KRISHNA CORIOLIS#4: Lord of Mathura

by Ashok K. Banker

  Akrura continued speaking. ‘Until now, I had only known from afar of the deeds and exploits of the Deliverer. And like all such things, they appear as distant dreams viewed by another. However fantastical one’s own dreams are, they are nevertheless linked to oneself intimately, intricately, and one clings to them as an infant to sensations and sights and sounds it can experience but never wholly comprehend. True miracles are like another person’s dreams. They can never be wholly accepted because they lack the personal details and interweaving of experience and memory that makes one’s own dreams intimate. Thus I heard and acknowledged but never truly accepted the stories of your exploits. It was not that I doubt them, merely that I regarded them as perhaps exaggerated in detail, possibly even wholly made up. I did not doubt their veracity, merely their detail and substance. There was no doubt that you slew those demons, merely a question of how you did so, and whether the demons were indeed as fantastical as described. We of this earth are compelled to live among the dirt and grime of everyday reality. We are not built to easily accept that which we cannot touch, feel, see or hear with our own senses first-hand. Therefore we doubt. Therefore when I was bringing you to Kamsa, I believed I was carrying you to certain death. Now, having seen your true aspect, I know how foolish I was being. For you are Infinite, Incomparable, Invincible. Whatever struggles you have upon this mortal realm are struggles of flesh and blood, limitations of the physical form you inhabit. Yet in the end, you will triumph. For what can resist your power? I see that now. And I see how foolish and impetuous I was to want to turn back. This is destined. This is the prophecy of the Slayer. It must be fulfilled.’

  Akrura went on in this tone for a while, praising Krishna in more detail than could be summarized quickly. The gist of it came to his acceptance of Krishna’s divinity and invincibility. At the end, he prostrated himself upon the grassy field and paid homage to his Lord God.

  Finally, Krishna bent down and raised Akrura to his feet.

  ‘Good Akrura, you served my father Anakadundubhi and mother Devaki well, you serve your people honorably, and now you serve me well. Your service will be rewarded. Come now, the time approaches for my encounter with the Childslayer. We must continue to Mathura.’

  Akrura wiped his eyes clear of tears. ‘I shall harness the team and hitch the chariot at once.’

  ‘There is no need,’ Krishna said. ‘I meant what I said. We must go on by foot from this point. You may proceed with the chariot. We shall aid you in hitching and harnessing, then you must ride ahead and inform all of our impending arrival. We shall come on foot after you by and by.’

  Akrura glanced at Balarama who was already harnessing the team, using his powerful muscles to compel them to return to their duty. Knowing they could not resist his strength and will, the horses submitted meekly. ‘But Lord, how can I ride when you walk? I was blind before but now my eyes have been washed clean. Permit me to take you to my house. Blessed shall we be by your presence. I shall wash your feet clean of the dust of the road and serve you refreshment and we shall be eternally graced.’

  ‘I shall come to your house,’ Krishna said, ‘and to every house in Mathura, but only after I have performed my dharma by killing the Childslayer and fulfilling the prophecy.’

  Still Akrura found it hard to accept Krishna’s instructions but he did not argue further. Finally, somewhat dejected and sad, he bowed his head and joined his hands in acceptance.

  ‘I shall do as you say, Lord,’ he said.

  With these words, Akrura mounted the ready chariot and turned the head of the team leader, riding back to the road and then down to the ferry. He looked back dolefully at the two figures on the riverbank, and his desire that they ride with him was palpable. But under the Lord’s command, he continued on his way.

  7

  Vasudeva reached the top of the hill overlooking the Yamuna and paused the uks wagon. Beside him, Devaki clutched his arm. Both gazed down at the vista, enraptured.

  Vasudeva was seeing the Yamuna for the first time since the night of his son Krishna’s birth. Yet he recalled her colour, her fragrance and the sound of her voice as only a child can recall his mother.

  He recalled the parting of the waters and the peculiar fish smell of the riverbed as he had carried his newborn infant across. He remembered the sight of fish and crustaceans trapped in the parted waters, still alive and swimming and gawking at the sight of Vishnu incarnate in human form.

  He recalled wishing his newborn son could stay in Mathura, grow old enough to stand on his own two feet, run, play and swim like other Yadava children. He recalled thinking sadly that he would never be able to watch his Krishna do all those things and many more.

  He remembered hearing from his friend Akrura about Krishna’s first days in Gokul, how green and blue and beautiful the trees and sky were and how happy the little boy had been, how much he had loved this new world and wanted nothing more than to frolic and play and explore it. He had taken satisfaction in the knowledge that at least Krishna was safe and well and happy. If he and Devaki had to sacrifice the joy of parenting him in order to keep him from harm, so be it.

  Yet he missed the years he had never spent as a father. And he knew that Devaki, seated beside him on the wagon, missed them too.

  Not only had they had their first six children taken from them and destroyed by the heartless rakshasa Kamsa, they had lost the seventh and eighth voluntarily. Saved, yes. But lost as children to Vasudeva and Devaki.

  The joys of parenting, the heartache of nursing a sick child, the sweet sad pain of watching the changes of growth and knowing that that stage, that age, was now gone forever and would never come again, of knowing that with each passing day, this being was becoming an independent person who would one day leave home and go about his own life and that the intimacy of those early years of childhood and parenting would then be gone forever…the thousand aches and joys, cares and pleasures of being a father, a mother, a guardian.

  He had been deprived the opportunity to experience those feelings forever. As had Devaki.

  That was one of many things Kamsa had to answer for today, apart from the reign of terror he had brought to Mathura from the very first day. Those atrocities against the people inspired great anger in Vasudeva as well. He thought he had left that anger behind when Devaki and he had departed Mathura and gone on their years-long pilgrimage, a veritable exile of sorts. But now, looking down upon the great city of the Yadava nation, he found them rising in his breast again.

  Yet in the end, it was not vengeance he craved, but peace.

  He had never truly stopped feeling those things and a part of him still wished the fighting and warring and crises could just end, once and for all, and all beings live in peace, enjoying the fruits and repast of their shared world. Why was it so hard for living beings to understand that together, they were one whole being symbiotically interlinked through food, weather, biology, and a thousand other intricate interdependent systems, while individually they were nothing but strays, incapable of sustaining or surviving? Why did beings like Kamsa even exist? Why had they been created? Why was it necessary for a Slayer to be born at all? Why could the Creator not avoid creating cruelty and pain and violence and war? Why could the gods, in which category he knew his own Eighth Child himself was included, not rid the world of such things forever?

  But these were questions for gods and seers, prophets and pundits.

  He was merely Vasudeva of Vraj. Once King Vasudeva. Now merely husband to Devaki.

  And birth father to Krishna.

  Today, here, he was present in his capacity as father to Krishna, Slayer of Kamsa, come to face his nemesis at last, and he had returned with Devaki as soon as they had received the news brought by one of Akrura’s trusted associates.

  Today, the history of the Yadava nation would change forever, thanks to their son Krishna.

  An entire nation looked to his son to Deliver them from evil.

  A world watched, holding its breath as it w
aited to see if the devas still held sway over the mortal realm or if they had finally surrendered it to the asuras, abandoning their creations and children.

  Finally, it was Devaki who wiped her face clean of tears and looked at him.

  ‘Come, Vasu,’ she said, touching his arm. ‘Let us go meet the Usurper and witness the end of this tale. I am impatient to meet our little Ganshyam after this long while.’

  Nanda wiped his face roughly in the manner of a man who is not accustomed to crying openly or showing much emotion.

  He nodded silently and restarted the uks wagon, urging the animals to move forward and downward, down the long trundling raj-marg.

  8

  ‘SENAPATI Bana, the Vrishni are entering Mathura,’ cried the captain of the outer gate.

  General Bana of the Imperial Mathuran Army already knew the Vrishni had entered the city. He could hear the roaring of the crowds. It was so immense, it seemed to come from everywhere, from all around the world. Even on this narrow street, people had filled the houses overlooking the way that the procession would pass, crowded the rooftops and were leaning out of windows, eager for a glimpse. He had never seen Mathura so excited and happy in all his years. Not even the day of the peace accord had witnessed such a turnout or such adulation.

  The Deliverer was here.

  The same child who had been born in this very city, under lock and guard, heavy sentry watch, surrounded by a hostile army and a demonaic king who had killed his earlier born brothers.

  He had returned now to wreak his vengeance and fulfil the prophecy.

  Bana felt the stirring of emotion in his own heart as well. He had never failed to feel it each time he heard the people speak of the Deliverer. He had felt it when a condemned man prayed to the Deliverer at the moment before his execution, when a child had died of yellow fever with the name “Krishna” on her lips, when he saw the misery and suffering and pain inflicted by Kamsa and all those who served him these past twenty three years.

  The day the Deliverer had escaped Kamsa’s grasp was as fresh in Bana’s memory as if it had happened this very day. For that was also the day that Kamsa had compelled Bana to put his own newborn twin sons to death, before his pleading sobbing wife.

  And then, because he knew she would never forgive him and, more importantly, he would never forgive himself so long as she lived to remind him of his unforgivable crime, he had killed her as well. Slaughtered his own family with the same sword he still carried in his sheath even today.

  All for what? To serve a master who was more rakshasa than human? Who cared for nobody, respected nothing? For dharma? He could almost spit into the dust of the street at the sound of that word spoken. Dharma! It was not his dharma to slay his own loved ones. If that was dharma then the concept of dharma itself was wrong, twisted, insane. No act of violence could be justified or condoned by dharma or any religious precept, however rigorous the argument. Murder was murder, plain and simple, no exceptions, and he had murdered his family only because he feared Kamsa’s wrath.

  And it had all been for nothing. All those newborns slain, other children slaughtered, so many more innocents killed…for what? To slake the bloodlust of a demon king. To protect a powerful rakshasa from the divine vengeance that was due to him. To try to delay the judgement the gods had pronounced on Kamsa for his many, many crimes on earth.

  And he, Bana, was a part of those crimes.

  He deserved the punishment of the gods almost as much as Kamsa did. For he had done the evil overlord’s bidding. And in doing so, he shared equal blame and responsibility.

  But perhaps today, he would find some way to redress that long history of wrongdoing. If not redeem himself entirely, at least he might seek to balance the scales a little.

  He turned his horse into a side alley. The roaring of the crowds were muffled by the close walls of the two houses that stood next to one another. Waiting in the alley was a man with his face cloaked, despite the warmth of the day. He watched as Bana approached and dismounted at the point where the houses stood too close together to ride through.

  Bana walked the rest of the way, admiring the choice of location for this tryst. Only one man could pass through here at a time, that too slowly or else he might dislocate both shoulders. But then, Akrura was a clever man. Years of leading the Yadava rebellion against the Usurper had seasoned him into a shrewd and effective leader of men. In a way, Bana understood men like Akrura better than men like Vasudeva. He could never fathom Vasudeva’s principles of self-denial and pacificism. How could you fight beings like Kamsa and Jarasandha without resorting to violence? He respected Vasudeva greatly but he felt that such times demanded men like Akrura.

  He stopped at the place where the houses grew too close together to pass through. Akrura stood on the other side. Between them was a narrow gap large enough to see one another, but not enough for a grown man to pass through, even slipping sideways. Bana wondered idly if the house builders had deliberately designed these two residences to serve this very purpose. Why else would these walls curve this way?

  ‘It is arranged,’ he said curtly. ‘All the men loyal to me in the Mathura army will lay down their arms and surrender to Krishna if he defeats Kamsa in the tournament. It will be upto you and your supporters to ask for Krishna to be declared king.’

  Akrura nodded. ‘We will take care of our part. You take care of your’s. What of those not loyal to you?’

  Bana shrugged. ‘Who can say? There may be some fighting. I’m sure you have the stomach for that.’

  Akrura was silent a moment. ‘If it is the only way, yes. How will my people know which soldiers are loyal to Krishna and which are not?’

  ‘They will not. You will just have to wait and see the outcome.’

  ‘What of the Mohini Fauj? There are few of them but they are each deadlier than a dozen of your men.’

  Bana bristled at the comparison but knew he could not argue the point. ‘I cannot speak for them. Or for the Magadhan forces encamped within a day’s ride from Mathura. If Jarasandha chooses to make his move and assert his claim on the city as an imperial holding, even our army and your militia combined will not be able to hold him back.’

  Akrura frowned. Now it seemed it was his turn to bristle at the comparison. ‘I think you over-estimate the power of Magadha…’ he began.

  ‘I think you under-estimate it,’ Bana said curtly. He glanced back. ‘I must return to my post. The procession will come this way very shortly. May our great ancestor Yadu look over you.’

  Akrura said something that Bana ignored as he sidled carefully through the narrow gap, then strode back more confidently to where he had left his horse. He mounted the animal and turned its head, riding back to the street. From the approaching cacophony of dhol drums and trumpets and singing and chanting, he estimated that the procession would reach this place shortly.

  It was then that he registered what Akrura had said at the last.

  Yadu is dead.

  What had he meant by that? Yadu, their ancestor, founder of the Yadava nation, was dead? But surely he had died long ago, centuries earlier? Perhaps Bana was referring to the legend that Yadu was immortal, cursed with immortality in fact, because he had refused his suffering father Yayati’s request to exchange bodies with him. And that he could choose the day and time and place of his death. Did Bana mean that the real Yadu was here somewhere in Mathura and had chosen today itself to die? How…strange! That was the only word that came to mind. He did not know if it could be called auspicious, for Yadu was a Pitr. But the choosing of this day and time suggested a larger meaning. Perhaps it was auspicious after all, or ominous. Only by the end of the day would he know for sure.

  Bana sighed and returned the way he had come for the assignation, using his thighs to urge the horse up the sloping street.

  It was time to ring in the Age of Krishna and ring out the Age of Kamsa. No matter what that transition might cost.

  He gritted his teeth, remember the look on his sons�
� faces when he had killed them…and the look on his beloved wife’s face…He hoped to see a look akin to that when Kamsa died today.

  For Kamsa would die, must die.

  Or else all Mathura would die.

  9

  THEY came walking at a steady pace up the avenue. Soldiers in full battle armor lined both sides of the raj-marg, keeping back the swelling crowds. At first, nobody recognized the two young men on foot. Nobody in Mathura knew what the Deliverer looked like in person. And they had all been expecting a grand procession, a great chariot or carriage drawn by a magnificent horse team, festooned with jewels and bearing colorful krtha-dvaaj. Not two young adolescent boys walking briskly barefoot on the dusty road, clad in the simple vastras of Gokul govindas!

  For this reason, they entered the city without any fanfare. It was only after they passed that the word rippled down through the crowd. ‘Akrura said they were coming on foot. That must be them!’