She watched discretely as Krishna was greeted by her father and brother with a mixture of puzzlement and pride. Pride at being honored by a visit from the legendary Dwarkadish, lord of a kingdom so great that nobody knew where it was situated! And also puzzlement at why he was here. He was offered the traditional welcome drink, madhuparka, the gift of garments and other ritual items and Krishna complied with the Vidarbha custom by honoring the father and family with prescribed gifts in turn. The pride soon wore thin but the puzzlement remained and at least in Rukmi’s case, threatened to turn to hostility. She knew it must take every gram of her brother’s self-control to restrain himself from demanding loudly how in Naraka the murderer of his best friend dared to come ask for his sister’s hand in marriage. But Rukmi remained silent, only exchanging a glance with one person to show his displeasure.
That person was not in the least puzzled, nor proud. She saw Jarasandha’s hatchet face acknowledge Rukmi’s heated glance as he himself watched Krishna. The God Emperor’s face bore an absence of expression that was more revealing than her brother’s false toothy grin of greeting.
The Magadhan sensed her watching him and glanced slyly in her direction. She felt a sizzling on the nape of her neck as if she had been scalded there with the hot froth of a steaming bath into which she had lain back too quickly and looked away--to Krishna, who had his back to Jarasandha.
From the way Krishna held himself, she knew he was in fact looking at Jarasandha through eyes other than those on the front of his face, and as he finished the pleasantries and stepped away from the royal dais, he glanced up at her. The look from Krishna had a totally apposite effect upon her from the one Jarasandha had evoked: She felt her left thigh, army and eye tremble and recalled that these were the signs of an auspicious union.
Accompanying Krishna’s look was his mind-message:
The Devi will unite us. Go to her and she will bring you to me.
And then he was gone as suddenly and discretely as he had come. She realized afterward that he had not even come to look upon the prospective bride, as was his right.
Then again, he hardly needed to see her to decide if he desired her. He was her’s already. And she his.
It was bringing them together that was the daunting task.
9
Vidarbha tradition required the bride to begin the swayamvara proceedings with a visit to the shrine of Devi Ambika, also known as Bhawani. After touching the feet of the Goddess and asking her blessings, she would then proceed to the swayamvara hall--which was actually an open field to accomodate the many kings present--where she would then preside over a tournament of skill and wits.
Every suitor then had to vie for her hand by winning each of the various bouts of strength, skill, arms or wit, and for all rounds, the prospective bride and she alone would be sole judge of who won or failed. When the tournament was over, the purohits would then chant their mantras and begin the last phase of the wedding rituals and incantations--the preparatory rituals and mantras had begun weeks earlier--as she took the great garland of victory and went around the entire hall, making her final selection.
The suitor she selected, she would adorn with the garland, and he would then take her hand and lead her to the sacred agni chaukat, to perform the last rituals of holy matrimony before all present.
The swayamvara was designed to be a transparent and fair process, providing every suitor with an equal opportunity to prove his worth, and the bride to choose her own husband guided by good judgement and free will.
Some women chose the paramour they had dallied with earlier, using the ceremonial proceeding to disguise their private indiscretions even as they sealed their love with social approval. Others dallied with one man but eventually chose another, as was their right. Many remained virginal by choice or compulsion, depending on their house or their own desire, and simply chose the winner of the contest. Still others permitted their family and elders to choose on their behalf, using the ceremony merely as a seal of authentication so that no rival could later claim he had been treated unfairly by the house and not given a chance to present himself as a suitable match.
When the bride chose her groom, regardless of her choice, every man present was expected to understand and respect her decision. It was not only the norm, it was the only honorable way. For anyone who was foolish enough to question her choice, object, or let his own frustration and disappointment show at that moment, would only ensure that he was never invited again to any decent woman’s swayamvara or permitted to offer himself as a suitor elsewhere.
The threat of social ostracism and being barred from seeking a wife in another house were usually sufficient to deter any hotheads or loose-tongued fools but for those who remained undeterred and grew abusive or offensive, a contingent of the toughest punishers in the kingdom stood aside, ready to take hold of the offender. And under Vidarbha law, and even Arya law by and large, the host was within his rights to mete out any punishment he saw fit to the offender. Most swayamvaras ended with at least a few less suitors returning home than the number that had arrived.
Jarasandha and his coterie had laid their trap carefully and brilliantly. They knew he would had pre-arranged with Rukmini to have her garland him at the final selection: she would go through the motions of the tournament and the events but in the end, her garland would go around Krishna’s slender neck. And then nobody could deny her her choice because the ritual would have been conducted in a fair and honorable manner. Krishna would then take Rukmini to his golden chariot, which was parked with the other royal chariots, the cynosure of every charioteer’s eyes, and fly away back to his mythical magical city of Dwarka. And once that happened, Jarasandha would be back where he was before: with nothing in hand and a vengeance crying out to be fulfilled.
So Jarasandha intended to challenge Krishna at the swayamvara itself. His plan was to make the contest personal and two-fold. Since Krishna had killed his son-in-law Kamsa, he was entitled to demand an opportunity to confront Krishna honorably in a champion’s duel. What better occasion than this one? But in deference to the bride’s earlier declaration that all contests would be individual and no violence or combat would be brooked, Jarasandha was willing to challenge Krishna to a two-man contest instead. And for this particular contest, the bride would not be entitled to pass judgement: Jarasandha wished to let the crowd decide the victor. And of course, the crowd was his!
It was a foolproof plan. Krishna could not refuse or he would lose face. Rukmini could not object for Jarasandha had every right. And once pitted against him, Jarasandha knew that he could match Krishna in every respect. Especially given the sports he had in mind. Moreover, to ensure Krishna’s acceptance, he would hurl such insults at him over his murder of Kamsa, his own maternal uncle, that even the supremely calm young man would not be able to resist.
He had seen Krishna’s veneer crack that time on the battlefield when he realized how shrewdly Jarasandha was using the Vortals to perpetuate the siege of Mathura. And he had seen Krishna’s desperate ruses to escape fighting again--with the Yavana, then with the armies of Magadha, and even today with Rukmi’s forces. It was clear that Krishna did not wish to rish his Yadavas in any more war and bloodshed. He regarded this as his personal mission and so he had come alone, unarmed (at least so far as Jarasandha could see) and without even his inseparable companion, Balarama.
Krishna did not wish to fight.
But he could not refuse a fair challenge. Not when his own honor and that of the entire Yadava clan was being questioned before all the chiefs and lords and kings of Vidarbha and this entire region of Aryavarta.
Jarasandha was certain Krishna must and would concede.
And once he did, then Jarasandha would change the rules--and engage Krishna in direct combat.
Certainly, Princess Rukmi would object in dismay and cry out to stop the fight.
But Jarasandha had just cause and the fact that Krishna had engaged his own uncle in direct combat in much the same way, s
howing him no mercy and killing him on the akhaada field in full view of Mathura, would cost him all sympathy at this forum. King Bhishmaka and Prince Rukmi would not stop the fight.
And then, with Krishna’s slender neck in his grasp, Jarasandha would kill the cowherd of Vrindavan as mercilessly as he had killed his son-in-law Kamsa.
Perhaps when he was done, he would have the Yadava’s body chopped up and prepared with that new recipe he had acquired here in Vidarbha. Yes, he thought, stroking his freshly oiled moustache, Krishna would taste quite delicious roasted and seasoned, he was sure of it.
His twin tongue-tips flickered between his slightly parted lips, tasting the sweet savory flavor already.
It had been a very long time since he had tasted godflesh.
10
Rukmini’s feet trembled as she set foot on the threshold of the women’s palace, the female-only enclave of the main house. She was barefoot and the stone floor was cold: more so because she was flushed and feverish with anticipation.
She stepped out before a hushed crowd of sakhis, the bridesmaids whose task it was to protect and tend to the bride-to-be on her final journey as a maiden.
Excited young faces watched her every move, every gesture as minutely as if memorizing it for their own reference: as the only daughter of the king, she was every young woman’s ideal and aspiration figurehead. Everything she did influenced women across Vidarbha.
She knew that the way she walked, moved, the silver nose-ring in her nostril, everything would be copied down to the last detail, or imitated as closely as was possible. She was what every Vidarbha girl wanted to be and in this moment, through her, they were vicariously living their own fantasy.
As she began walking barefoot, her pathway was showered with flower petals by young pre-pubescent girls carrying wicker baskets that were replenished constantly through the walk. The path had already been washed and sprinkled with Gangajal, the holy water of the mother river of the sub-continent. Everywhere she looked there were young girls and women, a river of eager shining female faces, all turned towards her, walking with her and following in her wake. A veritable army of women.
Young maidens. Old grandmothers. Matronly daiimaas, some with their wards suckling. Young housewives. Middle-aged women. Little girls. Women of all ages, shapes, sizes, colors, tribes, castes, classes, faiths, commingled in this unifying tradition, united by their common love for their princess, the closest they had to a queen since Rukmini’s mother had died of an ailment a decade ago. The love she felt, the blessing, the warmth and affection, were overwhelming. She walked in the shadow of their love and aspirations.
The way to the temple of Devi Bhawani was perhaps a kilometre, winding through back roads and behind the market area, passing stablery and other places of trade. But today, it was a river of women, and she saw not a single man’s face among them all the way. Beyond the immediate press, she sensed the roar of a great number of people: the town was filled with more numbers than it had ever seen in its entire existence. Music was everywhere: the masculine rhythm of Mrdnga, the triumphant trumpeting of conch shells, the heart-thrilled beat of smaller drums, the gay tweeting of flutes, and an orchestra of other instruments played all around, singers adding their sonorous voices to the acclaim and celebration.
Courtesans huddled immediately outside the temple, for it was their privilege to honor the Devi most fervently, through their own services as well as their private devotion. This was the only time that even the wives of brahmins rubbed shoulders with the dancing women and pale features were visible alongside painted ones--all made resplendent with garlands, fine garments, ornaments and redolent with perfumes that clashed and filled the air with an intoxicating miasma. The singing was very loud here, near the temple and within it, the fervent rhythm of ecstasy, the half-maddened bawling of the temple musicians seeking to reach the ears of godhead through their heartsongs.
Rukmini was made to pause at the temple steps, rituals performed, feet bathed, mantras recited, unguents and ashes applied, then she was given a sip of the water of ablution--Ganga water again--and a narrow gap parted to permit her entrance into the inner sanctum of the Devi.
Here, democracy ended and only the elder brahmin women remained, guiding and managing her through the final rituals. She offered her respect to Ambika in her form as Bhavani, named so for her consort Bhava, namely Shiva. She paid homage with water, scented oils, wholegrain, agar, fine garments, flowers, sandalwood garlands, silver and gold jewellery, with clay diyas, each offering a ritual in itself.
Then she respected the brahmin wives of the priests who managed the temple, for no men could yet be present until this stage was past, honoring them with gifts of fruit, tambul nut, pieces of sugar cane, and ritual food items. The brahmin women performed the ritual, then returned the balance of the items to her, now blessed by the Devi’s grace. She broke her fast only with a token morsel and a great wave of excitement rippled back down the river of women all the way across the city.
Now, her vow of silence was ended and she could speak and express herself freely.
Her prayer to the Devi was brief and unctuous, yet deeply sincere:
As you have Krishna, father of your children, great one, grant that my eternal consort, my Krishna, be my mate in this life as well. Grant this sole wish of mine.
And then, it was time to proceed to the swayamvara. A maiden approached bearing a cushion upon which was presented to Rukmini a jewelled signet ring: the official seal of the Queen of Vidarbha. The ring had last been worn by the Late Queen and it was inextricably linked with Rukmini’s last memory of her ailing mother during those last weeks of suffering. She recalled kissing the ring over and over and praying that her mother would recover, somehow. But there were some wishes even goddesses could not grant.
“You must wear it, Princess,” said the maid in a voice that cut through Rukmini’s commingled emotions. “It is the sign of your ascencion to bridehood. Now you are blessed by the Devi and ready to choose your husband under the laws of your nation.”
Rukmini looked up into the maid’s eyes and saw her future blossom.
***
Jarasandha’s felt his interest prickle as the crowd of women parted and the Princess of Vidarbha stepped out into the open. Like the petals of a lotus touched by water, the colorfully clad and ornamented women shifted to reveal Rukmini as she emerged from the temple precincts.
The God Emperor of Magadha was not easily moved but the first glimpse of Rukmini took his breath away.
Jet-black her skin color, as dark as Lakshmi herself. Her face was colored with her own excitement and anticipation. Clad in the customary low-waisted garment revealing her abdomen and leaving her shoulders and throat bare, she was as alluring as Lakshmi made flesh. Her narrow waist was spanned by a jewelled girdle that hung on the edges of her hips, swaying as she walked, the tiny silver bells adorning the girdle swaying and tinkling softly.
Still bare-footed she walked with a careful cadence which emphasized her feminine form, causing her feet to swing around each other and step directly before one another, like a mare attempting to cross a narrow pathway. But her gait was that of a swan rather than a mare, a black swan with eyes that glowed like clay diyas in the ebony angular shape of her beauty. Her lips were red as bimba fruit, her teeth as white as nightqueen blossoms. Her feet jingled with anklets. A jewelled signet ring upon her finger appeared too large for that slender hand and delicate fingers--or indeed too large for her entire slender body.
Around him, Jarasandha sensed the reactions of the other kings and chiefs. Across the swayamvara field, the collective gaze of men fixated on this vision of feminine perfection approaching them. He knew that if he, with his asura powers, could be so deeply aroused by this mortal wench, then they must be overwrought with lust and desire. Every man present must be clenching his fists and wanting to step forward here and now to claim her for his own. It would not surprise him if many did so.
If they did, he would be the fir
st to step out and hack them down before they reached within yards of the Princess.
He would brook no man approaching that vision of ethereal luminescence.
KRISHNA CORIOLIS#6: Fortress of Dwarka Page 22