KRISHNA CORIOLIS#3: Flute of Vrindavan

by Ashok K. Banker

  ‘And if Drupad joins the Sura Yadavas, then Kuntibhoj will certainly join in as well.’

  Kamsa raised his head, thinking. ‘Kuntibhoj regards Vasudeva’s sister Pritha as his own daughter.’

  ‘Indeed, sire, she is even known as Kunti for that reason.’ Pralamba was wise enough to see that his liege had caught the thread of the argument and did not need to be prompted further. He waited as Kamsa rose from his throne and paced a few moments, thinking.

  ‘And Kunti alias Pritha, Vasudeva’s sister, is married to that discoloured king of Hastinapura, what’s his name? White-face?’

  ‘Pandurang,’ Pralamba said.

  ‘Yes, Pandu. So if Kuntibhoj joins in, then there’s a possibility of old man Bhishma putting Hastinapura’s akshohinis into the alliance as well.’ Kamsa walked over to a painted map depicting the Bharata subcontinent. He considered the forces that would be aligned against him, jabbing his finger against the heavy canvas as he called out each name: ‘The Suras. Panchala. Bhoja. Hastinapura.’

  He turned to look down at Pralamba, eyes glittering. ‘Is it a coincidence that all these happen to be territories that have successfully resisted the efforts of Jarasandha and remain hostile to the empire of Magadha?’

  ‘Nay, sire. It is no coincidence. That is another reason why they are only waiting for an excuse to open a war front with Mathura. They regard Mathura as a weak…’ The old advisor bit off his words in mid-sentence. He was about to say ‘weak link’ but had just realized how that might sound to the ruler of that alleged ‘weak’ link. ‘…as a possible bargaining tool,’ he continued, ‘and hope that by fighting and crushing Mathura they will force Jarasandha to break off his campaign against the other territories and return here to defend you, his son-in-law, as well as Mathura, the pride of his empire. Tactically, that would make it impossible for Jarasandha to continue his campaign of expansion and consolidation. If Jarasandha has to stay and defend Mathura on so many fronts—,’ the advisor gestured at the map which depicted Mathura surrounded by the territories Kamsa had just pointed out, ‘it would effectively grind the Magadhan campaign to a halt. Through shrewd alliances with the other nations, they would throw Jarasandha’s forces out from there as well, and push him back to the western frontier provinces, leaving him nowhere to go except the far western mleccha lands.’

  Pralamba was an old horse and when he referred to the far western lands as ‘mleccha’ he put every nuance of derogatory inflection into that term. To the old guard those regions western of the Kusa ranges were not merely barbaric and uncivilized, they were undesirable.

  Kamsa thought about this for several moments. He could not find any reason to disagree with anything Pralamba had said. Yet he seethed at the thought of letting Putana’s death go unavenged.

  He dismissed Pralamba abruptly and sat brooding.

  Somehow, he must find a way to get at that brat and destroy him once and for all. It was no longer a question of his own survival. It was revenge, pure and simple. In the meanwhile, he reassured himself reluctantly, the three remaining assassins still remained to do their job. He could at least hope they fared better than Putana.

  7

  As the days passed and Krishna still did not speak to her as he had before, Yashoda began to wonder if the attack had affected him somehow. They had ascertained that Putana had been attempting to feed him poison milk to kill him. That he had survived was a miracle due partly to his own extraordinary nature, she knew, but what if the poison had affected him in some way. The deep sleep he had fallen into immediately following the incident, the fact that he hadn’t spoken to her through the mental voice he had used so frequently before, these things troubled her. At the same time, he seemed quite normal and playful, his appetite was as healthy as ever, and when watching him at play with his brother Balarama, everything seemed quite normal. But that was the point: her Krishna was not quite normal, he was more than normal. As days went by and he seemed like all the other infants his age, sons and daughters of her sisters and friends who came daily to play with him and Balarama, she began to doubt her own memory. Had she actually heard him speak to her within her mind? Could it have been motherly instinct that made her certain she knew what he was thinking? What about the cart he had shattered with a single kick of his little foot? Had that truly been the work of some rakshasa and had it been Vishnu’s divine hand that had spared him rather than his own supernormal abilities?

  She hesitated to bring up these matters with Nanda. He seemed preoccupied and distracted as well. There was talk of rebellion and of an alliance against Mathura. Nanda had always been clear on the matter of politics: whatever the problem, war and violence were part of it, they could never be solutions to anything. His staunch insistence on pacificism was both a necessary counterpoint to the constant heated tempers and enraged debates as well as a frustration to those who felt the time for talk and peaceful methods was long past. Vasudeva and Devaki had escaped into exile and nobody knew exactly they were even now, only that they were safe and well. She was relieved at that news. She was less relieved to hear that Akrur and the Vrishni rebels had bartered an alliance with Drupad, king of Panchal. She did not know much about politics. But Nanda spoke to her when his mind was overflowing with worries and he felt that Drupad was an ambitious and grasping king, a war monger who would rouse his army and ride on Mathura without much provocation. He felt that Akrur had erred in bringing him into this fray. But Panchal was the only nation willing to shelter the fleeing Sura refugees seeking to escape the Usurper’s yoke and risk incurring the wrath of Kamsa, and such support came at a heavy price.

  If Akrur reached an agreement with Drupad, then Panchal would march on Mathura. And if Panchal’s army attacked Mathura, Bhoja could not stay neutral. King Kuntibhoja would have to join them, if only because, as adoptive father of Vasudeva’s sister Pritha alias Kunti, he was obliged to do so. And if Kunti’s adoptive father joined in, then Kunti’s husband Pandu might be similarly motivated. Pandu himself did not have sufficient power to commit Hastinapura’s considerable might but his Pitama, Bhishma of the Terrible Vow, certainly did. And if Bhisma Pitama aligned with the forces against Mathura then it was almost certain that Jarasandha the Magadhan would join in the melee. It would be a war on every front and it could be decades, or even centuries, before peace descended on the Yadavas again. Nanda knew and feared this more than the actual threat of violence. It was one thing to suffer the yoke of Kamsa. But was it worth risking a century of war to overthrow that yoke? And who was to say what the eventual outcome might be? After all, the Bharata dynasty, from which Hastinapura’s rulers were descended, specifically the Puru line, were the forebears of the Yadavas. And Yadu had been outcast by his own father Yayati, banished to these regions. There were still tribes who recalled that ancient humiliation and resented it, believing that Yadavas had equal claim to the throne of the City of Elephants, Hastinapura, or as they preferred to call it with deliberate irony, Nagapura, City of Snakes. What might begin as a sincere attempt to support an oppressed people and overthrow a tyrant Usurper might well end up as a war engulfing the entire subcontinent. War was like a half-starved wound-maddened tiger unleashed in a closed house full of people: the only certain outcome was that people would die. Who and why did not matter to the tiger of war.

  So Yashoda kept silent about her concerns, thinking she would give it another day or two, then another week, then another fortnight. And as the weeks passed, she began to resign herself to the change in her beloved Krishna. So what if he could not speak to her through her mind any longer? He was still her beloved one. He was healthy, happy, playful…most of all, he was alive! She was grateful for that.

  Now that Krishna was walking, it was harder to keep track of him. Most infants took a few steps one day, then stumbled and fell, then gradually progressed over the next few weeks. Not Krishna. One day he was sitting and creeping and crawling, the next day he was dancing on Putana’s corpse, and from that day onwards, he walked like any toddler.
He lurched, he stumbled, he almost fell – and sometimes actually fell – but mostly he regained his balance and continued on his merry way. He had some trouble going downhill. On one occasion, Krishna was sitting beside Yashoda and playing with a wooden wagon cart. Yashoda heard her name called by Aindavi and Kirtida, her best friends, and turned her head for a moment. As they approached, Aindavi put her hand to her mouth and screamed. She pointed over Yashoda’s shoulder and Yashoda turned, her heart leaping with panic, and saw Krishna trundling down the grassy slope. The cart had gotten away from him and was rolling downhill and he had gotten up to follow it. The cart picked up speed as it rolled and so did Krishna, his chubby arms raised and waving as he sought to maintain his balance. The pull of Prithvi Maa drew him down and he ran faster after the rolling toy cart. Yashoda called his name and ran after him, followed closely by her friends. She could hear Krishna laughing in his baby gurgle as he went and it was evident that he was neither afraid nor aware of the possibility of coming to harm.

  About halfway downhill, he lost his balance, and went head over heels on the grass – and kept on going. Yashoda gasped, running faster. Krishna tumbled a few times, then came to a rest sitting up. His heavy head jerked forward on his slight neck, and he released a choked burst of laughter. Yashoda came running up beside him and crouched down, cradling him to her chest, swaying from side to side, tears of relief pouring down her face. Her friends crouched beside her, reassuring her, touching her arms, touching Krishna, and she realized in that moment that divine or mortal, it didn’t matter to a mother’s heart. To a mother, even a god infant was still her son and even if he was invulnerable to every conceivable danger, she would still worry her heart out over him.

  When she finally released Krishna from her smothering embrace, he smiled up at her proudly and held up his fist.

  ‘Maa!’ he cried, the only word he could speak aloud. The wooden cart was clutched in his chubby fist.

  ‘Maa!’ he cried again, waving the cart at her until she nodded and acknowledged his triumph.

  He had chased down the cart and caught it. To him, it had been a little adventure, nothing more. Soon after, he had his milk, burped happily, then fell asleep with arms and legs sprawled as usual, the wooden cart still clutched in his fist. She tried to prise it loose but when the wood creaked as if it was about to crack, she let go at once. He wasn’t about to give up his prize that easily.

  After that first little triumph, the adventures increased in number.

  One day she was feeding one of the cows, Krishna beside her. He loved being around the cows. He had a way of putting his hand on their bellies, palm pressed upwards so he could reach their bulging stomachs, and making a resonant nasal sound in his sinus before saying, ‘Maa!’ It was possible he meant to say something completely different but at the moment, Maa was the only word he could say. As it happened, it was an appropriate term to use. Cows were quite literally Go-Maata. Cow-mothers. She couldn’t help feeling that even his little ritual of placing his palm on their bellies and making that odd sound was a kind of blessing.

  She wasn’t in the least surprised when the cows began yielding richer, sweeter milk than ever before. She was quite certain they were the very cows her little Krishna had touched…though perhaps blessed was the right word.

  There came a day when she came out of her front door to find every untethered cow gathered outside, waiting patiently. She stopped short, taken aback. The cows stood silently, as if waiting for something or someone. Moments later, the pitter patter of little bare feet sounded and her dark rascal came to the threshold. At once, the cows sent up such a lowing and mooing that people came rushing from around the house to see what was going on. Krishna clapped his hands gleefully, smacking the palms together in that uncoordinated way infants have, sometimes missing and slapping empty air, giggling open-mouthed. Then he raised both his palms and showed them to the gathering of cows. At once, they subsided. One solitary calf right at the back, probably unable to see from behind the big cows, lowed once, plaintively. Krishna put his finger to his lips and said, ‘Shhh!’ The calf subsided as well.

  Then, as Yashoda and the other family members watched in amazement, he began making that nasal sound again. Except that this time it was almost recognizable, despite his inability to pronounce words clearly just yet. Yashoda felt certain it was the sacred syllable Om. But the way Krishna made the sound, it was deeper, more primal somehow, like something that transcended language and words and meaning. Something that went back to the beginning of time and the human race. It was a sound filled with great power and history, made by the nasal septum of a two year old infant standing naked on his doorstep!

  Then he raised his palm again and held it out to the gathered cows. Yashoda blinked as something passed from that open palm to the cows. She could say what it was exactly. It was not light, not quite a glow. It was wholly invisible. Nothing actually was seen coming from his open palm. Yet something did come from him and pass to the cows. Something that she could only describe as…a force. An energy. A blessing.

  The cows lowed loudly again, this time with a tone of satisfaction, the sad-sack tone of cows since time immemorial, then turned ponderously and clumped their way back to their foraging grounds and tabelas. They didn’t need to be herded; they found their way quite well by themselves.

  Only the little calf remained. Hanging back, he started to follow his mother, then hesitated and turned his head back, looking mournfully at Krishna.

  Krishna smiled. Yashoda saw him beaming brightly as if he knew exactly what ailed the little calf. And he stepped off the threshold, almost losing his balance as he stepped onto the soft grassy ground of the courtyard. She felt her arms reach out instinctively to grab him, but saw that he needed no help. He padded across the courtyard to where the calf stood, waiting uncertainly.

  He laughed and threw his little arms up to the calf’s neck. It was still much too wide around for him to embrace. But somehow he seemed to be able to embrace it and to everyone’s surprise he gave the calf a big wet kiss on its lips. The calf lowed softly in surprise then was quiet. Krishna laughed and swung onto the calf’s back, sitting astride it as he must have seen some of his fellow young gopas and gopis do.

  The calf seemed pleased and lurched forward, running after its mother, following the herd. Krishna held on easily, laughing his gurgling laugh, absolutely fearless. Seeing him heading downhill, the gopas and gopis closest to him began to shout out warnings and run after him. Krishna continued undaunted, squealing with joy. The calf mirrored his childish enthusiasm, gallopping like a horse.

  ‘Maa!’ Krishna cried happily as he passed over the hilltop and out of sight. ‘Maa!’

  It was still the only word he could speak aloud.

  Shaking her head in amused despair, Yashoda ran after him. Even though she knew no harm would come to him, she could not simply stand there as her son rode recklessly down the hillside.

  From that day onwards to the end of its days, that little calf never once fell ill or had any complaints or problems. Eventually, it would outlive every cow in the land and become the oldest living cow ever. It was only much, much later that people realized the connection and harked back to the day Krishna had blessed the cow with his own life-essence, shared through a kiss.

  8

  Kamsa threw aside his quilts and rose from his bed. Moonlight streamed in through his open windows, casting long shadows on the marbled floor. He paced the floor for several moments, unable to go back to sleep, unable to decide what to do with himself. He had not slept well a single night since the news of Putana’s death. The politics of his position made it undesirable for him to unburden his mind to anyone at court. There were the concubines but he had never trusted any of them even as a boy; he was hardly able to trust them now. He had issues when it came to trust. It was only natural, when his own sister had betrayed him by marrying their worst enemy and had then birthed the child that would grow up to slay him.

  He missed the ti
me he had spent with Jarasandha, riding and fighting, barely time to recover one’s energies and nurse one’s wounds. Being under the command of a powerful leader, one who knew what he was doing and how to command, he had been able to absolve himself of all worry. He had lived moment by moment, fight by fight, battle by battle. He had survived some close encounters, each one feeling like a major victory. He had slaughtered many enemies, and each death had strengthened him. He was a warrior. Fighting was what he did best. Even leading men on a battlefield was not as satisfying: one always had to think tactics and strategy and counter-attack and defense and retreat and supply chains and all the paraphernalia that went with commanding armies. As a warrior, he could simply fight and kill, and move on without a second thought or backward glance. The earth had been his to roam, its every treasure his to take, and all problems could be solved with the blade of a sword.

  He longed for that simple life again: to take up his sword and ride out. To rejoin Jarasandha and ride out with his forces. To fight mindlessly, knowing only the relentless intensity of warcraft and bloodshed, survival and slaughter. No thought of tomorrow, no cares beyond surviving the present moment, no time to worry. But things had changed between him and the Magadhan. For one thing, Jarasandha was his father-in-law, and Kamsa’s two lovely wives awaited his return in their idyllic palace. Awaited his return so that he might do his conjugal duty and seed them both with child. And much as he desired those two wonderful wives, and would want nothing more than to plough their fertile fields and seed them, it was the fact that Jarasandha wanted it that made him reluctant. To Jarasandha, everything was politics and power. He had married his daughters to Kamsa in order to tie his own bloodline to that of the Yadavas. It was that tie that had given him the right to march into Mathura not long ago and assume regency of the kingdom during the period of Kamsa’s apparent ‘illness’. The fact that the ‘illness’ in question was nothing more than the work of Jarasandha’s own spasa Bahuka, planted in Kamsa’s palace by the Magadhan, and caused by the mixing of an unknown potion in Kamsa’s food or drink over several months was not known to anyone but Kamsa. The results of the poisoning, if it could be called that, were all that everyone could see, and those results were striking: from a powerful rakshasa capable of expanding himself to a height of several hundred feet high if he desired, Kamsa was reduced to a mindless husk of a mortal man again, barely able to keep track of what day it was and what had happened yesterday - or what he had eaten for his morning meal that same day. His rakshasa powers had been taken from him in one cruel swipe. Then again, it had been Jarasandha himself who had fed him certain potions that had caused that very rakshasa nature to surface in the first place. So, looking back now as he paced his chamber by moonlight, he realized how obvious the whole plan had been: Jarasandha had intended all along to awaken Kamsa’s rakshasa nature so that he would overthrow his father and usurp the throne, then, when that very rakshasa power caused Kamsa to lose control and go on a rampage of bloodshed that threatened to raise up his own people against him, Jarasandha had countered the first potion’s effect with a second one, altering Kamsa’s physiognomy yet again.