KRISHNA CORIOLIS#4: Lord of Mathura

by Ashok K. Banker

  It had not been so long ago that he had come up this same winding paved path, accompanying his dear friend Vasudeva and so many other kith and kin. What hope had filled his heart that morning, what expectations he had carried aloft alongwith the cheerful kritha-dvaj banner of the Vrishni that he had held up s he rode. The watching crowds that had thronged these walled streets had shared that hope and expectation, filling the crisp morning air with their own shouts and cheers of encouragement and support. And within those great ancient stone walls, as Vasudeva and his counterpart King Ugrasena had crossed raj-tarus, how deafening had been the cheers then! Loud enough to carry across all Bharat-varsha, this great land of Jambudwipa, sub-continent of the Jamun tree, where the Bharata tribe had co-existed in relative harmony since the seminal battle fought by Trtsu Bharata King Sudas on the banks of the Parusni, the battle that won the Bharata nation the right to continue to inhabit and proliferate across this great realm.

  Surely their ancestors had heard those cheers and smiled at their optimism, just as they must have shaken their heads and sighed as the historic peace treaty had been shattered within hours by King Ugrasena’s own son, the then-Prince Kamsa.

  Now that prince was King, Usurper to his father’s throne. Vasudeva and his wife Devaki were in veritable exile of their own choice, calling it a life pilgrimage to neutralize the political implications of their years-long absence.

  The Yadava nation was embroiled in the nastiest tribal politics and infighting since its inception by the great ancestor Yadu.

  A semblance of peace hung over the nation like a reeking cloud of smoke over a cremation ghat, but beneath that obscurantist facade were the ugly faces of opportunists taking venal advantage of the atmosphere of exploitation and oppression. Those with capital in their fists and greed in their hearts thrived and grew richer and greedier. Those with only honest labour and the talent of craft, art or knowledge suffered and were misused by the capital-holders. It was the lowest a society could descend morally and still appear to be prosperous and vital, and it was all the result of Kamsa’s kingship, supported, encouraged and artfully designed by Jarasandha.

  Akrura stood against all that Kamsa stood for now. A far cry from that day of the peace treaty when he had stood side by side with the son of Ugrasena and prayed for peace. Today, he led the most widespread resistance movement against Kamsa’s continuing oppression of the people, controlled a militia the size of a small army, and managed a network of refugees and migrants that moved across the Arya nations like a concourse of rivers and tributaries.

  He represented the opposition, illegal, unofficial and responsible for more actions against the state and its governing head, Kamsa, than any of the hundreds of criminals rotting in the city’s deepest dungeons or those hundreds of thousands of protestors and opposers who had been despatched over the decades of Kamsa’s long and cruel regime.

  And yet, here he was, riding alone and unarmed up the last leg of the pathway that led to Kamsa’s palace. In a moment, he would reach the great gates and pass through as he had that long-lost day of the peace treaty. Some time later, he would be taken before Kamsa himself and presented. And after that, it would be seen whether he was condemned and executed, tortured or torn apart.

  His people had begged him not to go. They had pleaded, cajoled, urged, argued, fought and done everything else possible to make him stay.

  Yet here he was. Riding into the demon’s den. The asura’s lair. The rakshasa’s hellish homestead.

  Why?

  The reason was simple: Kamsa had summoned him. And he was curious.

  Akrura reached the great gates of Mathura palace and passed through them unchallenged.

  33

  KAMSA grinned down at Akrura. Leaving his throne, he came down from the dais, surprising the entire court. At once, Akrura sensed people stepping back, cringing or wincing as they anticipated a bloody end to the royal visitor. He had heard tales of how Kamsa enjoyed using his newfound ability to despatch those who offended him in court, be they emissaries from foreign lands or his own people. It was said that he could crush a man’s skull between his thumb and little finger, with no more effort than an ordinary man would need to squash a grape, and with similar results.

  Akrura held his ground, keeping his palms pressed together in the same namaskaram stance with which he had just greeted Kamsa. He maintained the same pleasant look on his face and kept his head slightly bowed as a show of respect. But inwardly, he thought that if Kamsa had planned this as a means of crippling the militia and the resistance, he had certainly played this hand with more finesse than Akrura had anticipated.

  He did not tense visibly as Kamsa stretched out a hand towards him, a hand that appeared quite normal if a bit thickened at the wrist as befitted a swordsman and wrestler, but which he knew was capable of feats of strength that elephants could not hope to match. Even the legendary Hathi-Yodha, recently retired from active duty due to age and ill health, had never been feared as Kamsa’s strength was now. If even a tenth of the rumors were to be believed, the Usurper was as close to being superhuman as it was possible without aspiring to god status.

  Akrura did not even need to credit rumors: he had himself watched more than one wrestling match where Kamsa had participated, observing incognito from the crowd as the Usurper had pounded and hammed opponent after opponent to bloody pulp. It had been a chilling sight and he had been filled with greater respect for Kamsa than he would have believed possible.

  It appeared that as Kamsa had grown in strength and ability, he had gained in self-control and maturity. While the old Kamsa had wildly struck out at anyone and everyone, using his rakshasa size and power to kill randomly, this Kamsa picked his fights and opponents carefully and kept his considerably enhanced strength well curbed, unleashing it only on the wrestling akhada. That was impressive and also a sign of a dangerous opponent. Beware the enemy who can control his power and unleash it only when unavoidable: he is more dangerous than the fool who lashes out at every provocation.

  Now, as Kamsa’s legendary hand reached out to Akrura, he tensed despite himself. One twist of those powerful fingers and the head of the resistance movement would be crushed, quite literally.

  But the most feared fingers in the kingdom descended with surprising gentleness upon his shoulder, resting there with the weight of a normal man’s hand.

  ‘Bho! Bho!’ Kamsa said, ‘Well met, Friend Akrura. Well met indeed.’

  ‘The privilege is mine, my lord,’ Akrura said mildly.

  ‘You do yourself a disservice,’ Kamsa said loudly, clearly speaking for the benefit of the court. He turned theatrically and continued addressing Akrura even though he faced a chamber filled with those who represented the considerable wealth and prestige and power of the nation. ‘You are among the most respected Yadavas in the land today. Do not even bother to deny it!’

  Akrura did not deny it. He listened, as curious to see what new political maneuver was being unfurled.

  Kamsa continued praising Akrura in language that sounded carefully rehearsed, perhaps even scripted. Akrura noted that the old minister Pralamba was present and appeared to be hanging onto every word spoken by Kamsa. Akrura resisted the impulse to smile openly. So Kamsa had asked Pralamba to prepare an eulogy for him and had memorized it word by word. Interesting. That was not typical Kamsa behavior. Which behooved the question: was this to be Akrura’s last eulogy?

  After several minutes of typical bombastic political wordage, Kamsa finally came to the nub:

  ‘You are friend alike to the Bhoja and the Vrishni clans,’ Kamsa said, now standing with one foot on the first level of the dais, knee bent, leaning with one arm on his own thigh. ‘You act as spokesman for both clans, conveying delicate messages from one to the other with tact and diplomacy. Your neutrality is unquestioned. Your wisdom and loyalty to the Yadava nation as a whole beyond dispute. Most of all, you are famous for always acting in the best interests of others, even when the outcome may not be in your own best
interests.’

  Kamsa put the raised foot down, straightened himself and came towards Akrura once again.

  Now, he will finally spill his guts, Akrura thought, or he will spill mine. He had already listened to more praises from Kamsa’s lips than he had heard spoken aloud in such an august gathering from any of his dearest friends in his entire lifetime. Perhaps it was true what the wise said: Nobody can praise you the way an enemy praises you…just before he slips the knife between your ribs.

  Now, he waited for the knife to pierce his skin.

  Instead, Kamsa stopped before him and raised both hands, in a gesture that could be interpreted as welcoming as well as pleading: ‘Act now in the interests of all Yadavas everywhere,’ Kamsa said. ‘Do what is best for us all. Perform a small favor for this humble servant of our great nation.’

  Humble servant of our great nation? Kamsa? Phuargh! Akrura was glad he had not eaten before coming to Kamsa’s court. If he heard one more sentence like that last one, he was sure he would regurgitate his stomach’s contents.

  ‘What is your desire, my lord?’ Akrura asked aloud, speaking in as pleasant a tone as he could muster. This was a play being enacted for the benefit of Mathura after all. He would play his part as well as Kamsa did. It was the reason why he had been tolerated and permitted to live in Mathura and stay alive all these years, while so many others as patriotic than he had been executed summarily or forced into exile.

  Kamsa beamed a boyish smile, even though the first signs of grey were already visible at his temples. ‘Most charitable Akrura. Giver of gifts and doer of deeds. I ask you a boon just as a tapasvi asks a boon of the Devas after decades of penance.’

  Akrura’s heart began to beat faster. Suddenly he thought he knew what was coming next. Some sixth sense gained from a lifetime in politics warned him. Yet when the actual words were spoken aloud they still came as a shock.

  ‘Go to Nanda-Maharaja, master of Vraj-bhoomi. Lord of the Vrishni. He has two sons, Krishna and Balarama.’

  Akrura heard his voice speak as if from a great height high above his own body. ‘Yes, my lord, what of them?’

  ‘Bring them here to Mathura,’ Kamsa said, smiling. ‘Take my finest chariot. Return with them as fast as my horses will carry you there and back.’

  Akrura swallowed to buy himself a moment, glanced around at the enraptured court. ‘Forgive me, but may I ask why, my King?’ he said, careful to make the question sound as innocuous and non-threatening as possible.

  Kamsa grinned broadly. ‘So that I may kill them both.’

  34

  ‘And then he said, after he had killed you both, he would slay every last one of your family members and relatives, even the most remote, distant of relations by blood or by marriage. And when he was done killing them, he would slay the entire Vrishni, Bhoja and Dasarha clans, followed by his father, the old King Ugrasena, his mother Padmavati, his uncle Devaka, and all other Yadavas who could threaten his power, now or in future.’

  Akrura stopped speaking and remained silent as the roomful of people absorbed his words. Outside the door of Nanda’s house, the chariot in which he had just arrived was still visible, for he had given instructions that the horses were not to be unhitched as he would return within moments. The animals snorted and stamped their feet, flanks steaming from the heat of their long run. Barely a few hours had passed since he had stood in Kamsa’s court and heard those terrible words, yet the world had changed entirely since then.

  ‘It has come then,’ Nanda said sombrely, ‘the day we have long dreaded.’

  ‘We knew it would, father,’ Krishna said. ‘It is the only way this can finally end.’

  Even at 15, Krishna was more than a young man. His face shone with the glow of a superior being. His pitch-dark face appeared almost deep blue, the blue of the sky at midnight in certain seasons. His crow-black eyes were soulful, intense, yet smoldering with a quality that was similar to human emotion yet transcended human emotion. A light gleamed deep within each eye, like the promise of lightning in a thundercloud, flashing deep within. Or like the threat of a gharial lurking deep within still waters, capable of rushing up and wresting away life before thought could comprehend the action.

  His voice had deepened a little, though not as much as Balarama’s, whose voice matched his bulk and breadth. Krishna’s voice was still a tenor, a flute-player’s voice, soft and clear. Yet the authority in that gentle voice was impossible to ignore: even the cows paused in their chewing to pay heed when Krishna spoke, as if they could understand his human words. Perhaps they could. Perhaps all creatures could.

  Yashoda could not brook his meaning.

  ‘You will not go,’ she said, rising from the floor where she had been sitting cross-legged since Akrura’s unexpected arrival moments earlier. Beside her, Rohini also rose, but said nothing, her face speaking volumes. ‘I will not let you go, neither of you,’ Yashoda said.

  With age had come a greater dignity. Even as her features had thickened alongwith her waist, her maternal appearance had grown matriarchal. She moved and spoke with the authority of the legendary matrons that had founded the Arya clans in ancient ages, those great dams that had sired the more famous princes and kings who were more often the subject of portraits and epic ballads. At this moment, Yashoda’s face and manner matched the mythic power of those legendary kings.

  ‘Mother,’ Balarama said in his deeper voice, placing a large fair hand on her back. ‘It was foretold even in the prophecy of yore.’

  ‘Then untell it!’ she cried. ‘Cancel the prophecy. Erase destiny. Forget the foretelling. Ignore the summons. Remain here. Just for a while longer!’

  ‘How long, mother?’ Balarama asked kindly. To Krishna and he, both Yashoda and Rohini were mother, as was Devaki whom they had seen but once in their lives. ‘How long will we bide our time and wait and slay the asura assassins that come. First they only threatened Krishna. Now they come to do harm to all of you. Last time it was father Nanda’s turn. Next time…’

  ‘Let the assassins come,’ Yashoda said. ‘We will fight them.’

  Balarama shook his head. ‘Sometimes, one has to take the fight to the enemy. One cannot simply wait.’

  ‘But he has called you! You heard what Akrura said. This is his plan. To summon Balarama and you to Mathura and kill you both. After which he intends to kill everyone else.’

  ‘Yes,’ Balarama acknowledged. ‘And now that he has issued a summons in this fashion, publicly, before the court of Mathura and in full hearing of all the clans, we must go, or we shall lose face.’

  ‘But he is a demon of demons,’ Yashoda said. ‘A master of evil. What does it matter what he says or does? Ignore him. Stay home. You are safe here.’

  ‘What good is it if we are safe when Mathura remains unsafe for our people, mother?’ Balarama asked gently. ‘We must go.’

  ‘It is a trap. He tries to trick you into coming. His assassins have all failed so now he resorts to this last desperate effort. Because he lacks the courage to come himself and face you both. So he seeks to lure you into his domain where he can attack you in devious treacherous ways.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Balarama agreed. ‘But still we must go.’

  ‘He has promised to kill you. He cannot go back on such a promise without losing face himself. He means to follow through this time. To destroy you both!’

  ‘Then we must give him the opportunity to prove his own promise right—or prove him wrong ourselves.’

  Yashoda joined her hands together towards Balarama, then turned and gestured towards Krishna as well, tears spilling freely down her lined cheeks, dampening the strands of white hair that lay upon her face. ‘I beg of you. If you love me, do not go!’

  Krishna came forward and clasped Yashoda’s hands in his own. ‘We love you mother, just as we love our mother nation. For the sake of our mother, we must go. All that Balarama has said is right. We cannot refuse this invitation. This is the very day for which we have both been waiting, for wh
ich we have prepared. For which we have been born and put upon this earth. This is our mission. This is the purpose for which we came. This is what we must do in order to rid the world of Kamsa’s evil.’

  ‘But you are still only two young boys, barely young men. He is a great and powerful rakshasa, surrounded by other rakshasas. He has laid a terrible trap for you. If you go to Mathura, he will use some deceit to overcome you. He will do everything possible to destroy you.’

  ‘That is how it must be,’ Krishna admitted. ‘It is how it has always been. But we have one thing that he can never have, has never had, and will never have.’

  Even Yashoda was silent, wondering what Krishna meant.

  Then, in the dialect of a distant tribe, the Marathas who inhabited a region farther South and on the westward coast of the Bharata sub-continent, Krishna said, ‘Aaichi punyaaii.’