KRISHNA CORIOLIS#5: Rage of Jarasandha

by Ashok K. Banker

  But they did need a miracle, to save Mathura.

  And they prayed for it now as the elephants collided with their Deliverer.

  15

  BHRAATR!

  Balarama’s mental cry to Krishna was one of distress. Anyone else capable of hearing it might have assumed—wrongly—that the caller was distressed by the overwhelming odds. Even an army would be daunted by the sight of over twenty one thousand battle elephants charging straight at them. These were just two fifteen year old boys! But it was not out of fear or concern for his own survival that Balarama called out in those brief moments before the elephants reached them. Even though it lasted but a few moments their mental conversation flashed between them with the speed of thought.

  These gajas are innocent in this conflict. It would not be right to kill them.

  My heart bleeds for them too, bhraatr. But we must fulfill our dharma. They serve our enemy therefore they must be killed.

  They are not all mastikas. Most are otherwise quite sensible hastin. They are driven mad by ill treatment, abuse and vicious training. There are hastiki among them. And zarama too.

  Mad or sane. Battle-crazed or mature adults. Male or female. Grown ups or children. The answer is the same: they serve our enemy and so must be destroyed.

  Is that our credo now? Either ‘with us or against us’? I thought that was the way of asuras. That dharma elevates us from that narrow attitude.

  Dharma demands fulfillment, not hesitation. There is no room for doubt here. Either we kill or are killed. And if we die, with us dies all hope for Mathura. Do you think Jarasandha or his forces will pause like we have to debate matters of motivation, or distinguish between male and female Yadavas, or spare children?

  Balarama hung his head. No.

  Then do what you must. Destroy the enemy.

  Balarama nodded and raised his mace again but as he did so, his fair handsome face was contorted by an expression of pain. It shall be as you say, bhraatr. But I do not like it. Not one bit.

  That is good, bhai. For a warrior kills not for pleasure or personal satisfaction but only because he must. It is the only way any living creature can be permitted to lawfully inflict violence upon other living beings: because it is critical and vital to survival. No lesser reason will suffice. Anything else would be murder.

  I understand. But I am not so sure this is not murder too.

  Then they were out of time. Even though this entire exchange had flashed between them in the space of a fraction of a moment, that fraction had in fact passed. The elephants were upon them.

  ***

  “Lord Vishnu in Vaikunta!” said the youngest senapati, staring incredulously across the breach. The sight was an incredible one. Every Mathuran soldier and officer was staring across the gulf at the sight of an entire brigade of elephants bearing down upon and then overrunning two young men. “Surely they cannot fight that?”

  Nobody answered his rhetorical question. They were too engrossed in staring at the incredible panorama. They sent up prayers to Vishnu too, but in their hearts and minds, and with the fervent wish that the impossible should happen, that the two champions of Ayodhya should somehow, by any means, resist and survive this juggernaut of an onslaught.

  Their prayers were about to be answered.

  ***

  Viewed from across the breach, the collision of the elephant brigade with the brothers was akin to a tsunami striking two bamboo sticks. So insignificant did the two tiny human figures appear when seen from more than a hundred yards away, so puny and helpless. In contrast, the lumbering brigade of hastipaka appeared relentless, unstoppable. The unstoppable tsunami collided with the insignificant figures and enveloped them in a rolling cloud of dust that momentarily obscured the view of the watching Mathuran lines.

  The frontline of gaja rolled over the spot where the brothers stood like a white-water rapid thundering downriver. Jarasandha was a shrewd enough tactician to know how to adapt to changes in the theatre of war. He had already demonstrated that by utilizing his longbow archers to attack the city when his frontal advance was prevented by the creation of the ditch. Now, he showed his astuteness by ensuring that his subordinate officers guided the elephant charge at an angle designed to lead them away from the same ditch. The incident with the chariots and the archers had proven that the brothers were as likely to use wily tactics as frontal assaults and he had no intention of sending an entire akshohini’s worth of battle elephants plunging to certain death if Balarama and Krishna sidestepped or leaped away at the last moment.

  But they did not sidestep. Or leap away. Or avoid the onslaught of gaja in any way.

  Instead, they stood their ground.

  ***

  Balarama struck the lead elephant, a giant bull with a broken left tusk, a blow so resounding, the elephant’s head and trunk were crushed inwards, smashed to bloody pulp. The bull crashed to the ground head-first as elephants always fell, the impact of its fall lost in the deafening reverberation of the brigade behind it. The bull leader had been only a few yards ahead of the rest but the instant it died the knowledge flashed across the length and breadth of the brigade. Elephants lowed and trumpeted their distress and anger at the killing of their leader. He was a middle-aged yet still robust bull, a descendent of the great Airavata himself, dreaded Hathi-Yodha who had served the late Kamsa so horrifically for so long. He had been a gift to Jarasandha from his late son-in-law and had himself been used to breed an entire line of Hathi-Yodha. The ease with which he was killed shocked his bloodline, several dozen of whom were present in that same brigade. They trumpeted their desire for the blood of the two-legged mortal who had slain their great sire.

  Balarama followed the first blow with another leaping swing. Jumping in mid air, he spun around, his celestial mace gleaming and throwing off golden shards of reflection even through the dust raised by the charge of the hastipaka brigade. It glanced off the skull of another bull then struck the shoulder of a third bull, then, as the momentum of Balarama’s flying leap swung him around in mid air like a top, he turned its angle slightly, to catch a great cow elephant a fatal blow just behind her ear, sending her careering sideways to smash against an entire score of other elephants, piling them head over heels. He touched foot on an elephant’s back, felt the powerful body rippling as the beast raced headlong forward, then swung around again, spinning like a dancer in the most dazzling acrobatic performance ever displayed, smashing one, two, a dozen elephants in turn, each of those elephants flung sideways with ferocious force to smash against a half dozen or a dozen others, all squealing and trumpeting pitiful objections as their bodies were cracked and broken by the sheer force of the impact.

  Two score elephants died under the force of Balarama’s second swing of his mace. Subsequently, due to the oncoming charging brigade being so closely packed together, a hundred or more were fatally wounded, killed on impact or wounded beyond battle capability by each of his blows. At times when his celestial mace struck an unfortunate—or a fortunate, depending on your point of view—gaja with full force, the beast itself exploded like a shattered plate of crockery, shards of bones flying in every direction to pierce and wound and kill dozens around it. Elephants went tumbling over the backs of the charging line of other elephants, squealing as they struck and rebounded off their fellows. Other elephants were struck hard enough that they drove their tusks into the flanks and sides and bellies of their fellow elephants, before crashing into dirt themselves.

  Balarama’s dance of death was visible across most of the theatre of war. Even Jarasandha, now seated on a high platform raised by his Hijra fauj within moments from pre-cut lengths of wood, watched with growing rage as the fair brother of Krishna spun in mid air, leaping over the charging brigade, smashing and killing with impossible efficacy. Never before had he or any other soldier present on that field that day ever witnessed any man kill elephants in this fashion. As a master of the art of war, even through his rage, Jarasandha could not help but marvel at the sheer
artistry with which Balarama danced and spun and struck his blows at precisely the spots where they would cause most damage. He did not merely use brute force as most mace fighters did—he targeted each blow, its trajectory, its force, its angle of contact, to not only cause harm to the elephant it actually struck, but to do so in a manner which turned that victim into a weapon. With over twenty one thousand elephant charging directly at them, it was not enough for Balarama to merely defend and survive: he had to cause enough damage to hurt the enemy severely. He was doing just that.

  But it was nothing compared to how Krishna fought.

  16

  DARUKA had completed his given task, ridding the field of all longbow archers and was taking the chariots up again when the elephant brigade collided with his master and his brother. Now, he watched from above in amazement as Balarama danced his impossible dance of death, striking down elephants like an elephant itself might strike down standing weeds. From his vantage point several hundred yards above ground the city of Mathura was a tiny island surrounded by its army then the great empty ditch, and beyond the ditch was the ocean of Jarasandha’s vast army. Millions upon millions of cavalry, foot-soldiers, chariot and elephants extended for yojanas in every direction, covering the earth like nothing less than a great sea of violence waiting to be unleashed. In comparison with this great force, what were two men—young boys at that, merely fifteen years of age apiece?

  And yet, each time Balarama leaped and spun in the air, leaping from elephant to elephant as he wreaked destruction, dozens of elephants died. As for their mahouts, they died with such ease and frequency that it was startling to view on such a scale. Daruka felt relieved at such moments that he was a charioteer and not a mahout, though of course he had no doubt that mahouts probably felt the same way when watching chariots smash against each other or flung topsy turvy when they hit obstacles or broke a wheel when racing at full speed in battle.

  The chariot which Daruka stood in, Krishna’s own chariot, had come equipped with a host of celestial weapons. Among them was the bow Saranga which Krishna had already used once to unleash the Sudarshan weapon. There was also a conch shell which was presumably to be used to announce the start and end of battle each day and numerous other weapons, some of which even Daruka, familiar though he was to the devices of combat, could not identify.

  Now, as he held the horseless chariot and its partner chariot just behind it at a steady hovering height above the battlefield, he saw the weapons disappear from the well of the chariot. They glittered and shone with blinding brightness, then vanished—and reappeared below on the ground, in Krishna’s hands. Even through the dust and chaos of the elephant charge, the weapons were unmistakable, their celestial glamor visible like miniature suns.

  Daruka exclaimed and peered down. The charging brigade of elephants had overwhelmed the brothers, engulfing them in a river of grey-black hastipaka rippling along. The flanks of the frontlines of the charge had bypassed the brothers, overshot them by a hundred yards or so before their mahouts could turn them around and coax them back into the fray. This meant that the river was turning into a swirling whirlpool of elephants with the two brothers at the epicenter. Balarama was leaping and dancing and spinning so rapidly, he was never in one spot for long. Krishna on the other hand, was still standing where he had been before the elephants charged. How was he still able to withstand such an onslaught? Why had he not yet been crushed to fluid pulp?

  The answer lay in what Daruka now saw, visible clearly from his unique vantage point.

  Krishna had transformed into his true form.

  At a glance, it might seem that only the young dark-skinned foster son of Yashoda and Nanda stood there, aged fifteen and ripe in his youth and mischievous beauty.

  But to Daruka’s devoted gaze, the being that stood on that field was no mere boy.

  He was the four-armed supreme One himself. Black as a monsoon cloud. Clad in yellow silk anga-vastra and dhoti. Eyes as pink as lotus petals. Lips as red as roses. Four arms longer than any mortal’s could be. Throat as intricately formed and detailed as a conch shell with its overlapping layers. His torso and abdomen gleaming with layers of taut muscles, offset by wide hips and strong loins over powerful thighs and trunk-like legs. His limbs were adorned with precious bracelets and earrings, necklaces, sacred thread and belt, topped off by a crown on his scalp. On his chest was the sacred Kaustabha tuft within which was embedded the Kaustabha jewel, surrounded by a garland of wild forest flowers.

  This was the Krishna that Akrura had seen in the river Yamuna when taking the brothers to Mathura.

  It was visible only to those fortunate ones who believed implicitly in the divinity of the lord’s amsa and knew the true nature of the son of Vasudeva and Devaki and his purpose here on earth in this lifetime.

  Daruka knew this and recognized how blessed he was to be given view of such a sight. He bowed and clasped his hands together to show devotion to his lord then watched as Krishna unleashed the power of his divine self.

  ***

  Magnificent as Balarama’s fighting was, and terrible as his toll of death mounted up steadily, it was nothing compared to what Krishna was about to bring down on Jarasandha’s army.

  Using all four hands, the Lord of Vaikunta released four separate weapons at once:

  The Saranga bow occupied only one hand because the bow was capable of launching missiles without needing to be pulled. The missile it launched was a thing that could hardly be called an arrow for it more closely resembled a wave of fire.

  The chakra named Sudarshana spun off the finger of another hand, racing to do its given task.

  A conch shell sat in a third hand, held to Krishna’s blood-red lips as he prepared to blow it.

  A lotus flower was in the fourth hand and at a flick of his finger, it too went flying through the air into the dust of the elephant charge.

  Then Krishna blew his conch.

  Despite what Daruka had assumed, it was not simply for announcing the start and end of battle. The conch also served another more sinister purpose.

  17

  Jarasandha watched in disbelief as Krishna blew his conch. From his raised platform, some ten yards high, he could not see as well as Daruka could see from the chariot hovering above, but he still had a view of Krishna amid the raging river of elephants. Balarama continued to dance and spin and smash his mace with devastating efficiency, killing hundreds of elephants and breaking the back of the attack. But Krishna had only stood still for the first several moments of the charge, apparently doing nothing and Jarasandha knew that he could not simply remain standing thus for long. The question was, how did Krishna intend to fight—he needed to see and know that in order to launch his counter-attack. He had any number of options available: over five million in fact. But he could not simply throw his armies at the enemy without knowing their capability and strategy.

  Now, his question was answered.

  The figure of Krishna appeared to blur in Jarasandha’s view. He squinted and rubbed his eyes and tilted his head this way and that, trying to see more clearly. At first he assumed it was the dust raised by the charging elephants but even when the dust cleared in brief moments, he could still not view Krishna himself clearly. Only a moment earlier he had been able to make out that handsome dark face, creased in what appeared to be a dark scowl. Jarasandha had smiled to see that scowl for it meant that Krishna was either concerned or angry; either was to be desired in an enemy. It was only when an enemy displayed utter calm that he had reason to be worried.

  The blur that was Krishna appeared to be doing something. He appeared to be moving both arms—except that he seemed to have four arms, not two. Jarasandha scowled and cursed, wishing he could see better. Then he saw the gleam of polished metal and was alert again. Krishna was about to unleash some manner of weapon. He frowned when he caught the glint of gold off the weapons in the enemy’s hands. That could only mean gold or brass. Neither were fit materials to be used in the making of weaponry; th
ey were much too soft. Why would Krishna bother with such devices? Unless they were show-piece weapons as some kings used, merely to play the part of waging war while their soldiers did the actual fighting. Arrows that could barely pierce a breast-bone or cut flesh, javelins that were so light they bounced off a man’s skull like a reed stick.

  Surely Krishna could not be using such items?

  Then again, perhaps Jarasandha had over-estimated him after all. Maybe Krishna was a better lover and fighter, as the rumors went. And Balarama was the real fighter. Maybe his energies were spent and all he intended to do now was put up a show for the watching Mathuran army to boost their morale.

  If that was the case, then he would die on this field today.

  Jarasandha grinned and was about to issue an order to his aides when suddenly everything changed.

  Across the field, he saw the gleam of gold flash across the brigade of charging elephants. Krishna had unleashed his weapons, showpieces or not.