KRISHNA CORIOLIS#5: Rage of Jarasandha

by Ashok K. Banker

  “Sometimes,” Krishna said, “people come to us at certain times and play a certain role, like actors in a play, before retiring out of view. Sometimes, we go to others and play our roles and then come away once our part is done.”

  Balarama shook his head. “I have no idea what that means. Or what in Naraka and Patala it has to do with your charioteer being good at his job!”

  Krishna smiled. “I meant only that someday I hope to be as good a charioteer to someone else as Daruka was to me today.”

  Balarama looked at him, both eyebrows raised. “Now that is totally without sense. Why in seven heavens should you become someone else’s charioteer? Really, bhraatr, you will say anything just to change the topic, won’t you?”

  Krishna laughed. “I wasn’t changing the topic.”

  Balarama waggled his eyebrows. “So you admit you were thinking of her?”

  “I was.”

  “And wishing she were here to see your triumph.”

  “Not to see the triumph. I was wishing she were here to share this moment with me, to join in the satisfaction and joy I feel at this time.”

  Balarama kept one eyebrow cocked and dropped the other. “And to help you celebrate through the night…?” He reached over and clapped a hand on Krishna’s shoulder, chortling, the celestial chariots almost touching. “No, don’t answer that. I was jesting, bhraatr.” The celestial chariot made a sound of protest and lurched away from its sibling to a safer distance. His face turned serious. “I’ll admit I miss them too. Nanda-Maharaja, Yashoda-Maa, Rohini-Maa…all of them. I miss Gokul-dham.”

  “I miss Vrindavan-nagri,” Krishna said wistfully, as he continued to wave and flash sincere but intermittent smiles at the cheering crowds on either side as the chariots made their way uphill to the royal enclave. “I miss it all. I wish we never had to leave.”

  “But we did. And here we are now.”

  “Yes,” Krishna said, looking up at the looming facade of Mathura’s castle and palace complex. “And this is home now for us. Forever. We just destroyed an army to protect it.”

  Balarama nodded soberly, his heavy head dipping. “Including countless innocent animals that were enslaved and forced to serve our enemies.”

  Krishna patted his large shoulder now, as they approached the gates of the palace and the cheering of the crowds fell back below and behind them. “But serve our enemies they did. Do not forget that. It was impossible to kill the Magadhan forces without killing their horses and elephants and camels and dogs as well. We did what we had to do in the service of dharma.”

  Balarama nodded sadly. “There are times when dharma is harder to serve.”

  “It is always hard to serve, bhraatr. That is why it is dharma.”

  The celestial chariots glided through the open gates and into the palace enclave. They were home.

  2

  After the champions had been welcomed warmly home by their parents, grandfather and the ministers of the court, a closed session was held to discuss the aftermath of the battle.

  The aged prime minister spoke first: “The spoils of war are rich. The weapons and armor recovered from the fallen are themselves enough to equip and arm our forces for a war campaign. Most weapons were never even deployed in the conflict. And there were many treasures as well. All the champions wore their precious ornaments to battle. There is a kingdom’s ransom in wealth being collected from the battlefield as we speak—nay, an empire’s ransom!” Pralamba shook his head in wonderment. “How the mighty fell today. Never before in all my years have I witnessed such a turning of the plough such that he who came to reap was himself harvested and sown!”

  Everyone acknowledged and shared in Pralamba’s wonderment and delight.

  “Grandfather,” Krishna said respectfully, “may I speak?”

  Ugrasena’s lined face cracked in a wide smile. “Grandson, you may speak when you wish. You do not need permission. This is your kingdom to command and you know it is so.”

  Krishna bowed his head in acknowledgement of his grandfather’s generosity. “I propose that the spoils of war be distributed amongst the poorest people of the state. Under Kamsa’s regime, the rich and venal were encouraged to grow richer through exploitation of the poor and helpless, while those who possessed no capital or possessions were deprived of even the opportunity to acquire any. A small minority possesses the majority of wealth. This is neither just nor lawful. I propose therefore that the riches garnered today from the battlefield be distributed amongst the impoverished and the poor, regardless of varna, caste or social standing.”

  Everyone looked at each other, thinking through the implications of this suggestion. “My son,” Vasudeva said slowly, “you realize that even the contract for garnering the spoils of war is given to the vaisya community, who are among the richest now thanks to Kamsa’s abuse of the brahmins and other castes? They will not be happy if we do such a thing…and yet,” Vasudeva went on, smiling, “I agree completely with my son, it is time the assets of the nation were shared by all. Any nation in which some profit while others starve is a nation of adharma. I second Krishna’s motion.”

  “And I accept it in totality. It shall be exactly as Krishna wishes,” Ugrasena said in his cracked but decisive tone. “Pralamba, see to it.”

  Pralamba’s brow was furrowed. “That will mean that the very sudras who are combing the battlefield and collecting the ornaments and armor in uks carts will receive the same items? Their vaisya masters will not be pleased!”

  “We are not here to please those who are already content,” Krishna said. “We are here to help those who need our help.” His tone softened. “If we can do so without causing discomfort to those already content, where is the harm? The vaisya have grown rich under Kamsa’s ill-balanced regime, they do not want for anything. The sudra have been abused and misused since the passing of the age of Sudas and the Trtsu. It is about time they received some reward for their millennia of service.”

  “I think what good Pralamba means, my son,” Devaki said, “is that once we enrich the sudras, they will no longer wish to serve the vaisya. That will make it impossible for the vaisya to continue earning. Their entire livelihood depends on using the labor of the lower castes and in their shrewd trading.”

  Krishna cocked his head. “So you mean that the vaisya basically earn from the sweat and toil of other poorer beings? What is shrewd about such trade? It is exploitation, plain and simple. They might as well enslave them and force them to serve their purposes.”

  “Like chained animals, or beasts of burden,” Balarama said, drinking fruit nectar thirstily. He put down the goblet and wiped his mouth. “Income earned by the labor of others should belong equally to those who toil. Unless it is shared equally, it is exploitation and nothing less than slavery.”

  Pralamba stared at both brothers. “Do you mean to say we should repossess the wealth of those who have profited by employing others? In that case, we would have to give away our own wealth as well. For the royal household survives on the labor and taxes of the nation.”

  Krishna nodded. “And that is why the royal household does what it must to protect the nation in times of need, as it has done today. No, I believe we earn the right to rule through the franchise of the people and their desire to have us govern. But you are right, good Prime Minister. We have no justification for taking away a portion of their wealth when we already earn through taxation and lagaans. Give away the royal portion of the spoils as well to the poor and needy.”

  Pralamba sat back. Even Ugrasena and Padmavati were speechless. Vasudeva was the only one who smiled and exchanged a knowing look with his wife Devaki. She smiled a beatific smile such as only a mother could smile at her son’s exploits.

  “Bravo, son,” Vasudeva said. “You have done in one day what no other king of Mathura has ever been able to do until now.” He turned suddenly to Ugrasena. “I mean no offense to you, my old friend.”

  “Nonsense,” Ugrasena said, leaning forward. His eyes we
re wet with moisture. “When one speaks the truth there is no need to apologize for its veracity. You spoke truly. No king of Mathura has been so selfless in all our history, and I include myself in that long list. Krishna, you have proven today that you are not merely a great warrior on the battlefield, you are a true king of Mathura as well. A king who upholds dharma and serves the people justly.”

  “I am no king, grandfather,” Krishna said with surprising shyness, “I merely have the best interests of the people at heart.”

  Ugrasena chuckled, and then had to struggle not to let the chuckle turn into a coughing fit. “That itself makes you unique among kings! Pralamba, it shall be exactly as Krishna says. See to it.”

  Pralamba rose to his feet in dismay. “My liege, the king’s portion of the spoils is what we use to pay our army! Who will fight for us tomorrow if we give away all their reward to the poor and needy? Never mind the vaisya merchants, even the kshatriya will rise up in protest if we give away their just share.”

  Padmavati gave her husband a sip of water to ease his throat then said quietly, “The king has considered all these factors. He believes, as do I, that the army will understand and respect Krishna’s wishes in this matter. After all, Krishna did the work of the entire army! Not one soldier needed to raise a sword or spear all day in battle. The entire battle and victory were all Krishna’s doing. Therefore it is Krishna who deserves the army’s share of the spoils as well as the royal share. And if he chooses to give it away to such a good cause, nobody will object.”

  Pralamba considered this for a moment, then sat down slowly, his face looking less troubled. “What you say is true, my queen. Indeed…you are right! This may actually win Krishna more admirers than before.”

  “Now that,” Balarama said, raising one eyebrow, “is impossible. There is nobody left who does not admire Krishna as much as humanly possible already!”

  3

  Jarasanhda grimaced as he saw the bannermen standing outside his tent, their krta-dhvaja proclaiming the sigils of the individual kings they represented. All his hand-picked proteges and allies were represented, he noted. Of course, he had summoned them himself for the usual victory feast following the battle. He sensed the curious glances and odd looks from the bannermen as well as the skeletal retinue he had left behind at the camp, mostly older men or young boys and women whose main tasks were housekeeping and cooking. He tried to count the banners but lost count after ten or twelve. In any case, they were all here. They would be, for it was not everyday that one got to gloat over the failure of one’s mentor, especially when that mentor had ridden them so hard over the years, berating them for every tiny error of judgement or ill fortune. All men cheer when you win a war. The same men cheer even louder when you lose.

  There were no serving girls waiting to wash his feet or garland him with his favorite fragrant blossoms. No Hijras waiting to unbuckle his armor or take his weapons for polishing and cleaning. He pushed aside the flap of the tent and entered into a room full of chattering kings. The chatter ceased the minute he entered and two dozen heads turned to stare at him with intense interest, even glee. He noted that Akriti was there, and Kirata, Pundra, Arista, Paundraka, Bhishmaka, Purujit, Dvivida, Dhenuka, Kesi, Putana, Karusha, Meghavahana, Bhama, Vanga, Karava, Dantavakara, Bhagadatta, and Purujit…they were all here, except for those who had fallen over the years, either lost to various battles or ailments—or, in the cases of a few, to the Slayer. For they were all asura in human guise, as was he. The last asuras left upon the mortal realm.

  “I trust you have been well taken care of?” he asked laconically, unbuckling his own armor. He tossed pieces randomly across the tent, not caring where they fell or what they knocked over. His serving girls and boys seemed curiously absent—then again, perhaps not so curious. After all, they had all been slaves, and how was he expected to command and control slaves without an army—or even a personal bodyguard, for that matter? He supposed they had all departed for greener pastures the instant news reached of his defeat. Well, they were more honest than this bunch of back-stabbers. What did they expect of him now, this lot? To grovel and beg? He would not give them the pleasure.

  “We did not come here to feast, Jara,” said Putana, who shared a name but nothing else with the venom-breasted Maatr he had despatched to aid Kamsa in that first attempt to assassinate the Deliverer. “We know that you suffered grievous defeat on the field of Mathura today.”

  Jarasandha tossed a breastplate in the general direction of a porcelain vase he had raided a kingdom and slaughtered an entire dynasty to acquire. It had seemed so desirable at the time. Now, it shattered to shards and was nothing more than mud reshaped and glazed. “And corpses always bring vultures. Did you come to ask for spoils? You already know I have none to offer.”

  The others looked at each other. Several shook their heads in commiseration. That look—of sympathy rather than gloating—angered Jarasandha more than mere arrogance would have. He tossed a metal-spike-encased glove at a carving that dated back to the age before the Vedas were composed, to the time of Vaivasvata Manu and perhaps even beyond. It fell but surprisingly did not break. He tossed the second glove after it and was pleased to see a chip fly from its center, ruining the hand-painted icon that adorned that section.

  “We are not here to gloat, Jara,” said another voice. It was either Kirta or Dantavakara, he didn’t care to turn his head to see whom. “We know that Mathura did not fall therefore there are no spoils to share. We expect nothing from you.”

  Another voice added hastily, “Nor are we offering you anything.”

  This last part was added just in time because Jarasandha had been about to turn around and unleash his tongue—in both senses of the phrase—on them for daring to pity him. He frowned as he removed his boots and sat holding one boot in his hand. “I would accept nothing, of course. I do not need your charity.”

  “Nor would we give it,” said another voice firmly. It was Paundraka. “We have too much respect for you to offer you aid or commiseration, Jara.”

  He frowned, dropping the boot and pulling off the other one. “Then why are you here?”

  “To tell you that you lost this battle because of your karma.”

  He stood up holding the second boot. “What?”

  They exchanged hesitant glances. Another voice said this time, “It was your karma that led to your defeat. You have fought too long and won too many battles already. It was only a matter of time before your past deeds caught up with you. Over so many lifetimes in so many ages you have waged war and inflicted violence upon so many innocents, it was only a question of where and when you would eventually suffer defeat. Today was that day and Mathura was the place where your karma caught up with you.”

  Jarasandha looked at their sombre faces. “You are all serious? You really believe this nonsense?”

  Kesi nodded. “Accept it, old friend. You had a good run. Now your time is past. Go back to Magadha, live out the rest of your life in self-contemplation. You are the son of Brihadratha, you will not have any difficulty living in comfort the rest of your days.”

  Jarasandha grinned. “And I should forget about the empire I built over the past two decades? Forget how I gave each and every one of you more territory to rule over than you would have acquired on your own in ten lifetimes apiece? Forget all the wealth and power and control I worked for all these years? Just because of one battle lost?”

  Someone clicked his tongue. It was Purujit. “It was no mere defeat, Jara. Your entire army was wiped out. Every last fighting man. Even the animals were not spared!”

  “You have no weapons, no animals, no men…nothing.”

  “Not even your dignity. By letting you leave the battlefield alive, Krishna took even that away from you. No kshatriya will respect and follow you ever again.”

  “Your time is over. Retire.”

  “Retire.”

  “Return to Magadha.”

  “Live out the last of your days in your home.” />
  “Forget about empires and ruling the world.”

  Jarasandha laughed. The sound was shocking in the confines of the quiet tent. It shut them all up more effectively than any protests of arguments or rants of rage.

  4

  Jarasanhda did not laugh out loud in typically villainous fashion. He was not Kamsa. Even in this moment of utter desolation, he still retained his famous dignity and gentlemanly composure. He merely chuckled. Yet so unexpected was that action that it filled the quiet tent, silencing every last one of the kings present. He threw the second boot on the ground and grinned up at them.

  “You fools. You simple-brained dolts. You idiots without a grain of sense in all your collective skulls.”

  They looked at him. Some looked shocked. Others, resigned and accustomed to Jarasandha’s arrogance. Most seemed mildly curious in the manner of men who were viewing a person on the verge of a complete breakdown, prepared for any form of behavior or outburst.