irises shining like gemstones. Lips the colour of a mauve tulip, and the stubble poked out of his chiseled face like newly sprouted plants. The marble skin shone under the yellow lights of the shop, glazed with the drizzly storm's cold droplets. He stood over 6 feet tall, towering over Mira, who was hardly 5' 4. Their gazes met and breath escaped her living soul.

"God.." Mira felt faint. The stranger reached out to help her.

"You got that right, but do you happen to have a vending machine?"