Syamantaka Speaks — Am I a Cursed Treasure?

I am Syamantaka, the gem that has witnessed the ebbs and flows of empires, and the storms of human hearts. Born in the heart of the Earth, forged in the intense heat and pressure of ancient volcanoes, I've been passed from hand to hand, coveted by kings and warriors, and I've watched as humans fought and died over me.

I was born of the sun — a spark of Surya hardened into radiance. Kings have called me a blessing. Enemies have called me a curse.
Both are right. And wrong.

My story begins with Satrajit, a Yadava noble who loved the idea of everyone staring at him. He received me as a gift from the Sun God Surya, who was pleased with his devotion. I could summon gold, heal lands, and turn scarcity into abundance. But anything that radiant draws envy faster than truth. And with a treasure like me, fortune can flip into danger in a heartbeat.

I still remember the first time I entered Dwaraka. People shaded their eyes. Some gasped. Such was my brilliance. Satrajit glowed with pride. He clutched me as if someone might snatch me away at any moment.

Krishna’s smiling gaze lingered on me that day — calm, knowing, absolutely free of greed. His people suggested I should stay with him, for the good of all. Satrajit heard - smiled tightly, and walked away with me.

Now, meet Prasena — Satrajit’s brother. Good man. Brave enough. But impulsive. He decided that going on a royal hunt wearing me would impress the world.

So off he went into the forest, chest out, I glittering at his throat.

He did not come back.

A lion found him first. To a lion, a fleshy man is dinner and a shining stone is… well, dinner table decoration. The lion killed Prasena, feasted contentedly, and then padded away with me swinging from its neck.

Enter Jambavan — yes, that Jambavan. The ancient bear-king from Rama’s time. Strong enough to make mountains reconsider their stance.

He saw the lion, saw me, and thought: “Ah, food for the family. A prize for my child.”

He killed the lion, took its body and me back to his cave, and gave me to his little son as a toy. There I was, a gem that could feed kingdoms, now being chewed and waved around by a delighted bear-prince.

Outside, back in Dwaraka, the storm broke.

Satrajit learned that Prasena was dead and I was missing.
He could have asked: “What really happened?” Instead, he accused Krishna openly and publicly.
He said Krishna had killed Prasena and stolen me.

Krishna, as always, knew the truth — and knew what an accusation like this could do if left unanswered. He did what he always does: he took responsibility.

“I will clear this,” he said, and set out to track down the truth — and me.

They found Prasena’s body in the forest. Then they traced the lion’s trail. Then they found the lion's body too. Step by step, blood by blood, until they reached Jambavan’s cave.

And inside the dark deep cave, Jambavan’s child was playing with me. Krishna walked in calmly and picked me up.

The child burst into tears. His cries thundered through the cave. Jambavan arrived like an avalanche — ancient, proud, convinced someone had come to harm his child.

He didn’t recognise Krishna. He only saw a stranger and a stolen toy.

They fought with blows that could crush stones. Days passed. The cave shook. Mountains trembled. And still they fought.

Finally, in the exhaustion between strikes, something shifted in Jambavan’s memory.
The way Krishna moved… the compassion in his eyes, behind strength.

He remembered another form. Another age.

Rama.

In that moment, he realised: this was no ordinary prince of Dwaraka.

He dropped his weapons. His pride melted. He fell at Krishna’s feet.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I did not know you had taken birth again.”

He offered me back without a second thought — and more.
His daughter, Jambavati, as a bride to Krishna, with reverence and joy.

We returned to Dwaraka. I was gleaming in Krishna’s hand; Jambavati walked beside him as his wife.

Satrajit was waiting — fear now eating him alive. Krishna laid me before him, unharmed, and told the full tale: Prasena, the lion, Jambavan, the battle, the truth.

Satrajit’s suspicion broke. Remorse flooded where arrogance once lived.

He begged Krishna’s forgiveness and, in an astonishing gesture, he said: “Take the gem. Take my daughter Satyabhama. I have wronged you too deeply. Only this offering can lighten my guilt.”

Krishna accepted Satyabhama as his wife — not out of greed, but out of compassion for a man drowning in regret.

He said : “A jewel that breeds this much jealousy does not belong in my hands.” And he returned me to Satrajit.

But my story did not end there.

Treasures with too much light tend to cast long shadows.

Satrajit tried to be careful after that. But men who once tasted fear of losing something often hold it tighter.

Others watched from the shadows.

One of them was Shatadhanva, the brother of Kritavarma, a Yadava who looked at me as a gateway to power. Envy sharpened itself again.

One night, when the city slept and Satrajit’s caution faltered, Shatadhanva struck. Satrajit was killed.

I was gone again.

This time, suspicion did not fall on Krishna — the lesson of the last accusation had sunk in. But justice had to be done. Krishna set out to pursue Shatadhanva.

The chase carved through towns and dust and panic. Finally, cornered and terrified, Shatadhanva abandoned me with Akrura and tried to flee on his own.

When Krishna caught up and killed Shatadhanva, he could not find me. I was missing again.

Balarama was furious. He suspected Krishna of hiding me.

But the truth, as always, surfaced in time.

Akrura stepped forward and confessed: he had me. He hadn’t stolen me; he’d been entrusted with me by Shatadhanva. And wherever I stayed with him, prosperity followed.

Krishna could have claimed me. Instead, he chose harmony over possession. “Keep it,” he said, “but stay in Dwaraka. If you and the gem remain here, its blessings remain here too.”

And that is how my long, restless journey finally slowed.

After all the accusations, hunts, deaths, and tangled loyalties.

You might expect a grand philosophical conclusion to be spoken by a jewel that has seen so much. But the truth is simple.

I never demanded blood.
I never asked anyone to lie, kill, accuse, or cling.
I only sat where I was placed and did what I was made to do — radiate abundance.

It was human hearts that turned light into burden: greed into control, slander, and murder.

If there is a lesson in my story, it is this: No gem is dangerous on its own. Only the mind that wears it decides whether it becomes a blessing ...
or a curse.

All that is left of me is a quiet glow — and the hope that the next pair of hands that holds me view life differently. True power lies not in possession, but in letting go. What you cling to destroys you; what you release sets you free.