She held up the handful of kusa grass she had uprooted and smiled. She would run back to the village and tell her father the good news. He would have the distinction of telling Nanda-Maharaja and the rest of the Vrishni. It would brighten everyone’s day. Finding new pastures was cause enough for a celebration. There would be a feast tonight, she guessed. And dancing. Ras-garbha. She would have a chance to dance with Krishna! His Lila was the best of all. Nobody else could play as well as he.
Singing to herself, little Radha ran back towards the hamlet of Vrindavan with the good news.
Behind her, the shadowy darkness that she had peered into only moments earlier stirred and began moving sluggishly, preparing to consume its next meal.
4
Yashoda heard the excited shouts and came out of her house, using her elbow to open the door because her hands were covered with curds. She had been making the lassi for the family for the day, a considerable chore in itself because of the quantity Balarama and Krishna consumed. She saw Vinayaka and Sudipta’s little girl Radha surrounded by a crowd of excited young gopas and gopis. Several older cowherds were gathered around as well, listening to the girl. Radha was describing something in great detail, spreading her arms wide and spinning around to indicate something vast and beautiful, as far as Yashoda could tell. Her pretty face was beaming with pleasure and from the reactions on the faces of those listening, it was apparent that they were enjoying listening to her ebullient description too. Yashoda smiled and brushed an errant hair off her forehead with the back of one hand, smearing a little curd on her face and not minding. She wondered what they were all talking about. Then she saw Rohini leave the group and come walking briskly to her.
‘What is it?’ she asked even before Rohini reached her doorstep.
‘New pastures!’ Rohini said, infected with the same enthusiasm that seemed to be spreading throughout the village. People were gathering around, converging from all over as the news spread. ‘Our two little rascals have discovered new pastures beyond the north-east woods!’
‘Really? That’s wonderful. Are they big enough to feed all our herds for a while?’
Rohini gestured towards the crowd gathered around little Radha. It had grown five fold already and was still expanding as the whole of Vrindavan’s population rapidly converged on the bearer of good news. ‘If you believe Sudipta’s daughter, these pastures are big enough to feed all the herds in all the Yadava nation for all eternity!’
They laughed. ‘Little Radha always had a tendency to say more than was needed,’ Yashoda said. ‘Especially when it involves our little Krishna.’
‘Yes, she is quite besotted with him, isn’t she?’ Rohini said. ‘In any case, even if one takes her exaggerations with a big pinch of salt, that still suggests these new pastures must be quite bountiful. Perhaps even enough to feed our herds for two or three seasons.’
‘Which would give the present pastures time to replenish.’ Yashoda smiled. ‘That’s wonderful news! I must find Nanda and tell him.’
‘Oh, he already knows,’ Rohini said. ‘He’s gone to organize the gopas and get them to start moving the herds at once.’
‘I want to go too,’ Yashoda said, then remembered her half-stirred curds. ‘But I have to finish this batch first before it settles.’
‘I’ll help you,’ Rohini said, ‘four hands will make the churning go faster than two. Then we’ll go together to see the new pastures.’
Smiling happily, they went inside the house together.
On the village street outside, Radha finished repeating the description of the new pastures for the umpteenth time, then, as the gopas and gopis in the crowd turned to one another to discuss the implications of this exciting news, she looked up at her own mother and father.
Her father had already examined the sample of kusa grass and pronounced it eminently edible. He had even bitten off a bit and chewed it enthusiastically, drawing laughter and good-natured jesting. The mood in Vrindavan was happy today, happier than it had been in a long while. Now, her father had gone off with Nanda-Maharaja and the other elder gopas to organize the migration of the herds, while her mother remained here, speaking with several other gopis, many of whom were Radha’s aunts.
‘Maa,’ she said, tugging at her mother’s garment.
‘Yes, Radhey?’ Sudipta said, looking down at her daughter.
‘Can I go back and show my friends the way to the new pastures? They want to take the rest of the calf herds there right away.’
Sudipta looked at her sisters, discussing the question with them. A few gopas were around too and they heard her query as well. Nobody had any objection to their children taking their calf herds to the new pastures. Everyone—man, woman, child, cow and calf—in the village was going there anyway.
‘Go ahead, but don’t get lost on the way,’ she said with habitual motherly affection. ‘Those north-east woods are quite dense, I’m told.’
‘Dense, maa?’ Radha repeated. ‘They’re dark as caves in places! But don’t worry, I could find the way back even in the dark with a cloth around my eyes!’
She ran off to tell the younger cowherds that she had permission. They let out a series of happy whoops and cheers, each running off to fetch his or her own little herd of calves and nursing mother cows.
Shortly afterwards, as Rohini and Yashoda were finishing the last batch of buttermilk for the day, a long procession of young gopas and gopis passed through the center of the village, leading all the young calves and cows with them. Sounds of tongues clicking, bells dingling and excited young voices shouting to one another filled the air.
The hustle and bustle was reminiscent of the way things had been back in Gokul-dham before the Vrishni had been forced to go into exile. A sense of hope and anticipation was in the air. Discovering new pastures was as big a miracle for cowherds as finding a new continent was to an explorer. Perhaps their luck had changed at last. Perhaps the good lord Vishnu had seen fit to grace them with happy days once more. The last few months had been dark, frightening times, with asuras assaulting children and with the discovery that the Slayer had been born in their midst, thereby blessing them as well as guaranteeing great hardship and struggle ahead. Today’s news was a much-needed boost to their flagging morale and everyone intended to make the most of it.
The grown up gopas and gopis watched their children march happily down the pathway, smiling and commenting on their exuberance. Little did they know that they would not be seeing their young ones again that day and for many, many days to come.
5
The procession of young gopas and gopis wound their way from Vrindavan to the north-east woods, singing and dancing merrily. There was a festive spirit in the air. A boy in front, a good friend of Krishna and Balarama, named Sridhara, played the horn, its sound carrying across the entire hamlet.
Many of the gopas and gopis played flutes, a musical instrument always favoured by Vrishni cowherds for its ability to carry long distances and remind herds of the presence of their watchers; the fact that they played (or attempted to play) melodies favoured by Krishna belied their musical ambitions. There was not a child in Vrindavan who did not look up to their youthful Savior and Deliverer and adore him as a Vaishnavite adores Vishnu.
The less musically inclined ones carried slings and used them as they went, pausing to engage in contests of skill—‘I bet you couldn’t hit that brown leaf on the top of that tree!’—then sprinting to catch up with the rest, an easy task due to the slow bovine progress of the herds. The prize for the victor was that he would get to run up to Krishna and touch him first, shouting as they did, ‘I touched him first, I was first!’
Those who were not as proficient as the others in sling-shooting got upset because they would not be able to touch Krishna first. They snatched the slingshots from the winners and threw them as far ahead as they could, even ahead of the herds in front. The winners went running to retrieve them but the others who had lost raced them and reached first, throwing the
slings even further. So it became a race and the young calves, seeing their young masters and mistresses running ahead, increased pace, drawing moos of protest from their lactating mother cows.
One of the slings landed in a clump of trees. Cuckoos roosting in the trees set off sharp calls, flying about in agitation, unaccustomed to mammals in their environment. The gopas imitated the cuckoos and climbed the trees, throwing the slings to one another to prevent the owners from retrieving them. The owners laughed good-naturedly and tried to chase down their slings.
Young monkeys screeched from the trees, leaping from branch to branch, upset at these new hairless simians who had invaded their domain. The boys attempted to imitate them, hanging from branches and swinging while calling out in monkey voices. The herds caught up with them and trundled past as they continued their monkey-play. The gopis called them monkeys and cuckoos as they went past, giggling at their antics. Then they dismounted from the trees and ran again to catch up with the herds.
When they reached a brook, they splashed through it, sending frogs leaping helter skelter in startled panic. The boys imitated the frogs, leaping in the water till they were soaked from head to foot. Soaked, but at least clean at last, if only for the moment, as their mothers would have commented if they had seen them then!
In this manner, they made their way to the north-east woods, playing and shouting and engaged in tomfoolery, even their herds sharing in the infectious spirit of festivity. They barely noticed when the way through the trees grew darker and more shadowy, absent of monkeys, cuckoos, frogs and all other wildlife, or the fetid stench that filled the air in this particular neck of the woods.
The herd slowed down, sensing something amiss, but the children drove them on relentlessly, too impatient to be cautious. Those that commented on the denseness of this part of the woods and the fetid odor were told by their friends that there was probably a swamp nearby.
Radha had a moment of unease when she saw the calves and cows in front entering a place dark enough to be a cavern entrance, but then she recalled that it had been there earlier as well, and continued chatting with her gopi friends. The gopas were too excited and up to mischief to even notice much except that it had become darker. They incorporated this change of environment into their play, pretending to be bats swooping this way and that way blindly, deliberating banging into one another or brushing gently against the mother cows and patting their rumps affectionately.
Slowly, the entire procession made its way into the open, waiting maw of the asura Agha.
6
KRISHNA felt the rumble of distant thunder and stopped playing his flute.
He looked around.
Balarama had gone exploring the pastures, seeking to measure their full extent. A runner had already come from the village, telling them that their father and the other elders were bringing the herds here and that Radha and the younger herders had already set off with the calf and mother herds. They would be reaching shortly.
The sky was bright blue, fat shapely clouds drifting lazily by, casting undulating shadows on the sea of kusa grass, the wind shirring in the grass was a soothing accompaniment to his flute, and until a moment ago, he had been as close to yoganidra as it was possible to get on this mortal plane. The rumbling of distant thunder was a harsh counterpoint to this placid quietude.
He realized he had felt the rumbling rather than simply heard it.
There it was again.
Like the rumbling of a stomach left too long unfed.
Exactly like that!
Except louder, much much louder.
The ground beneath his feet shuddered noticeably this time, like a minor earthquake. The calves nearest to him lifted their heads long enough to stop chewing and moo indignantly. Their mothers stopped chewing too. Several of them turned to look in his direction.
He raised a hand, calming them.
Where was Balarama?
Krishna cast his inner eye outwards, travelling at the speed of a bird across the top of the tall grass, over the hill and down the next valley, then up the next rise and down the next dip, until he located his brother, still walking towards the far end of the pastures in a northerly direction.
Balarama paused, sensing his brother’s questing consciousness and turned to look back the way he had come. His fair broader features frowned, understanding that there was something wrong. Even as far away as he was, he could feel a vestige of the tremors that Krishna was experiencing.
Balarama turned and began running back to Krishna. The grass shirred around his pumping feet, staining his already grass-stained lower body greener. His muscular legs pounded the ground hard, bearing his bulk easily but not as swiftly as he would have liked at such a time.
‘I’m coming, bhai,’ he said softly, knowing he would be heard even miles away.
Krishna turned back and looked in the direction of the woods. That was the only way to get here. To either side of the woods, the landscape was dangerously broken and undulating, steep rocky rises and abruptly plummeting wadis. Dangerous enough for humans, much too risky for cattle.
The only way to these new pastures was through the woods. And something was in the woods, intending harm to his friends and their herds.
Krishna began running in the direction of the woods. Unlike Balarama, he ran with great lithness and athletic grace. His slender form was built for speed. He raced through the tall grass like a humming bird speeding back towards her nest. The calves and mother cows he had been herding looked back in dismay, lowing to one another to lament Krishna leaving them.
He burst through the woods and came face to face with a monstrosity.
Something that resembled a gargantuan earthworm was shattering tree trunks and cracking branches as it undulated. The dust and soil falling from its body suggested that it had freshly emerged from beneath the surface of the earth. It bucked and shuddered, its enormous length shivering as it shifted from side to side. It touched a sala tree a yard thick at the base and the tree trunk cracked with a resounding sound, the tree toppling over to crash down heavily. Monkeys and birds and animals screamed and chittered from elsewhere in the woods, but no animal or birds sounds were audible in the region of the bucking demon.
Krishna understood that the creature must have emerged from the ground and insinuated itself into the woods slowly, gradually, moving perhaps a few feet at a time, then waiting for hours before moving again. Over the course of days, perhaps even weeks, it had taken up position in the darkest areas of the woods, then lain still, waiting. Like a serpent, it had intertwined itself between trees, looping and twisting sinuously until it covered a considerable area. He could only imagine the length of the beast from mouth to tail: miles certainly. Perhaps a whole yojana long? The bulk of its body was still inside the ground, he saw, and that was why it was moving so violently now. It was trying to retreat into its hole, to return underground where it could travel more easily through the subterranean caverns to which it was accustomed, there to consume its meal at leisure.
He already knew what its meal consisted of: the calf herds and child cowherds. With the power of his inner eye he could see little Radha and the other young gopas and gopis alongwith their calf herds and mother cows, all inside the belly of the beast. They had been startled when the ground began moving underfoot and the world around them began to shake. Now, they were terrified, for they understood that this was no earthquake or tremor; they were inside some great creature’s maw and were about to be consumed.
He could see them screaming and crying out plaintively, scared despite their inherent brave outlook, for how could they fight such a creature once they were within its body? They could hardly guess at what it even looked like and the fetid rank air within the beast’s body was already choking and sickening the children as well as the cattle.
The question was why the creature had not consumed them already. All it had to do was gulp and swallow and every last child in Vrindavan old enough to mind the herds would be digested al
ive, slowly, agonizingly. The most merciful death would suffocation for lack of air. The most terrible would be a slow acidic digesting over days.
‘I will not let that happen,’ Krishna said grimly.
He raised his voice, raising his cowherd’s crook and shaking it at the towering beast. ‘I will not let you take them!’
At the sound of his voice, the beast ceased its shuddering.
Suddenly, a section of its vast body rose up in the air, exactly like the head of a snake rising to open its hood. Except that the segmented body resembled a worm more than a snake and when the head rose up, it did not widen into a hood, merely opened to reveal a great maw, some fifty yards wide, and perfectly round. Blind and lacking any other sense organs, its maw opened in sections to reveal interlocking overlapping flaps of dusty grimy leathery hide that resembled an iris spiralling open. Within that giant maw, he saw an immense terrifying darkness, and within that darkness, several yards deep, he saw his friends and their herds, struggling to stay upright, leaning against one another or against the more sure-footed bovines, pale and very scared, crying with fear and incomprehension. Many were indignant or upset too: Krishna saw some of the bolder young gopas wield their slings, looking for a target. There was none. They could hardly fling stones about in the beast’s mouth; they would only hit their own friends or cattle. They were eager to fight but had no way to fight such a creature. Helpless and angry, they shouted to Krishna to do something.
KRISHNA CORIOLIS#4: Lord of Mathura Page 4