KRISHNA CORIOLIS#5: Rage of Jarasandha

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by Ashok K. Banker


  He was profoundly moved. It was one thing to know that the gopis of Vraj doted on his Lord. But to see that devotion embodied in such a literal display was touching beyond words. Radha had transformed from the wan pallid figure running recklessly in front of his chariot into a vibrant beautiful robust cow-girl of the kind he had seen so often across the Yadava nations. The kind of woman who suited his lord Janardhan perfectly. Except for the fact that she is a cowherd.

  Then again, he reminded himself, So is our Lord!

  But it was easy to forget Krishna’s origins. Already, he was not just Lord of Mathura but Deliverer of the Yadava people and savior of the human race itself!

  Whereas this lovely creature will always remain just a cowgirl. No matter how much she dotes on our lord.

  His heart went out to her at that moment. And he fell a little in love with Radha himself. Or perhaps it was a lot. But he could not show his love. For he was here as Krishna’s ambassador.

  “Tell me everything,” she said, seating herself cross-legged in the well of the chariot as if she sat in royal chariots and gossiped every day of the week. “How did he do it? What powers did he use? He must have been magnificent to behold. Oh, how I wish I could have seen him on the battlefield. How I wish I could have fought beside him, shoulder to shoulder!”

  And a pretty shoulder it is at that, he thought. Then he laughed aloud, shaking his head at the folly of his own emotions. You simpleton, you, Uddhava. To fall in love with the one girl whom you can never possess nor even approach. For his own loyalty to Krishna would never permit him to ever express even a suggestion of impropriety to Radha. He respected and loved his lord too greatly to ever permit such a thing. Therefore, in the same moment that he had fallen for Radha, he had also sealed his own fate. Fool, perfect fool. He continued laughing to cover his inner thoughts.

  She frowned, her pretty forehead wrinkling. “What? What did I say?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing, Radhey. I was just thinking that Krishna described you perfectly. I did not believe him then and thought he must be exaggerating. But having met you, I see he did not exaggerate at all!”

  She colored slightly and glanced down. “You called me Radhey. Only he calls me that.”

  Uddhava smiled. “He asked me to call you by that name. To remind you of him.”

  Now it was her turn to laugh. “As if I need reminding! Everything reminds me of Krishna.” She waved dismissively. “But enough bantering. Tell me about him. Tell me everything. Leave nothing out, Uddhava, or I swear by my father’s herds, I’ll set all the bulls in Vraj after you!”

  He laughed at the though of him racing away across open fields with a horde of mad bulls chasing him with lowered horns and steaming nostrils. “I shall tell you all I know. That will have to do.”

  He kept his word.

  7

  Bana rose that morning with a smile on his face. The weeks since his retirement had been the best of his life. With Krishna’s permission he had retired from the Imperial Army and hung up his sword for good. He had seen far too much bloodshed and carnage under Kamsa to enjoy being a kshatriya anymore. Even if he considered it his dharma to remain a warrior and sought no enjoyment in the performance of his duties, he still could not dissolve the bitter aftertaste in his mouth. The taste had risen unbidden the moment the celebrations began in Mathura.

  No sooner had the dhol-drums begun pounding their merry rhythm across the city and the air filled with cheers and shouts of joy and whoops of relief, he began to remember his wife and children. The long trial had ended at last but the judgement was of no value to him personally. He might as well have still been incarcerated in the horror of Kamsa’s reign for all the good it did him to be free. True, he took great pride and pleasure in the minor role he had played in aiding the transition. But it was small reparation for all the terrible things he had done. Not just to strangers or to the people at large, or even to the soldiers under his command, but to his own loved ones.

  Krishna had personally and publicly issued a pardon for Bana and all those who had been forced to perform acts of cruelty and war crimes under Kamsa’s regime, and at his urging the surviving relatives of those who had suffered had publicly forgiven Bana and the others. But how does a man forgive himself? What ceremony absolves a human mind of its own burden of guilt? No amount of soma could drown that sorrow. He had killed his own beloved Chamundi and put a sword through the frail little bodies of his own beloved…he could not even say his children’s names now. The very thought of it made him sick to the core.

  He had spent days and nights following the reinstatement of Ugrasena in agony, wracked by constant pain that could not be relieved even by chewing the appropriate leaves or consuming the tar extract the vaid had recommended for the pain. ‘Old war injuries,’ was the cause he had named and they were indeed war injuries. But injuries done by himself to himself. For no violence is as terrible as the violence we do to our loved ones—and to ourselves. That is the worst crime of all.

  It had taken a great resolve and Krishna’s encouragement—he had actually visited Bana in his meagre quarters in the poorer section of the city, for when he had surrendered his commission he had given up his quarters and all the ill-gotten wealth he had accumulated while in Kamsa’s service. He lived now in a tiny shack, a hovel really, and earned a living carting hay and fodder to Mathura from outlying villages and back. It was a pittance of a living but he wanted the hardship and honest labor. It was the only way he could live at all. Kshatriya dharma was too deeply ingrained in his being for him to take his own life—and indeed, as Krishna himself had advised so wisely, why end a life when it could still serve a purpose? “It does not matter if your life seems useless to you,” Krishna had said in that fateful conversation that night after Bana had sobbed his heart out and confessed every last sin. “Because it can still be of use to others. Live for them if not for yourself. Live for the use that your body can be put to in the service of others. What cannot be undone can sometimes be repaired. Work and service are the best reparation.”

  And he was right. From the very first day, Bana had felt a hand upon his shoulder, guiding him gently but firmly. It was as if the more he worked, the better he felt. He was a long, long way from completely forgiving himself. That might take years or might never happen. But already he had begun feeling pride in the little ways in which he helped people. For one thing, he did not charge for his services. He ate where he could, whatever he could get, owned nothing, desired nothing. He lived only to work and to serve. And it felt wonderful.

  Today, he was in his cart as usual—a cart gifted to him by Krishna himself, along with two robust uksan who ate far more than he did but deserved every bale. He was on the road going north out of Mathura and on his way to a village some two yojanas away. The city was barely a few miles behind him. He had crossed the great new breach by using one of the new bridges built literally overnight by Krishna’s architect Tvasta. He had no idea how such magnificent bridges could have been built in a single night. Indeed, the rest of the city was probably still sleeping off the previous night’s celebrations. The jubilation over the defeat of Jarasandha’s armies had rivalled even the celebration on the night of Kamsa’s demise.

  Bana suspected that he might even be the only one out on this road at this early hour, literally the crack of dawn. But then, he had more to make up for and less to celebrate. And besides, he had given up consuming any form of intoxicant as well as the eating of flesh as part of his process of reparation. One could hardly atone for past violence by continuing to slaughter and eat living things just as one could not expect to become a better man if one drowned oneself in drink each night.

  He marveled at how swiftly the battlefield had been cleared too. He suspected that Krishna’s miraculous hand had played a major part in that as well. He had seen the aftermath of war often enough to be sickeningly familiar with its most intimate details. For weeks after a battle, the carrion birds and rodents feasted and lived in vast num
bers on the field, to the point where it was actually dangerous to approach a corpse. If the vultures didn’t attack you, the land predators certainly would. And if you waited till both had left the rotting remains alone at last, the rodents were as lethal in their own diseased way. He had seen battlefields left with corpses rotting because there were not enough able-bodied and willing men to pile them and light pyres.

  But this land looked as if a battle had never taken place. The trees, the bushes, the shrubbery, even the flower fields looked much the same as they had the day before. There were no carrion birds circling in the sky, no long-jawed shapes slinking around in packs, no stench of mortal decay…why, even the ground seemed unmarked. Only the ditch remained, and the new bridges of course. Had they not been there, Bana might have doubted his own wits. Yet their presence and the memories of the battle he had watched the previous day, the way he had helped pull the wounded to safety when the arrows fell into the city, the hours he had spent nursing the hurt and caring for them, fetching water and provisions and vaids…yes, of course there had been a battle here only yesterday. Yet somehow Krishna had repaired the land overnight. How?

  Bana shrugged. If he could understand how, he would be Krishna, not Bana. He still had a day’s work ahead and wagonload of manure to deliver. He clicked his tongue, urging the still-sleepy uksan to go a little faster. Sometimes, they dozed while walking which made them difficult to control. He was reaching the top of a rise and had no desire to go down that steep slope with two addle-headed uksan—

  He reached the top and exclaimed.

  He stood up in the cart.

  He stared.

  The uksan began trundling over the top.

  Bana stopped them with a jerk to the ropes and began clicking his tongue, urging them to turn around. It took several moments for they were already accustomed to this route and could not understand why the foolish human wanted to go the wrong way all of a sudden. But he persisted and managed to get them to turn at last.

  All through, he could not take his eyes off the sight that lay beyond the rise. The incredible, unbelievable sight that dominated the view for yojanas in every direction, all the way to the horizon as far as the eye could see.

  It was an army. The greatest army he had ever seen. And it was coming towards Mathura.

  8

  KRISHNA and Balarama awoke to the sound of trumpets sounding the alarum. They came out of their respective bed chambers clad in only their dhotis, wrapping anga vastras hurriedly around their naked torsos and saw Pradhan Mantri Pralamba approaching them at a rapider pace than was usual for the aging prime minister.

  “My princes,” he said breathlessly. “At the cusp of the new era, we are faced by a crisis beyond belief. Jarasandha has brought an army to invade Mathura. It is already within sight of the city and will be here within the hour.” He caught his breath before continuing. “Our forces have been called to muster already and your father and grandfather and the rest of the Ministers Sabha have already assembled in the Sabha Hall. They await you. Come,” he said, turning to lead them up the corridor. “Let us speak as we walk.”

  Krishna and Balarama exchanged a glance as they followed the prime minister. “Jarasandha invades us again?” Krishna asked, genuinely shocked. ‘I don’t understand it. He was completely destroyed after the battle yesterday! He did not even have the nerve to crow or abuse us and make his usual threats.”

  Balarama shook his head, his left hand entangled in the length of fabric. “And which king would lend him an army to fight us again after yesterday’s battle?”

  “None,” Krishna said. “And even if they did, how could they arrive so swiftly? There must be some mistake.”

  Pralamba was looking to one and then the other with an expression of great puzzlement on his aging face. He slowed, bringing them to a halt as well. “What is this you speak of, young princes? What battle was there yesterday? I was not aware of any such battle. Did you meet with Jarasandha privately perhaps?”

  Krishna and Balarama exchanged a glance then looked at Pralamba. “Surely you recall the siege of Mathura and the great assault by Jarasandha?” Krishna asked. “It ended in our victory at day’s close but it was the greatest assault on Mathura’s sovereignty ever attempted in Yadava history!”

  Pralamba’s face retained its puzzled expression. “Are you speaking of yesterday? Yesterday was the most peaceful day we experienced in years. We met in Council and discussed issues of re-allotment of the properties and lands that the erstwhile King Kamsa had arbitrarily given to whomever he pleased over the years, including many Magadhan envoys installed as satraps in various of our provinces. It was a relatively quiet uneventful day.”

  Balarama kept struggling with his anga-vastra which had somehow got tangled behind his back. His powerful muscles made it difficult for him to turn or maneuver enough to get the errant end loose. Krishna slipped it over his shoulder and offered it to him—he nodded gratefully even as he said to Pralamba, “But surely you can’t have forgotten the invasion? The battle? The rain of arrows? Thousands were injured in Mathura City. And then our decimation of Jarasandha’s forces. And after that, we met in Council and decided to allot the spoils to the Sudras at Krishna’s request. How could you not recall all that?”

  Pralamba frowned, thinking, “I have no recollection of any of these events you speak of. The only event of any import I recall is the arrival of that charioteer, and Krishna appointing him as his own sarathi.”

  “Daruka,” Krishna said eagerly. “Then you do recall that when he arrived the day before , he brought us word of the army approaching Mathura, within just a few yojanas march? It was he who forewarned us a night before the invasion! If not for him we would have been caught completely unawares.”

  Pralamba looked at Krishna with some alarm. “Forgive me for questioning your word, my Lord, but the charioteer arrived yesterday, not the day before! We had no forewarning. If Bana had not seen the armies only a few miles outside of the city, we would not have even this hour’s notice.” He shook his head, bewildered. “I do not understand what you are saying. All I know is that we received word only moments ago that Jarasandha is approaching Mathura with a great invading force. Nothing less than 20 akshohini, perhaps as many as 22 or 23, based on the number of banners that former Senapati Bana counted himself.”

  Krishna and Balarama looked at each other. Balarama stopped struggling with his anga-vastra’s errant end. “23 akshohini,” Krishna said, stunned. “Are you thinking what I am thinking, bhai?”

  “Yes, bhraatr,” Balarama replied, looking equally harried. “He has not merely rallied a few new forces and returned, he has returned with the same great force.”

  “Pray, let us continue to the sabha hall,” Pralamba said as his aides came rushing up to urge them to hurry. “We can continue this discussion in chambers.”

  The palace was a beehive of activity, soldiers and courtiers rushing to and fro, which was unusual for this hour as well as for this time of peace. The three of them continued walking hurriedly and Krishna noted at least two palace sentries that he clearly recalled as having been killed the day before in the hail of arrows. He remembered them because he had seen their bodies lying outside the palace along with the rest of the palace casualties when they had returned yesterday evening. They appeared to be very much alive and well today as they rushed past on some urgent errand or other and he could not help but follow them with his gaze as they went by.

  His gaze met Balarama’s and he saw his brother had seen something or someone that was also out of place in similar fashion.

  “Something is not right, bhai,” Balarama said quietly to him as they approached the main convocation area of the palace. Courtiers were waiting in clusters and groups, muttering nervously. They all looked up and reacted with excitement as they saw Krishna and Balarama approach. Several started forward but were stalled when Pralamba raised his hand, informing them that the princes were on their way to War Council and could not stay to talk, howe
ver briefly. “It is as if yesterday were repeating itself all over again.”

  “Except that things are not occurring exactly the same way,” Krishna said, frowning. “Something is amiss, that is for sure. We must find out what, and quickly.”

  They entered the Sabha Hall.

  9

  UGRASENA looked wan and haggard. Yet the old king sat on the throne in an attitude that inspired pride, if not confidence. Pride in the spirit and resilience of the Yadava people, even in the face of such a crisis.

  “Good princes, we are pleased you could join us,” he said shakily. Then coughed briefly. Beside him, his wan but still relatively less haggard wife Padmavati offered him a sip of water before speaking on his behalf. “We were only awaiting your arrival, Princes Krishna and Balarama. Dear Vasudeva, pray continue.”

  “I thank thee, Rani Maatr Padmavati,” Vasudeva said. Krishna’s father and mother both looked wan and troubled, as did every other member of the Council assembled there that day. Krishna sought out Akrura and Uday then remembered that he himself had despatched them both on urgent errands—Akrura to Hastinapura to enquire after his sister Pritha’s well-being and Uday to carry news of him to the denizens of Gokuldham, his erstwhile adoptive home. He missed them sorely but their absence reassured him somewhat, making him think that perhaps old Pralamba’s memory was the only thing aiss here today.

 

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