KRISHNA CORIOLIS#4: Lord of Mathura

by Ashok K. Banker

  ‘Is that all?’ said one of them scornfully, ‘Radha, you would leap off a cliff to avoid a mosquito! I thought it was a real demon attacking. Like Aghasura. Or Kaliya!’

  ‘The monkeys must have taken our clothes,’ said another gopi. ‘They took Saraswati’s garments once when she was bathing, remember? Come on, everyone look in the trees, the rascals must be hiding there.’

  Everyone began to look about for monkeys in the trees.

  It was Radha herself who spotted the familiar face peering down from a fork in a Kadamba tree. She gasped at first, unable to believe her eyes. Then slowly, a smile played across her pretty features and soon became a blush.

  ‘I found the rascal,’ she said aloud.

  The other gopis clustered around her. ‘Where are the monkeys?’ they asked.

  ‘There,’ she said, pointing. ‘But it’s no monkey.’

  They all looked where she pointed and saw the familiar face laughing from the Kadamba tree.

  ‘Krishna!’ they exclaimed. ‘It’s Krishna!’

  At once, the sound of cat-calls and cries broke out from across the grove. Other gopas appeared, leaving their hiding places to come forward. They stood with their hands on their hips, grinning boldly.

  The gopis blushed and screamed in embarrassment, covering themselves with their hands.

  ‘You took our clothes!’ they cried out. ‘Give them back!’

  Balarama shrugged. ‘We had nothing to do with it. Krishna took them.’

  Everyone turned to look at Krishna. He grinned, dangling Radha’s bright yellow upper garment. Radha blushed even deeper.

  ‘They’re telling the truth, dear gopis,’ Krishna cried out. ‘I have your garments! Don’t you want them back?’

  ‘YES!’ the gopis cried. ‘Please return them.’

  ‘Of course,’ Krishna said with mock-seriousness. ‘They’re of no use to me. You may have them all back at once.’

  The gopis cried out with relief, staying low in the water to avoid being seen by the boys.

  ‘But you must come and take them from me, one by one,’ Krishna said.

  The gopis looked at one another, round-eyed. Radha lowered her eyes, blushing redder than a gulmohur flower in full blossom.

  ‘Well, that is the only way you will get your clothes back,’ Krishna said. ‘By coming to me one by one and taking them from my hand.’

  The gopis were struck dumb. None knew what to say.

  It was Radha who spoke.

  ‘Don’t misbehave, Krishna,’ she said, her cheeks still flaming red. ‘Give us back our clothes. Otherwise, we will tell Nanda-Maharaja.’

  Krishna raised his eyebrows. ‘Tell him what exactly? That you girls came to offer oblations to the goddess but decided to take off your clothes and prance around like gandharvas and apsaras in the water?’

  Radha stared at Krishna. She looked at the other gopis. Krishna was right. It was they who had misbehaved, in a manner of speaking. As young unwed girls, it was not becoming for them to have frolicked unclothed in the river in this way.

  ‘We are sorry for our misbehavior,’ she said, ‘but—.’

  ‘But I am not sorry for my behavior!’ Krishna cried out. ‘In fact, I am only trying to teach you girls a lesson! The Devi would be very displeased if she saw you spent more time and energy in enjoying yourselves than in performing the rites to honor her. That is why Balarama, the other gopas and I came to see if all was well with you. It was Nanda-Maharaja himself who sent us, concerned for your welfare.’

  All the girls looked around uneasily. What Krishna said was quite true: this was the Devi’s sacred day. They had passed much more time and energy in frolicking after the rituals and had lost all track of time.

  ‘And after all,’ Krishna went on in a gently chiding tone, ‘Were you not praying to the goddess to bring me to you?’

  ‘They were,’ said one of the gopas, ‘Every last one was praying to the Devi to make you her husband!’

  Now all the gopis blushed, embarrassed at being found out. But none denied the charge, for it was true.

  Radha was silent. She did not know what else to say.

  ‘I will return your clothes,’ Krishna said. ‘All you have to do is walk up here, one by one, and claim them from me. That way, we may find out which one’s prayers to the goddess will be answered.’ He paused and looked at each one of the girls in turn, immersed up to their necks in water. ‘You do want to know which one of you will have her wish come true, do you not?’

  The gopis stared at him transfixed.

  At once, their entire attitude changed.

  They began moving towards the shore, eager to come to Krishna and learn whether what he said was true. Indeed, none of them doubted that he spoke the truth, for Krishna never lied. Rather, they were eager to know the answer to the riddle he spoke of: who among them would be the lucky girl chosen by the Devi to be Krishna’s paramour?

  But at the edge of the shore, they hesitated. For while all desired Krishna enough to be willing to walk unclad all the way to where he sat on the Kadamba tree, they had no wish to be seen by the other gopas in this state of undress.

  ‘Krishna,’ they cried out plaintively, ‘ask the other boys to go away from here. We cannot step out before them.’

  ‘Why not?’ Krishna asked. ‘They have already been watching you for a while.’

  The gopis blushed. ‘Watching us?’

  ‘Yes,’ Krishna said. ‘We came here together, looking for you. We saw you frolicking in the water, then praying to the goddess for a suitable husband. At that time, you were all too absorbed to even notice us. So I told the boys I would teach you a lesson in modesty by stealing your clothes. After all, if you were willing to bathe without your clothes for the whole world to see, then what need did you have of them anyway!’

  ‘We are sorry for being so shameless,’ they said. ‘We admit it was very wrong of us. But we cannot step out in front of all the boys of the village!’

  ‘Yes, you can,’ Krishna said, ‘if you wish to have your clothes back. It is the only way.’ His eyes twinkled with mischief.

  The gopis had no choice. The day had suddenly turned cool and after all this time in the water, they were beginning to feel a chill. The sky had become overcast in the past hour and as they were talking a gentle wind began to blow from the north, making them shiver. They would catch cold if they did not exit the water and wear their clothes soon.

  Left with no alternative, the gopis did as Krishna asked.

  One by one, they came out of the water, covering themselves with both hands as best as they could, and walked up to the foot of the Kadamba tree where Krishna sat on the fork, his feet dangling.

  Krishna handed each girl her garments. To take the garments, the girls had to raise their hands. As each girl took her clothes from Krishna, she bent forward and pressed her forehead against his dangling feet, sending up a prayer again to the goddess to grant her wish and make Krishna her mate for life.

  Then she took the bundle of clothes and ran blushing into the woods, to dress herself.

  One by one, each gopi came to Krishna, accepted her clothes, thanked him and touched his feet, and dressed herself.

  Radha was the last to emerge from the water. She took her clothes from Krishna without comment. But then, instead of touching his feet as the others had done, she looked up at him and said,

  ‘Even the Devi cannot answer the prayers of every gopi in Vrindavan. Only one of us can find the husband she desires. Whom shall it be?’

  Krishna looked down at Radha’s beautiful face, even lovelier than usual after bathing in the river, her hair damp and open and spread out upon her bare shoulders, her complexion invigorated by the cool water and bracing wind.

  ‘The Devi is Arya, purity personified, and therefore goddess of chaste young girls. She grants every unmarried girl’s wish. Each gopi desired to be able to make me her husband. Today, by touching my feet while in that state of undress, each of you is no less than a wife t
o a husband. Therefore your wishes have indeed been granted by the Devi Katyayani. All of you have enjoyed touching me in a wifely manner. And as such, each one of you shall enjoy the lingering pleasure of my touch to the end of your days upon this earth. If this is not husbandry, what is it?’

  Radha had no answer. She stared up silently at her beloved one. Then, doing as her fellow gopis had done, she bent her head and touched her forehead to Krishna’s feet, clasping Achyuta’s feet with her hands as well.

  In addition, she kissed those feet of Damodaran with affection, before clasping her garments to herself and walking away with dignity and pride.

  30

  KAMSA returned to Mathura in a red rage.

  He descended from Hathi-Yodha with a single leap. Ignoring the nubile young women waiting with the ritual ceremonial greeting thalis and flower garlands he stormed up the palace steps and strode to his throne room. The sabha was in session.

  ‘Get out!’ he roared.

  The ministers and representatives left as quickly as their feet would carry them.

  ‘Shut the doors and don’t let anyone in,’ he said to his serving maids. ‘And fetch me soma. Quickly!’

  He was still drinking soma several hours later when a very nervous aide prostrated himself before the throne of Mathura. Kamsa threw the half-consumed goblet at the man’s head, opening a cut on his temple that spilled blood on the marble floor. ‘Fool! I said I was not to be disturbed.’

  ‘Sire, it is your father-in-law,’ the man blurted, certain his life would be ended any moment. He ignored the blood streaming from the cut on his forehead. ‘He is coming to see you.’

  Before Kamsa could throw something more lethal at the man, the great doors reopened and Jarasandha strode in, accompanied by his entourage of Hijra bodyguards and closest champions.

  ‘Son,’ Jarasandha said shortly, dispensing with the usual formalities. ‘You took your time returning to Mathura. I arrived days before you did.’

  ‘I took a detour,’ Kamsa said. ‘I had some business to take care of.’

  Jarasandha looked at him closely. It was evident the Magadhan expected to be told what that business was but when Kamsa offered no further explanation, he shrugged and gestured at the fallen goblet and splashed soma stain on the marble floor. ‘I see you are not in the best of moods.’

  Kamsa looked at him from beneath heavy lids, slumped back in his throne, chin resting on his chest. ‘You know why.’

  Jarasandha nodded, climbing the rest of the way up the royal dais. He took the seat near Kamsa which was intended for a preceptor. ‘The Deliverer has survived all your attempts and all our assassins have failed.’

  ‘Yes,’ Kamsa snarled. ‘Even our appeal to Lord Indra was a failure.’

  ‘In point of fact, our appeal was a success. Lord Indra believed the message we sent him, cleverly passed on through Narada-muni, that Krishna was attempting to convert his brahmins into Vaishnavites and raising a community of low castes in order to drive out the Indra-worshippers. Indra reacted just as we hoped. He attacked Vrindavan with great storm and fury. But the Deliverer protected his people yet again.’

  ‘‘And after that he killed Baka, your great champion. And Sankhacuda whom we sent to kill Nanda-Maharaja. And Vyoma. Our last three asura assassins. All your plans have failed, Jarasandha.’

  Jarasandha glanced sharply at Kamsa. It was the first time his son-in-law had called him by his name, openly to his face. It was obvious he wasn’t pleased by the familiarity of usage. ‘Then perhaps you should take matters into your own hand.’

  Kamsa looked at him. ‘How?’

  ‘Kill the Deliverer yourself.’

  Kamsa stared at him. ‘I thought you said I ought not to do that.’

  ‘At the time, I also thought one of these several methods would work: attempting to kill the children of his adopted clan, or his adopted father or mother, or to destroy the whole clan by fire or natural calamity. But nothing has worked, has it? So I think it is time you stepped up and did your own fighting.’

  Jarasandha stood up and placed a hand on Kamsa’s shoulder.

  ‘The time has come for you face the Slayer of Kamsa and prove the prophecy wrong.’

  31

  After Jarasandha had left, Kamsa sat for hours, pondering on his father-in-law’s words. He waved away courtiers, ministers, even Pralamba who had urgent matters to discuss with him, spurned more wine and drink, and even rejected the advances of his favorite women. Hours passed, then days. He paced the corridors and halls of his palace.

  Finally, he went down to the basement of the palace, down winding stone stairways and walls dripping so freely with moisture that they had turned lichenous green, spouting weeds in places. The doors here were of iron and most had rusted solid over the years, opening only reluctantly with a great deal of creaking and screeching. The guards were old and mostly lying drunk in stupors for they had no real work to do here, merely to stay on watch for the prescribed number of hours day after day. The work was so numbingly mindless, they turned to drink or gambling to while away the hours. Kamsa ignored them. Many were former aides or guards who had been penalized for errors by being sent to these postings. There was little point in punishing them further. Besides, no prisoner had ever escaped these lowermost dungeons: in most cases, most of the prisoners had never even been seen by the guards. So long as the food was eaten and the slop trays filled each day, they assumed the wretched souls were still alive. Other than that, nobody knew or cared.

  In the lowermost level of the deepest, darkest dungeon in the kingdom, he made his way to the farthest end of a long deserted corridor. Stone walls bounded each side and a stone ceiling sagged noticeably from the weight of groundwater and rock pressing down. He had to duck his head in places to pass. Here, the doors were rusted shut and had to be forced open for him to pass - he tore them apart like paper with his dense strength, but normal human guards would not have been able to pass through. Indeed, none had: these deep dungeons were serviced by conduits on the upper levels. Food was placed in cloth bundles and thrown down from time to time. That was all the care these prisoners received. Whether they lived here or died, nobody knew. In the ancient texts, it was said there were seven levels of Naraka or the hellish realms. If there was an Eighth, this dungeon would surely be it.

  There were only two prisoners in this lowermost level of hell. As Kamsa reached the stone wall that marked the end of the passage, he stopped and looked up, holding the torch he had taken from a sconce on a higher level during his descent. The sound of water dripping irregularly on stone was the only sound in this place. The crackling of the mashaal counterpointed it now.

  High up on the wall were a few niches, cut into the stone. They were just sufficient to allow a little air to pass into the walled compartment beyond. These niches and the conduits down which food bundles were thrown were the only access into the cell beyond this wall. He found that the torch sucked up whatever little air existed here, leaving almost nothing to breathe. Already, his head felt faint from the lack of aerial sustenance. To survive in that enclosed cell, the prisoners must have to breathe only marginally, the way tapasvi sadhus breathed in high Himalayan grottos, drawing in just enough for survival. There was no more than that to be had.

  He decided to put out the mashaal. He dropped it on the floor which had squelched underfoot as he approached. The torch fizzled out instantly, leaving him in pitch darkness.

  After a moment, he raised his palms, touching them to the wall of the cell.

  He stood there a while, touching his palm to the cold stone wall.

  He said nothing, did nothing else, just stood there.

  Finally, he turned and left the way he had come.

  The sound of his footsteps ascending the stairway echoed down in the deepest dungeon.

  They could be heard inside the walled-in cell.

  32

  AKRURA felt a peculiar mixture of sadness and anger as he approached the palace complex of Mathura. The towe
ring stone towers of the old palace had long since been subsumed by the gleaming new facades of the new one raised by the Usurper.

  He felt worse as he rode his horse up the winding stone pathway that led uphill, designed to make it harder for invaders to approach and more effective to defend.

  Once, he would have counted himself as being among the defenders, should Mathura ever happen to be under attack. Now, were such an event to occur, he would almost certainly be on this side of the great gates, leading a rebellious force of militia uphill to reclaim their stolen heritage and restore the Yadava nation to its former glory.