KRISHNA CORIOLIS#5: Rage of Jarasandha

by Ashok K. Banker

  “It is a grave crisis that looms before us,” Vasudeva continued. His next words dashed Krishna’s hopes to pieces. “The Magadhan juggernaut is at our threshold, seeking to enslave Mathura and add the Yadava nations to his long butcher’s list of conquests. The craven attacks without warning or any gesture of conciliation, in complete violation of dharma. Not one word of forewarning or emissary to discuss terms of peace beforehand. This attack comes as a complete surprise.”

  So then it was as Pralamba had said—nobody appeared to have any recollection of the previous day’s events. Balarama shot Krishna a dark glance. Krishna pursed his lips.

  “If it is in violation of dharma, then surely we can refute his advances on that basis alone?” suggested one minister known for his considerable wealth gained from trading rather than his war skills.

  “What dharma does a Magadhan know?” asked an aging general, also the War Minister. “He knows only barbarism and butchery.”

  “Besides, the point is moot, King Vasudeva,” said another Minister, head of an ancient Yadava house. “You cannot argue points of law or dharma with an army at your doorstep.”

  A chorus of murmurs endorsed to this statement. The mood in the sabha hall was nervous rather than angry, Krishna noted. A bad sign. Not only was Mathura not expecting war so quickly after the passing of the old regime, it was not prepared for one.

  “Nevertheless,” Vasudeva continued. “I have sent a rider to the Magadhan lines to enquire about their demands and to convey this same point.”

  Someone groaned. “He will not return. You will only see his severed head on a lance at the frontlines next.”

  “Talking peace with Magadha is like discussing dharma with a tiger in the jungle when it pounces on you,” said another cynical voice.

  The argument continued for another moment.

  Balarama leaned into Krishna. “Bhai, what are we to do? Should we not inform them that something unusual is going on?”

  “There would be no point,” Krishna said. “Nobody but we seem to be aware that this has happened before. It would only confuse them and cause further delay. Jarasandha will not wait until we explain matters. The fact that his army is at the gates is still a fact. We have to deal with that first.”

  Balarama nodded slowly. “I agree.”

  Vasudeva looked to Krishna and Balarama. “What say you, princes of Mathura? It was you who freed us from the shackles of the Tyrant Usurper. Your voices are respected here above all others. What do you say to this new threat that confronts us now?”

  Krishna stepped forward, glancing around at the strained faces of older men and women. He saw that what Vasudeva said was perfectly true: every single person in that sabha hall, regardless of their politics, wealth, social stature, varna or other allegiance, looked to Balarama and he for the last word and final decision. Whatever he said, they would do, no matter what the consequences. He could lead every last man, woman and child in the city out to fight Jarasandha’s forces right now, and they would follow him gladly, singing until the moment their lives ended on the battlefield.

  Which was why he knew what he must not do next.

  “I say assemble the forces of Mathura outside the city in a circular formation, ringing the city completely. Bar all gates and entry points. Call a curfew and ask the populace to take shelter within their domiciles. Let no man, woman, child or animal be out of doors until the curfew is lifted on my orders.”

  It was his own birth-mother Devaki who leaned forward inquisitively. “Why do you call a curfew, Krishna? If the city is sealed and ringed by our armies, surely the people should be safe to move about freely within our walls? Why restrict them inside doors?”

  “And why the animals too?” asked the wealthiest herder in all Mathura, with curiosity matching that of Devaki.

  Krishna nodded, acknowledging the logic of their queries. “When Jarasandha sees his forces thwarted from entering the city by any means, he will resort to his longbow archers. They can inflict great damage and levy a high toll even from afar. Within doors, our people will be protected from the hailstorm of arrows.”

  A murmur of excitement rose, people turning to one another to marvel at Krishna’s foresight and wisdom.

  “Magnificently intuited,” old King Ugrasena said. “My grandson is right: Magadha is renowned for its longbow archers and for attacking even civilian populations without compunction.”

  “Then we shall levy a curfew as Krishna advises,” Vasudeva said somberly. “Nay, we shall request it of the people and ask them to willingly cooperate. Pralamba, see to it at once.”

  Pralamba nodded brusquely and issued orders to one of his aides who rushed out to convey the first orders to the waiting dhoots outside the hall. They would then courier the instructions to the army officers who would pass it on to the eventual recipients.

  “What else, Krishna?” asked a younger general. “What are your instructions to our armies for the impending battle? How shall we defend ourselves? What stratagem or tactics do you advise us to use?”

  Krishna looked around the room. Everyone watched him with intent expressions, looking for his leadership to carry them through this crisis. It reminded him of the day he had walked into Mathura with Balarama for the wrestling tournament. Nothing had really changed since that day in this one respect: They still looked to him to save them.

  And save them he must.

  “Just that the army should hold its position in the ring formation around the city walls as I described,” he said. “Nothing else.”

  “Nothing?” asked Vasudeva incredulously. “Surely you must have some plan to deal with the invasion? Whatever you wish, we shall carry out your instructions to the letter, my son.”

  Krishna nodded to his father with a gesture of respect. “I appreciate the support, Pitr,” he said. “But that is the only instruction. Leave the rest to Balarama and me.”

  10

  A strong wind was blowing, causing dust swirls to rise in waves across the distance, disturbing the horses and making the krta-dhvaja crack like whips. The dawn light blossomed in the eastern horizon but was dimmed by a cloudbank, lending the entire battlefield a dull lustrous light. It grayed the endless lines of Magadhan infantry, horse, chariot and elephant regiments that seemed to circle around the city as relentlessly as the horizon itself.

  “It is the same army,” Balarama said grimly atop his horse. The wind whipped his words from his lips and his tone seemed to rise and fall in Krishna’s hearing even though he was only a yard from Krishna himself. “23 akshohini, the same exact lines and arrangement, down to the last man, horse and elephant.”

  “Yes,” Krishna said. He had ascertained that for himself as well, using his preternatural consciousness to reach out and probe the enemy lines. It was indeed the exact same army as yesterday, arranged in exactly the same formation. It was as if the dead had come to life and resumed their positions in some grotesque parody of life.

  Except that this was no parody. This was all too real. The army before them was real, the weapons were real, the threat as real as yesterday. The screams of anguish and shock of the Mathurans felled by arrows still echoed in Krishna’s ears. Just as the squeals of agony of the elephants and horses slaughtered by Balarama and he at the end of the battle still haunted Balarama.

  But the ditch was gone. So was the river of blood that had spilled upon this plain. The offal and bones and flesh and severed limbs…the detritus of yesterday’s battle…all gone. Vanished. As if it had never happened.

  In the past half hour that it had taken Balarama and himself to ride here to the frontlines, they had ascertained beyond doubt that not a single soul in Mathura was aware that today was being repeated. It was not merely a repetition of events, they now knew, it was literally the same day, begun anew. Mangalam, the second day of the lunar week. It was as if yesterday’s Mangalam had been erased from existence, from memory, from time itself.

  “How is it possible?” Balarama asked with more than a trace
of anger. “How?”

  “The question is not how, bhraatr,” Krishna replied, “It is who.”

  Balarama stared at him, puzzled.

  “The how could be accomplished in only one way,” Krishna explained, “through the intervention of Lord Kala himself.”

  Balarama raised an eyebrow. “The Lord of Time?”

  “And Space. Kala-Bhairava Himself. Only he has the power to accomplish such a feat, turn back time so that the same day repeats itself.”

  “But why?” Balarama asked. “Why would he do such a thing? All Devas must know that Jarasandha is an asura in mortal form, come upon the mortal realm to try to continue the reign of evil that Ravana and Mahishasura and other great asuras of yore once perpetrated. Why would the great Kala himself side with Jarasandha?”

  “Perhaps he does not side with him,” Krishna said, gesturing ahead with a jerk of his chin, “not in the sense of joining forces beside him in the field of battle or provided military support. Perhaps Jarasandha had secured a boon at sometime which he now used to secure Kala’s aid. In any case, it does not matter.”

  “But of course it does,” Balarama said, his horse snorting and shaking her head to keep the dust out of her nostrils. The wind was rising. “He may as well be joining forces on the field. Look at that! 23 akshohini worth of fighting power!”

  “We defeated them yesterday, we can do so again.”

  “That’s the point, Krishna,” Balarama said fiercely. “We defeated them already. Destroyed them! We should not have to do it again. It is unnatural.”

  “It is survival. They are there and they mean to invade and raze Mathura to the ground. It is our dharma to ensure they do not.” He attempted a lighter tone. “At least today we know how to dispense with them quickly, without going through the motions as we did yesterday.”

  Balarama turned his head and looked at the field speculatively. He was silent so long even Krishna grew curious.

  “What is it, Balarama? What do you see?”

  Balarama turned his head. He was grinning. “I just realized that you are right, bhraatr. What am I complaining about? We defeated them yesterday. We can do it again easily today. And to boot, I now have the opportunity to demolish 23 akshohini of the best warriors in the world. Now that is a fight worth fighting!”

  Krishna smiled as his brother’s sudden burst of enthusiasm. “You always complained that I fought all the asuras and you never got to fight anyone important…”

  “Except the Donkey Asura,” Balarama muttered, glaring.

  Krishna stifled a laugh. “Well, here’s your chance. Today’s your day to make up for all that lost time and opportunity. The field is all your’s, bhai.”

  Balarama looked at Krishna. “What…? You mean?” He pointed at the Magadhan army then at himself. “All that…for me? By myself?”

  Krishna shrugged. “Why not? You can handle them, can’t you?”

  Balarama straightened his shoulders and stared ahead, taking the full measure of the enemy now for the first time, gauging and evaluating seriously. “Of course!” he scoffed.

  “Of course. With one hand tied behind my back and while drinking a gourd of Rohini-Maa’s lassi!”

  Krishna did laugh now, at the image of Balarama fighting the Magadhan army with a hand tied behind his back and a gourd of lassi in his other hand, splashing and slurping buttermilk all over himsef. “Which hand will you use to fight then?”

  Balarama grinned at him. “Good point. Well, maybe I’ll keep the lassi-drinking for afterward.” He urged his horse forward into a canter. The wind whipped at his hair and the horse’s mane.

  “And use both hands,” Krishna cautioned. “And your celestial mace and chariot! And call if you need me at anytime.”

  “I’ll call you when I need my lassi, bhraatr,” Balarama shouted above the wind, breaking into a full gallop now. He summoned his celestial chariot as he picked up speed and it appeared beside him. He leaped from the back of his horse to the chariot without missing a step. The mare neighed in protest, disappointed at being left out of the fight.

  “Go back to Krishna, my lovely,” Balarama called to her. “We’ll fight asuras together another day.”

  Then he spurred the chariot into a high vertical climb and prepared to launch himself at the enemy.

  11

  JARASANDHA laughed as Balarama’s celestial chariot plowed through his front lines, demolishing them and ravaging entire regiments on contact. The plume of dirt and bodies and gore that rose to either side of the golden chariot was like the wake of water threshed by a snake boat rowed by a hundred Malayali warriors racing on Pongal festival day. He continued laughing as his Mohini Fauj lieutenants and the 23 senapatis of his akshohini turned to glance at each other.

  Jarasandha’s laughter wafted across the field even as the stench and bloodspray from Balarama’s epic plowing suffused the air. Never before had any man present there ever witnessed the self-declared God Emperor of the Magadhan Empire release his laughter with such abandon. The sound itself was peculiar and made many who heard it feel uneasy, like the sound of a tiger crying or an eagle barking. It was unusual and against nature. Jarasandha did not laugh. He only killed and conquered, nothing more. Oh, and at times, he ate. Although the eating usually followed the killing and conquering, and mostly involved choice selections from the bodies of his conquered enemies.

  The sound of his laughter was too much to bear and many shuddered in horror at Jarasandha’s laughter, more unnerved by that sound than by the sight and sound and smell of Balarama’s great slaughter.

  Finally, unable to restrain himself any longer, one of his most trusted aides bent his head respectfully and asked, “God Emperor, may we humble mortals enquire what amuses thee so greatly? On the field of battle, the Yadava named Balarama is destroying our armies, yet you neither give orders to attack or defend but merely express your amusement.”

  Jarasandha’s full-blown laughter tapered off by degrees to a chuckle. His tongue lashed out to a full five yards length, its twin forked tips whipping up the nostrils of the aide who had dared to question his behavior and penetrating his brain, killing the man instantly. Even as the man fell from his horse, dead on the spot, Jarasandha retracted his tongue, lips smacking as he tasted the dead aide’s grey matter.

  He grimaced, finding it wanting. “Bland. Too much talking always spoils the flavor of a good brain,” he said. “But to answer his question, I am laughing because this is one battle where we do not need to lift a finger in order to win.”

  His generals and other aides exchanged glances surreptitiously, none daring to speak aloud after beholding the fate of the fallen aide. Nobody wanted to feel Jarasandha’s forked tongue stabbing his brain that morning. Or any one of the numerous other exotic methods Jarasandha had for killing people who offended him, however momentarily.

  The only sound heard in the lines of command of the Magadhan force were the distant sounds of their warriors and their elephants and horses screaming with anguish as they were mercilessly slaughtered.

  Jarasandha chuckled.

  “I see that nobody else wishes to ask the obvious. In which case, I shall ask it myself. Why,” he raised a finger as if asking permission to ask the question of himself, “My God Emperor, why do we not need to lift a finger to win this battle?”

  He chuckled in response to his own query, altering his expression as if to answer his interrogator—who was of course himself. “Excellent question, God Emperor. The answer is not quite as obvious or simple enough to explain for these dunderheads that surround me. Suffice it to say that the purpose of this battle is not to fight the Yadavas, merely to demonstrate a point to the Brothers.”

  Again, he turned his head at a different angle, mimicking the questioning pose he had adopted for the earlier question, even vamping it up a little by adding some effeminate flourishes: “How fascinating, God Emperor. My, but your brilliance is beyond estimation. Pray, tell, do you mean the Brothers Krishna and Balarama?”

>   He turned back into his usual surly self for the answer: “Of course I mean Krishna-Balarma, you son of a half-breed mule!”

  Again, the effeminate vampish questioner: “Oh, my, God Emperor, I am foolish, am I not? Of course you meant them. But pray tell, why do you not wish to fight them?”

  “Because I cannot defeat them in battle,” replied the surly Jarasandha.

  “My, my, God Emperor, what a big brain you have! But if you cannot defeat them in battle, why have you brought your armies to their doorstep?” asked the effeminate Questioner.