KRISHNA CORIOLIS#5: Rage of Jarasandha

by Ashok K. Banker

  Jarasandha shook his head. “You still do not understand, do you? How could you? That’s why you’re merely kings and I am emperor. Emperor of Magadha, lord of the known world. Never forget that.”

  They tried to be gentle. “Jara, you achieved more than any ruler in the history of the world. Why, if there were lands and territories worth claiming beyond the Kush ranges you would surely have conquered them as well. You were master of the civilized world. Nobody disputes that. But no ruler can reign forever. That is a fact of life. Your reign is ended. Live out your days peaceably. None of us will ever make a move against you.”

  “Of course you won’t,” Jara said. “A toothless predator is to be pitied, not killed. That is how you can feel magnanimous and show the world what loyal friends and allies you were to the end!”

  They did not respond to that allegation, not even to dispute or deny it. The implication was obvious: they did not dispute it at all.

  “But you are all wrong in your assumption. My time isn’t over. It has only just reached its apogee. I am at the peak of my achievement. I am close to being God Incarnate upon the mortal realm. Soon, nobody will stand in my way. I will rule forever. Eternally.”

  They exchanged uneasy glances now. This was the talk of a madman, not a king on the eve of a bitter defeat. Perhaps Jarasandha had gone completely over the edge, losing all touch with reality.

  He grinned at their expressions. “Of course you don’t know what I’m talking about. How could you? You’re merely pawns in the great game of which I am master and commander. You are only permitted to know what you need to know. Nothing more or less. Therefore all you see is Jarasandha, Emperor of Magadha, defeated yet spared by Krishna-Balarama, his vast armies reduced to corpse-flesh, food for vultures and crows and maggots. You see only the apparent reality of the day, not the greater picture that transcends it.”

  They shook their heads sadly. “Nothing transcends death, Jara.You armies are dead on that field. You can never raise a force that great even in a hundred years. Nobody will ever follow you into battle again. Your very survival is an affront to kshatriya dharma.”

  Jarasandha chuckled. “That is where you are wrong. There is a force that transcends death. You all know of it. Can any one of you name it?”

  They looked at each other now, their eyes speaking the message they did not wish to speak aloud. He’s lost it, he’s gone insane, he’s talking utter dribble.

  “Time, you fools. Kaal! The only force in the universe that is greater than death itself. Kaal controls the Wheel of Creation, the Becoming and Unbecoming. The cycle of birth and death, rebirth and moksha…everything turns according to the Wheel of Time. Turn back the Wheel and you defeat Death itself. Don’t you see? That’s all it takes!”

  They began to shuffle towards the exit, making noises of commiseration, pretending to have business elsewhere.

  “Go then,” he said disdainfully. “Leave me. I will remember that you did not even have the gumption to stay and hear me out afterwards. I will remember it when I return.”

  “Return from where?” one asked curiously as he was about to leave. “From Magadha?”

  Jarasandha laughed. “No, you fool. Haven’t you heard anything I said? When I return from Mathura, as lord of the Yadava nation, bearing the spoils of war.”

  This made the last of the kings even more eager to leave. Jarasandha chuckled as he watched them sidle out, avoiding meeting his eyes as they bade him goodbye, most of them assuming it would be the last they ever saw of him.

  In another moment, the tent was empty except for Jarasandha himself. He sat for a while as the shadows grew longer and dusk fell. The battle had ended in mid-afternoon. Less than a day to wipe out 23 akshohini. Those Yadava brothers were quite impressive, he had to admit. He replayed the day’s events in his mind several times, going over tactics and strategy, remembering their counter-moves, the celestial chariots, the weapons they deployed, their unique skills and powers. Was that all they were capable of? No, there would be more. Perhaps even infinite ways to destroy his forces. What did it matter? In the end, Mathura would be his, that was all that counted.

  Finally, as the crickets began to crick noisily around the tent, he rose and prepared the potion he would require for the task at hand. It had to be mixed in a precise balance to ensure the perfect result. He sipped it delicately, feeling the exotic flavor on his twin palettes. Few people knew that he possessed two palettes, one above the other, lending him the ability to distinguish between a far wider variety of tastes than any mortal being. This particular potion tasted quite palatable, so to speak. If it wasn’t so specific in its effect, he might have enjoyed quaffing it on a regular basis. But of course, that would not be possible. It could only be consumed to serve a single purpose.

  He waited for the potion to take effect. It was hours past nightfall when the effect finally took over. He sensed a blurring of the tent around him, the broken artifacts and treasures, the silk cushions and drapes…and he smelled a peculiar odor, like nothing he could identify…as the air before him shimmered and warped and distorted like a reflection viewed in a warped sheet of polished metal…

  And then with a quickening of his pulse and a sudden falling sensation, the Vortal opened below him, in the ground, like a doorway sunk in the carpeting of the tent. Garish red light streamed upwards from the opening, swirling and twisting like smoke.

  He stepped to the edge and looked down…then dropped down into the abyss.

  5

  RADHA was the first to see him arrive in Vraj. She was sitting disconsolate upon the fork of a tree, singing rasa songs in a sad tone that altered the very meaning and intent of the lyrics.

  When spring comes and blossoms bloom

  You arrive and color me alive

  Breathless wind sighing in the grove

  Singing songs of hope and love

  Why bring me fruits I cannot taste?

  She sat this way and sang her heart out every day and had done so since returning from Mathura. She had known when she left the city that Krishna would have great demands and responsibilities clamoring for his attention. She gathered all news of him from every possible source as diligently as an orchard-picker picking the last ripe fruit before the monsoons began.

  She had heard of his going to Guru Sandipan for instruction in the sacred texts and she had heard of his amazing graduation from the guru’s kul in a mere matter of weeks rather than years. She had heard of his displays of erudition and wisdom in decisions of state, especially during the difficult time of consolidation and rebuilding after the prolonged damage of Kamsa’s long and brutal regime. She had heard of his training of the army of Mathura and demonstrations of skill and mastery. And she had heard, of course, of the way all the ladies of the court—mothers as well as daughters—preened and primped for his viewing pleasure, every eligible (and several ineligible ones) desperately hoping to attract his fancy and snare the choicest husband in the nation, perhaps in the whole wide world.

  It was only the events of the past day or two that eluded her for no visitor had come through from the direction of the city. There had been that yogi passing through last afternoon, but he had only been absorbed in his pilgrimage and had not even entered Mathura or crossed the Yamuna. Although he had hinted at the scent of some violence in the air he had nothing more substantial to justify that odd suspicion. It only made her worry. Was Mathura in trouble—again? Or was it another attack on Krishna? Either option was cause for anxiety. For she understood that Krishna’s loyalties had expanded to include the entire Yadava nation now, not just the Vrishni, and since the seat of the nation was Mathura, his first responsibility was to protect the city-state. And if an asura arose who was even as powerful as Kaliya, who was to say what might transpire?

  She had abandoned her work completely. She no longer even made a pretense of going to the fields or doing her chores. Even her father, over-burdened dear man that he was, seemed to understand. “We must give her time,” he said. �
��We all feel the loss of Govinda so deeply, as his childhood friend it must be painful to her. Our Radha has always been the sensitive one.” He explained this patiently to her mother who was less understanding less patient and Radha was grateful to him for it. But she would have done as she pleased in any case.

  She could not work and continue as before without her Gopala. Even the sight and sound of the rest of her people going about their daily chores as if nothing had changed sickened her. Did they not miss their Kanha? He who was also Damodara, and around whose udara Yashoda had once tied a dara to prevent him from running away to do mischief? He who was also Giridhari for lifting the entire hill to protect them? He who was Madhava himself, bringer of spring. Shyamsundara, the beautiful dark one. Ghanshyam, he with the complexion of a monsoon cloud. Kaladeva, her black deity. Janardana to the Vrishni, for all they possessed was at his behest.

  Even Nanda and Yashoda did their chores, seeming only slightly muted and less vociferous but otherwise normal: did they not miss their Yashoda Nandan? She knew the cows and calves missed him deeply. The mother cows had not given milk for two days after returning from Mathura and she knew that it was only the survival of their calves that prompted them to start yielding again on the third day. And his friends and accomplices in mischief, how could they go about their lives as before without their Van Ke Vihari—or Baake Bihari as some corrupted the term—He Who Loved To Sport in the Forest.

  For that matter, how did the forest itself continue sprouting new shoots and growing new leaves and roots and flowers and trees without their favorite friend? How did the birds and insects and animals live their lives so nonchalantly with Vrajesh, Lord of Vraj, absent? At least the other gopis moped for him but not the way she did: they went about their tasks as before, they even flirted and romanced the gopas as before. The only difference was that they took less care with their appearance now, as if only Krishna deserved to see them look their best. They no longer dressed their tresses as carefully or enticingly as before: none of the girls oiled her hair or put fresh blossoms in it each day as they had done when Keshava was here, he who himself sported such long lustrous tresses.

  The impoverished and outcastes missed them. At least they took the name of their lord often in her presence, calling him Dinanath and Dinabandhu and other such titles, friend and refuge of the destitute and afflicted. But then they went about begging and scrounged for scraps as before! How could they? She could barely put food in her mouth or keep nourishment in her belly without him present. The brahmins named him Patitapavana, purifier of the fallen, which was their way of saying they missed him, she supposed, though it was too remote to satisfy her. Some, like Gargamuni, spoke of him reverentially as Parambrahman but that was even more remote and elevated. Sometimes, respecting someone that greatly only removed the person from your emotions; to her, Krishna was close enough to touch, to hold, to smell, to kiss…Not a supreme brahmin but her Madhava.

  When she looked at her reflection in still waters, she thought of her Achala, the still one. When she looked at a clear sky she thought of her Avyukta, crystal clear of mind and thought. When she dropped something—as she did quite often these days—around the house, she thought of her Achyuta, the infallible. Everything reminded her of him. Even her own face reminded her of him, for what was Radha without Krishna? There was only one name she could not call him yet but longed to. The last name left. The only one she desired.

  Radha Vallabh.

  Lover of Radha.

  When would he live up to that name?

  That was what she longed to know.

  She was sitting and musing thus as she did each day when she saw the chariot approaching. She always sat facing in this direction for that was the way to Mathura. Most visitors or traders came the other way, from Vraj itself. If someone was coming from the Mathura direction that could only mean he was a pardesi, a foreigner. And if he came by chariot he had to be a royal or on royal business. And there was only one reason a royal chariot would visit remote Gokul-dham: to bring home her most prodigal son.

  She watched with bated breath and unblinking eyes as the chariot drew close enough for her to spy the occupant. There was a charioteer, she saw, and behind him a man in rich attire. That meant someone important. Her heart leaped as she recognized the familiar yellow anga-vastra that her beloved favored. It was his favorite color. And the dhoti? Yes! It had to be. It must be. Therefore it was…

  “KRISHNA!” she cried and leaped from the tree, racing to meet the approaching chariot.

  6

  “KRISHNA!”

  The young gopi ran in front of the chariot, crossing the path of the horse team with breathtaking abandon. The sarathi had seen her coming but had not slowed the pace as Gokuldham was still a few miles ahead. Luckily, the horses were well-trained and caring of human life, and the charioteer doubly so. He was able to rein them in and bring them to a halt without running over the careless girl.

  Uddhava was about to berate the gopi for her reckless behavior when she came running up to the well of the chariot, beaming a smile so radiant he had not the heart to dispel it. She turned the beauty of that smile up to him and he felt his heart melt at once. Then she saw his face and blinked. She blinked again, reacting. And clasped her hand to her heart. And the smile faded to reveal a still-beautiful face grown thin from moping and waiting.

  “You are not my Hari!” she said, as if addressing a deviant. “Why do you dress in his clothes? And ride his chariot? Who are you, imposter!”

  Uddhava chuckled. “I am his friend and emissary. These are indeed his clothes and his chariot, given to me by Krishna himself, our lord of Mathura. And you must be Radha.”

  She backed away, startled. “How do you know my name?”

  He joined his palms together in respectful greeting. “I know everything about you. He has told me all.”

  Her hand moved to her mouth, covering a gasp. “Everything?”

  He chuckled again. “Please do not fret. He has sent me to ask after you and bring you news of himself. I am not Krishna in person. But I am the next best thing. He has authorized me to speak on his behalf in every respect.”

  A guarded look came into her eyes. “Why? Is he not returning to Vraj again?”

  Uddhava sighed. “The most difficult question of all. I had hoped to rest and repair myself after the long journey before answering so many questions. Perhaps if you would care to board my chariot, we could ride the rest of the way to Gokuldham swiftly? My sarathi tells me it is not far.”

  She shook her head slowly. “Not far.” She looked pale, as if she had experienced a great shock. He realized that she must not be eating much or taking care of her health, for the little exertion and excitement had already weakened her visibly.

  “Please,” he said, “climb aboard the chariot. You may sit in the well. I do it too, on long journeys. It is not very comfortable if the road is bumpy, but it takes the weight off one’s feet.”

  She sat in the well. And Uddhava indicated to his sarathi that they could proceed. As the chariot trundled off at a more genial pace, he smiled invitingly at Radha. After a moment, she seemed to recover considerably. He revised his first impression: she was not weak or wan, it was only the shock of the huge disappointment of expecting Krishna and finding him instead that had turned her color white.

  “You were expecting him,” he said at last, speaking a little louder to be heard over the sound of the chariot wheels.

  She did not answer but looked down bashfully. He smiled again to himself. Mathuran girls would not have looked down, they would have stared back, boldly defiant.

  “I am sorry he could not come.”

  “Why?” she asked, with more vigor than he had expected. “Is he off fighting a war?”

  He winced. It was one of the questions he had hoped not to be asked, but having been asked he could hardly lie. “Actually, he is. The very day after I departed for Vrajbhoomi, Mathura was besieged by the armies of Magadha.”

  She sat
bolt upright. “Magadha? That means Jarasandha! He is the biggest demon in the mortal world! He commands armies the size of all creation! How will Krishna fight him?”

  Uddhava was taken aback by her energy and anxiety. “He can and he will. In fact, he has already fought him.”

  “And? Go on, tell me!” She was crouching on her knees now, as if about to pounce on him to get every last scrap of information.

  “And I am pleased to say that he won the battle. I received word from a rider who caught up with me only this morning as I was on this last leg of the journey. It seems Krishna and Balarama successfully repulsed the invaders and defeated Jarasandha.”

  She laughed and leaped up, clapping her hands with such manic glee, Uddhava thought she would fall off the chariot. Reaching out to brace her hand, the chariot hit a bump just then and it was he who almost fell off. Luckily for him, she reached out and caught his arm tightly. He was surprised by the strength of her grip. Clearly he had misjudged her condition. Then it came to him: Her strength comes from Krishna. As he grows in strength and achievement, so does she share in his victory.