Krishna Returns the Syamantaka Gem - Truth Against Accusation

Satrajit: "You stole the gem and killed my brother."

Satrajit's accusation echoed through the court. Every noble in Dwarka was watching.

Krishna remained calm.

Krishna: "I did neither."

Satrajit: "Prasena wore the Syamantaka when he went hunting. He never returned. You wanted the gem—you offered to buy it from me. Now my brother is dead and the gem is gone. Who else could it be?"

Krishna: "Anyone else. Everyone else. But not me."

Satrajit: "Then prove it. Find the gem. Find my brother's body. Clear your name."

Krishna: "And if I can't?"

Satrajit: "Then all of Dwarka will know their lord is a thief and a murderer."

Krishna stood.

Krishna: "I'll find your gem, Satrajit. Not because I need to prove anything to you—but because truth matters, even when lies are easier."

He left that day, following the hunting trail into the forest.

Weeks later, he returned. With him: the Syamantaka gem. And a story.

Krishna: "Your brother was killed by a lion. I found his body in the forest, mauled. The lion took the gem to its cave. But a bear—Jambavan, king of bears—killed the lion and claimed the gem for his daughter."

Satrajit: "A bear?"

Krishna: "I tracked him. I fought him. For twenty-one days we wrestled in his cave. When he finally yielded, I could have taken the gem and left. Instead, I accepted his daughter Jambavati as a wife—honoring his surrender rather than humiliating it."

Satrajit was silent. The court was silent.

Krishna: "Here is your gem. Here is your proof. Here is the truth you accused me of hiding."

Satrajit: "Krishna, I—"

Krishna: "You accused me publicly. You named me murderer and thief in front of everyone I govern. I could have ignored you. I could have pointed out that my word should outweigh your suspicion. I could have waited for the truth to emerge on its own."

Satrajit: "Why didn't you?"

Krishna: "Because slander sticks. Because whispers become certainties. Because even lords must prove their innocence when accused—otherwise power becomes its own evidence. Every person here heard your accusation. Now they've heard the truth. That's why I went. Not for the gem—for the clarity."

Satrajit fell to his knees.

Satrajit: "Forgive me. I was grief-mad. I lost my brother and blamed the easiest target."

Krishna: "Grief explains but doesn't excuse. Remember that the next time you're tempted to accuse without evidence. Keep the gem. I never wanted it. I only wanted what it represented—my honor, intact."

Satrajit: "I don't deserve to keep it. I accused its finder of stealing it."

Krishna: "Then give it as a gift. To the Yadavas. To the poor. To whoever will remind you that hasty words have consequences. And Satrajit? The next time you suspect me of something, ask. Don't announce. A private question can be answered privately. A public accusation requires public proof."

He left the court. The gem stayed behind.

But the lesson remained—truth, once obscured by accusation, must be actively recovered.

Even gods must sometimes prove their innocence.

Especially gods.

Because their reputations shape what people believe is possible.