He danced and sang his defiance of mortal death.
He was Krishna.
He was infinite.
If he must die, he would die dancing and celebrating his own death and rebirth.
He would embrace the darkness that was ultimately his own shadow.
He danced.
15
WATCHING him from the top of the hill, Balarama was stupefied. Radha was stunned. Both watched in gobsmacked silence as Krishna danced away atop the black snake’s main hood. The serpent itself swayed, the lunging attacks of its myriad heads stalled for the time being as it reacted to this astonishing behavior.
It was obvious that the serpent could not make head nor tail of Krishna’s dancing: was it a precursor to a new retaliatory attack? Was it itself meant to be an attack? Was it something godly incarnations did during battle? Its bewilderment was plainly writ as it swayed slowly, its frenzied movements ceasing until it resembled nothing so much as its normal earthly brethren, just a serpent swaying to the rhythm of a been-player, a snake charming musician.
‘Look,’ Radha said, pointing. ‘It’s dancing with Krishna!’
Balarama watched closely.
She was right.
Whether knowingly or instinctively, the serpent was mimicking the rhythm of Krishna’s pounding feet. It was likely the serpent had only paused to try and assess this new behavior, not intending to move in rhythm with its enemy. But in observing Krishna’s dance, it had fallen into the hypnotic pattern of his own footfalls.
As Radha and he watched, the swaying grew more and more pronounced, until Krishna’s emphatic foot falls, marking the end of a bar or movement, were matched by noticeable jerks and sinuous shifts of the giant hood itself. What was more, even the other heads began to sway and dance in syncopation, the smaller ones moving faster to keep double time while the larger ones moved slowly in a half-beat rhythm.
The overall effect was mesmerizing.
A magician seeking to charm and hold a snake’s attention could not have performed a more elaborate trick.
‘He’s hypnotized it,’ Balarama said in wonderment. ‘He’s hypnotized the asura with the rhythm of his dance.’
And so he had.
Krishna’s feet were the only thing making contact with the serpent’s body. And snakes, lacking hearing, could only sense sounds through physical contact, usually through vibrations felt in the ground on which they lay. Krishna’s dancing was a constant rhythmic series of vibrations, transmitted to Kaliya through his hood, passing through his entire body. Somehow, Kaliya was understanding what Krishna was ‘saying’ through dance, and was listening intently. And in this manner, Krishna had succeeded in gaining control of the serpent asura through the means of rhythmic communication.
As they continued to watch, Krishna danced on.
Balarama realized that Krishna was doing more than simply controlling Kaliya.
He was also ridding himself of the venom the serpent asura had injected into his body: the more he danced, the more his blood pumped through his veins, the more his wounds bled. His body was covered with gaping wounds, all oozing, dripping blood. The blood pooled on the hood of the serpent asura and dripped into the lake itself. The lake was stained blackish red now with the blood of Krishna.
Balarama’s heart ached at the sight of so much blood, his brother’s blood, being shed. How could Krishna even survive such a great amount of blood loss, let alone dance with such frenzied passion?
But that was the greatness of Krishna.
That was why he was God Incarnate.
While in this mortal form he might be subject to the limitations of the mortal form to some extent, but his spirit was divine and indomitable.
Even as his body died, his spirit drove it on relentlessly.
Krishna danced on.
16
Hours passed.
Still Krishna danced on.
The day became night.
Still Krishna danced.
Balarama and Radha sat down at last, exhausted from merely watching.
Slowly, the night went on, passing into day again. Still, Krishna’s dance continued unabated.
17
As the days passed and Krishna’s dance went on, the villagers ventured back to the lakeside.
In time, the hillside was covered with Vrishni, watching their brightest son performing yet another miracle.
Many of these same people had watched as Krishna had taken his first steps—then broken into an impromptu dance upon the corpse of his first attacker, Putana.
They had seen him grow and gain in strength and wisdom and love, and play mischief and get up to boyish pranks as well.
Now they watched as he danced out every last drop of venom from his own body and every last ounce of energy from the serpent that had come to slay him.
18
Eight days and eight nights Krishna danced.
And with each passing day, despite the prodigious loss of blood, he seemed to grow stronger, healthier.
It was miraculous to watch.
While with each passing night, the serpent Kaliya grew visibly weaker, paler, sicker.
As the epic dance progressed, it was evident to all who watched that this dance would end only with Krishna triumphing and Kaliya dying of sheer exhaustion.
Somehow, yet again, Krishna had turned certain defeat into unmitigated triumph.
By the end of the seventh day itself, it was evident that the great serpent Kaliya was near death now.
Attempting to match Krishna’s ferocious energy—compelled to match it—the asura had depleted its life force. It had nothing more to give. It barely survived now and was fast fading into oblivion.
Just as Krishna had grown stronger and healthier with each passing day, it had grown weaker, sicker. Until now, it was dying.
And still Krishna danced on.
Now, it was no longer just a dance of death.
It was a dance of life for himself—and death to Kaliya.
By the end of the eighth day, everyone knew the inevitable was coming.
Kaliya would succumb at any moment. And Krishna would survive.
But before that could happen, someone intervened.
19
It happened on the Eighth Day.
Krishna was still dancing on Kaliya’s hood. His wounds had healed completely, the bleeding had ceased, and he appeared whole and well again, even more vigorous than ever before. The blackness of his skin had always been tinged with a bluish aura, since birth, but now that bluish tinge was much more pronounced and as he exerted himself and exuded sweat and energy, he seemed to glow with a blue aura that pulsed and throbbed with his own heartbeat. Everyone took it as yet another manifestation of his divinity and praised him as Hari in human form.
Kaliya, on the other hand, was drooping and wilting like a dying flower. The once-powerful serpent asura, so energetic and seemingly capable of slaying gods, now appeared to be near-death. It’s jet black scales were dull and lacklustre, its coat appeared to be shedding prematurely, grey wisps of dried skin peeling off to fall into the lake, and most of its heads appeared to have died from sheer exhaustion.
Even its main head hung much, much lower than before, almost touching the water now. It was evident that Krishna had the beast completely in his control. He could probably will it to drop dead at any moment, but clearly, he was enjoying the dance as well as taking the time to heal himself as well. It was only a matter of hours now, Balarama suspected, before Kaliya dropped dead and Krishna stepped back onshore, triumphant.
That was when it happened.
The water around Krishna and Kaliya thrashed and seethed, before erupting with sudden gouts of water.
Balarama rose to his feet, as did a number of other watchers. People gasped and pointed.
‘Balarama-bhaiya, what is it?’ Radha asked.
Balarama shook his head, silent. He didn’t know. He wondered if he should move the people back home again, to avoid any coming under threa
t once again.
He decided he would wait a moment or two to see what was happening before taking a decision.
It was logical for another asura allied to the first to attempt to attack the Vrishni while Krishna was preoccupied fighting their compatriot. If that was the plan, then it was better that the Vrishni were here too so that Balarama could protect them and Krishna could know at once.
The gouts of water hung in the air momentarily, then resolved themselves into a number of other water serpents. They surrounded the drooping body of Kaliya in a cluster, like a ring attack formation in battle.
Balarama hefted his plough.
He started to make his way downhill, turning only to shout briefly at his people.
‘Everyone stay here!’
He ran down to the lake shore.
As he ran, he saw the multitude of serpents raising their hoods, their malevolent black eyes hissing. They were all much smaller than Kaliya yet if they attacked together they would probably be lethal. Like a pack of dogs attacking a lion. This time, he was determined that Krishna would not fight alone. Let him be angry with him later; Balarama would not stand by and watch as his brother battled for his life yet again.
But before he reached the lakeshore he saw that the cluster of serpents surrounding Kaliya and Krishna were not attacking.
They were praying.
20
KRISHNA looked down at the serpents surrounding him.
Their hoods were half-raised yet bent, their stalks curved downwards. He recognized the stance. It was the closest a snake could come to bowing or showing obeisance. His own celestial ally Anantha-Naga prostrated himself in exactly this fashion when greeting him whenever he returned home to Vaikunta-loka.
But who were these serpents and why were they bowing to him? The answer came to him as the serpents called out to his mind.
Ah, the wives of Kaliya. Naturally. Even demons had families. What did they want?
‘I have no need to prove anything,’ Krishna replied. ‘He attacked me as an assassin. He sought to harm my people. He wounded me greviously. What I do, I do only in self-defense and retaliation.’
‘As he sowed, so must he reap,’ Krishna replied curtly.
He had no doubt that before Kaliya set out on this assassination attempt, leaving his subterranean watery cavern, these same wives would have encouraged and praised him, praying to their own deities for his success and triumph—namely, the death of Krishna and the destruction of the Vrishni. He had no sympathy for them or their ‘lord and consort’.
‘No matter. He came to kill or be killed. He failed. Now he must die. That is how I must show my enemies that any who assault me or my people will suffer the same fate.’
Still, they wept and cried piteously. Their pleading continued for the rest of the day.
Krishna continued dancing relentlessly, Kaliya’s hood drooping lower and lower until it was evident that the serpent was facing his final hour.
Finally, the lamentation of the wives of Kaliya reached Krishna’s heart. He thought of his mother’s brother Kamsa and how cruelly he had dashed out the brains of the six new born children that had preceded Balarama and Krishna into the world. That heartless taking of life was one of the things that distinguished an asura from a deva. For an asura cared nothing about creating or giving to the universe, only about taking and destroying. If he killed Kaliya, would he not be the same as any asura, as Kamsa himself?
The thought itself slowed his feet. Gradually, his dancing ceased. He came to a halt. Took a moment. Then sighed.
After all, he was God Incarnate. Not Shiva, the Destroyer of Worlds. Or Brahma. Creator of the Universes. But Vishnu, Preserver and Protector.
His mission was to preserve, not kill.
Krishna finally slowed his dance, gradually coming to a halt.
He urged Kaliya to lower him to the lakeshore, speaking with his mind.
The great water-serpent obeyed, its immense hood and torso trembling with weakness and fear as it stretched out to reach the lip of dry land around the lake.
Krishna stepped out on solid land for the first time in days.
He sent a greeting and blessing to Bhoodevi, spirit of the earth, expressing his gratitude at being back upon her topsoil once again. A flock of parrots flew screeching into the sky, their green plumes fluttering like colored banners in the air, adding a festive touch. Trees showered petals. Wind blew soft and gentle aromas.
Yes, Bhoodevi was clearly glad to see him back safe and sound as well.
Then he turned and regarded the nemesis that had come close to destroying him.
‘Kaliya,’ he said grimly. ‘After the heinous manner in which you attacked my people and then myself, do you expect me to let you live? Speak!’
21
Krishna faced the black snake. Kaliya’s hood shook, trembling as much from exhaustion and sickness as from fear. For it was truly terrified of Krishna now, he sensed. He took no satisfaction in this fact. If anything, he felt sad for it.
‘I have no desire to hear your praises. I only grant you this reprieve because your wives petitioned on your behalf and compelled me to feel pity for you. If you will not speak quickly and to the point, I will deny their petition and destroy you where you stand.’
‘Speak then. How do you justify your assault on me?’
‘And if my people cried out for mercy, or lamented my loss? Would that have brought you to care enough to spare me? Or to spare their innocent lives?’
Kaliya’s great hood lurched sideways before keeping itself upright with an effort.
‘Even the little children who could do you no harm?’
Krishna clenched his fists. ‘I should strike you down here and now as you stand. You are a brutal and heartless monster. You do not deserve to be spared.’
Kaliya’s wives cried out shrilly, their serpentine shrieks harsh and cloying. But Kaliya’s response was measured and without emotion.
Krishna raised his hands, feeling the power of his Deva-shakti coursing through them. Above the lake, the sky grew dark and stormy of a sudden, and blue lightning blazed down through a cloudless sky to center upon Krishna’s raised hands, taking the shape of a gleaming golden disk.
Krishna’s eyes flared blue as well.
His voice boomed and gnashed like thunder in a
closed chamber.
‘It would be a pleasure to slay you, monster! I should cut every head off your body with a single flick of my weapon.’
Kaliya’s wives were silenced. The great serpent himself stopped swaying and held still, sensing his imminent demise.
KRISHNA CORIOLIS#4: Lord of Mathura Page 11