KRISHNA CORIOLIS#3: Flute of Vrindavan

by Ashok K. Banker

  Kamsa had expected that his wives would be present. Jarandha’s desire that Kamsa continue his bloodline by giving him heirs was vital to his plans to firmly entwine Mathura’s destiny with Magadha’s future. ‘Perhaps later. You wished to see me urgently?’

  Jarasandha gestured. Several of the eunuchs catering to the more menial duties such as fetching food and drink or swishing fans departed the chamber at once. The few who remained lounged languorously on velveteen cushions, scantily clad in garments that Kamsa would have preferred seeing on women. Noticing Kamsa’s grimace, one fellow with an egg shaped head and kohl-ringed eyes raised his eyebrow and smiled provocatively. Kamsa smiled and shook his head, knowing better than to rise to the provocation.

  They were served food and drink as Jarasandha talked. The God Emperor spoke of the political situation, various factions and links and alliances, all of which Kamsa knew of already.

  ‘I am well aware of the politics of Bharat-varsha,’ Kamsa said at last. ‘I hardly think I needed a refresher lesson, sire.’

  Jarasandha’s tongue flickered between his parted lips as he tasted a particularly tasty delicacy, some variety of blackish red crustacean that he said was a favorite savory of the people of this region. Jarasandha was known for sampling the cuisine of every region he conquered and choosing which tribal chieftain to permit to rule as satraps on his behalf based on his liking the food prepared by their cooks. Kamsa noticed that the delicacy had claws and a hard shell and as Jarasandha popped it into his mouth whole, the loud crunching sound left no doubt it was some variety of riverbed crawler. He thought of advising Jarasandha that the item in question was supposed to be eaten after one cracked open the shell then realized the point was moot. He picked out one for himself and popped it in. The crunchy sensation was actually quite pleasurable. It occurred to him that his newfound ability enabled him to eat things he might otherwise have found undigestible. He wondered if his new digestion could process anything his mouth could break down. It might be interesting to try.

  ‘I heard of the death of Putana,’ Jarasandha said, sending his forked tongue flickering out to clean the whole of his upper lip and then his chin. Now that must prove to be an useful appendage under certain circumstances. ‘And that you did not take it too well.’

  Kamsa shrugged. ‘I was upset but not anymore.’ He looked Jarasandha directly in the eyes, knowing that as father of his wives, the God Emperor might forgive infidelity on Kamsa’s part, but not emotional attachment. ‘The woman herself meant nothing to me. It was her failure that upset me.’

  Jarasandha held his gaze a moment longer. If eyes could seek as widely as the Magadhan’s tongue could reach, then Jarasandha would have looked inside Kamsa’s belly and sought the truth within his bowels. As it was, his response seemed to satisfy Jarasandha. His father nodded, suddenly seeming relieved. ‘Of course. Failure in one’s soldiers is unacceptable. But you have other assassins out seeking the Slayer.’

  Of course Jarasandha knew he had other assassins at work: everyone of them was given to him by Jarasandha himself. Kamsa nodded. ‘Each of them is capable of storming a citadel, let alone killing an infant.’

  Jarasandha picked out another delicacy from a different platter, no doubt the preparation of another tribe’s best cook. ‘Yet this is no mere infant. To slay the Slayer is no simple mission.’

  He popped in the item and took two bites before making a face and using a silk napkin to spit out the uneaten morsel. Clearly, that tribe was not going to be holding much sway over political matters in this region.

  Kamsa sipped his wine, forcing himself not to gulp it down. It had already been several hours since he had eaten and he was ravenous already. At least the aches and pains from the night before had reduced somewhat. That old fellow! ‘Yet Putana assured me that even this Slayer can be defeated.’

  Jarasandha nodded. ‘It may well be so. But we shall know soon enough, shall we not? I am sure the other assassins are making their move against him even as we speak.’ He gestured dismissively. ‘The reason I called you here is that I wish that you should leave off this campaign against the Slayer.’

  Kamsa stopped with his goblet in hand, about to sip. He looked at Jarasandha and put down the goblet. ‘Leave off? What do you mean, sire?’

  ‘Leave it to the assassins. In any case, they will probably succeed in ridding you of the problem. But--’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘But in the event they fail as well, it might be best if you do not pursue this course further for the time being.’

  Jarasandha leaned forward. ‘Are you telling me I should let the child prophecied to grow up to become my murderer live free? That I should sit here and do nothing about it?’

  ‘Not here, exactly. I would have you sit upon the throne of Mathura,’ Jarasandha said. ‘After all, I helped put you on that throne, did I not?’

  ‘Yes, and I am grateful for that, father-in-law,’ Kamsa said. ‘But this is a personal matter. I cannot simply let it go, as you suggest.’

  ‘It is personal, that is why I am asking this of you. You are a king now and a king must look beyond his immediate personal interests to the larger issues.’

  ‘Such as...?’

  ‘Such as the rising unrest in your own kingdom. The increasing emigration of the Yadavas to other nations such as Bhoja. The discomfort of your neighbours and other powerful states about your inability to govern without civil disobedience.’

  ‘Ah,’ Kamsa understood at last. ‘You are concerned that I may harry the Vrishnis and provoke a civil war. If that happens then you’re worried about Bhoja supporting the rebels and other states joining in the melee as well. That’s what you’re really worried about, isn’t it?’

  Jarasandha stopped eating, leaned back in his throne and looked at Kamsa speculatively. He was as lean and ramrod thin as ever, his slender appearance belying his physical strength and fighting skills. ‘I see you have improved your knowledge of political science.’

  Kamsa smiled. ‘I had an excellent guru.’

  Jarasandha burst into laughter. The eunuchs turned their heads in surprise: clearly, they weren’t accustomed to their god emperor being amused by his visitors. ‘And diplomacy too! Well, well. Who would have thought it? Kamsa the boy wonder suddenly growing hair on his brain!’

  Kamsa took up his goblet of wine again and drank deeply. ‘You have nothing to worry about. I will not be making any rash moves against the Vrishnis. There will be no retaliation for the killing of Putana. Even if the other assassins fail,’ he paused, forcing himself not to admit how much that prospect angered him, ‘even then, I will not pursue any direct course of action for the time being. I know how delicate the political situation is right now. A single misstep could set the rebellion ablaze. Once the Yadavas go to civil war, it can only end with my own death. Better to let the Slayer go for now and deal with him later than risk my own countrymen rising up against me and destroying me.’

  Jarasandha nodded approvingly. ‘You see it clearly then. You might well rid yourself of one future Slayer only to create a whole nation of Slayers who want you dead. Better to bide your time. Your day against the Slayer will come, I am sure of it. And when it does, I have no doubt that you will be ready to face him, whomever he might be.’

  There was an instant when Kamsa saw something flicker in Jarasandha’s eyes as his nictitating eyelids panned shut sideways then opened again. Could it possibly be? Could Jarasandha know the identity of the Slayer? If so, why would he not tell Kamsa? Surely it was in Jarasandha’s own interest to keep Kamsa alive and powerful?

  Then he remembered what the old man had told him last night - this morning actually. And he thought to himself, yes, it was possible, even likely, that Jarasandha knew the identity of the Slayer but chose to keep it to himself. After all, the three surviving assassins were all Jarasandha’s own men, hand-picked by him for this very mission. They must surely be sending word back to him somehow.

  It did not matter. In any case, Jaras
andha and Kamsa needed one another, not merely to join their bloodlines and give Jarasandha’s grandchildren the legitimacy he lacked, but as political allies too. If Jarasandha knew who the Slayer was, he would do everything in his power to destroy the child before he grew stronger. About that, even the old man had no two opinions.

  Jarasandha rose from his seat. ‘Enough talk,’ he said imperiously. ‘Come now. Let us try some sport.’

  ‘Sport?’ Kamsa asked, frowning as he rose. He set the goblet down. ‘What sport did you have in mind?’

  Jarasandha smiled, his snake eyes flickering mischievously. ‘Something that will require all your newfound ability to survive. Come, let me show you.’

  11

  Yashoda cried out as the thicket erupted in an explosion of leaves, dust and wind. There was no warning or indication of anything untoward even a moment earlier. It was as if a whirlwind suddenly descended out of a clear sky and struck this very spot. The air churned at a great speed, lifting up countless particles of dust and tiny debris. She was forced to cover her eyes with the back of her hand. The wind whipped around her, tugging her this way then that, threatening to topple her over. Trees roared above, the wind shirring their leaves like a storm. The monkeys and birds screamed and cried out in terror, going berserk. The whole world turned brownish grey, the colour of fading autumn leaves. She struggled to stay on her feet even as she tried to find her way back to the sala tree.

  Krishna! I must get to Krishna!

  But the instant she moved a step downhill, the wind increased in intensity, whipping her face with savage intensity. She stepped back upwards, moving away from the direction of the tree and her son, and instantly felt the difference. The tree was the center of this unnatural storm. Her heart flooded with terror. She turned and stared uphill. She could still see Nanda silhouetted against the clear blue sky. He was staring down hill in disbelief. As she watched, he roused himself and started sprinting down towards her.

  The storm is only here, in this spot, nowhere else.

  She knew what that meant.

  This was another attempt on her son’s life.

  Krishna!

  She took another step downhill and was buffeted back so hard, it felt like a mule had kicked her in the midriff. She fell back, staggering, and for a second uncovered her eyes as she flailed out to try to keep her balance. The dust blinded her. She cried out in pain and terror and grasped hold of something that felt like a neem tree trunk. She held on to it for safety as the wind increased, screaming and howling like a thousand savage beasts out for blood. She made another attempt to move towards the spot where she knew Krishna must be but it was quite impossible. She would either be blinded or worse: there were branches and small stones being flung about by the whirlwind. One thumped her in the back, knocking the breath out of her. She knew that if she tried to go closer again, she would be killed.

  Even that itself was not enough to stop her. But the real problem was that she knew she couldn’t pick up Krishna and run away with him. That was the reason why she had been separated for him for these few moments. The reason why she had been about to ask Nanda to come to her and try to figure out a solution. Somehow, Krishna had increased his weight to the point where he weighed too much for her to carry.

  The whirlwind grew more intense, the dust and debris striking her all over now, hurting terribly. She kept her eyes shut and hugged the neem tree, using it to shield her frontal body and vital organs as best as she could. Stones and branches struck her incessantly from behind and one blow from a sharp rock on the back of her head made her vision turn black for a moment, but she clung on fiercely. Though she could see or hear nothing, she knew that this was no mere natural phenomenon. This was some kind of asura taking the form of the wind. A demon whirlwind. She knew it as surely as she knew the reason why why Krishna had increased his weight. Not to trouble her and make it impossible for her to carry him - or perhaps just enough to force her to put him down, so that she would not be with him when the wind demon struck, but in fact he had done so in order to make it harder for the demon to pick him up and spirit him away.

  Harder.

  But not impossible.

  As she clung on for dear life to the tree trunk, Yashoda felt the whirlwind ratchet up to a new level of intensity, turning the world around her blackish grey, and felt even the tree she was holding on to start to uproot. It shuddered violently, and in that instant, she thought this was the end, she was about to die and there was nothing she could do to save herself or her little baby.

  Although, perhaps, he might be able to save her.

  ‘Krishna!’ she cried out, just as the neem tree tore free of its roots in a terrible rending agony, and she felt herself lifted off the ground and flung up into the air.

  12

  The roar of thousands filled the air. The stench of sweat was overwhelming, even though the place was open to the night air. Torches burned at regular intervals, and Kamsa could see their flames flicker as the crowd stomped their feet and rose and sat in enthusiasm as they cheered on the fighters. The stadium was a quadrangle and in the center was a grassy ground cleared of all stones, rocks and impediments. This rectangular field was divided into two halves and clearly marked with chalk dust lines. Within the two halves of this rectangle stood perhaps forty men. Kamsa squinted. Yes, exactly forty men, twenty on each side of the middle line. The two teams faced each other, spread out across their respective halves in defensive formations. All the men were stripped bare, wearing only a dusty langot, the little strip of cloth used to cover one’s privates, tied around the waist by a string. Their bodies were well oiled. Kamsa noted boys standing on the sidelines, ready to rush in and apply more oil to the players’ bodies as needed, others redrawing the chalk lines where they were rubbed out during play.

  ‘The goal is simple: To get to the enemy’s innermost line.’ Jarasandha pointed to the two lines behind the teams, the short sides of the rectangle. ‘The enemy team’s players can stop you using any means, but if any of them are touching you when you touch their home line, they are eliminated from the game. For every enemy player you eliminate from the game, you are entitled to bring back one of your own players who was eliminated earlier - or, if he is too badly hurt to continue, you can bring a replacement. Players attempt to cross to enemy lines one at a time at first, but each successful contact with the home line entitles a player to return with a comrade to try their luck again, and so on.’

  Kamsa nodded. ‘And the game ends when all the enemy players are eliminated or all your players have touched the enemy’s home line.’

  Jarasandha’s thin lips curled in a half-smile. ‘I see you’re familiar with the game.’

  ‘It’s a variation on an old war game played for millennia. It’s based on the ancient game of chaupat. The war game of strategy.’

  Jarasandha’s smile widened. ‘So it is. How interesting. I’m delighted to see that your education has expanded since we last met. Very pleased indeed. Of course, there’s one essential difference between this version of the game and chaupat.’

  Kamsa waited for Jarasandha to deliver the punch line he knew was coming.

  ‘Chaupat is played with bone dice and pieces on a board of squares. It’s a game for idle kings and merchants who have money to wager and time to spare but don’t wish to exert themselves. Kho Kabbadi is played with real opponents and involves real bodily harm.’

  Jarasandha directed Kamsa to a section of the stadium not immediately visible. Kamsa looked over a railing at a small area just outside the playing quadrant, beneath the rows of wooden seats on which the crowd sat. There were several dozen bodies piled there, limbs and heads and torsos grotesquely twisted and bent at impossible angles. Many of them still had their eyes open, faces twisted in a rictus of agony and Kamsa saw one particularly large and well-built specimen staring up at him blankly, his eyes reflecting the flickering light of the torch near Kamsa’s head.

  Jarasandha patted Kamsa’s shoulder patronizingly. �
�I encourage bouts between my soldiers and men from the opposing army every night. It helps build morale. How would you like to try your luck?’

  Kamsa heard himself say, ‘I wouldn’t mind having a go.’

  He turned back to Jarasandha and smiled at his father-in-law. Jarasandha chuckled and patted him on his back again. ‘That’s the spirit, my boy!’

  Kamsa knew that Jarasandha thought he knew what was about to happen - but he also knew that Jarasandha was unaware that Kamsa knew what Jarasandha had planned, or the fact that Kamsa had come prepared for this very event. Thanks to the old syce in Mathura.

  13

  Krishna was asleep. Ever since the attack by the Matrika Putana, he had been sleeping more than usual. The reason was the milk he had consumed. As Putana had grown larger in size, enlarging herself to gargantuan proportions, so also the milk flowing from her glands had increased in quantum. Krishna had consumed a great quantity of that poison substance. Several score times his body weight, in fact. Powerful as he was, he was subject to certain basic limitations of the form he used in this world. The form of a mortal human infant did not allow for much leeway: the poison was far, far more than he could absorb or digest in this body. His only recourse was to call upon his cosmic powers and divert the poison to the ethereal sphere. To the infinite form of Vishnu himself, seated on the great serpent Ananta, floating on the ocean of milk. In that timeless state of nidra super-consciousness, the Matrika’s poison milk was nothing to him. He could turn it into anything he desired. But Vishnu was preoccupied with a great many matters and although Krishna was his own amsa, literarily a part of himself in human form, not merely an avatar, he could only allot so much of his attention span and energy to this task. It also transpired that Vishnu was currently engaged in a great conflict between the devas and asuras, a new skirmish in the infinite war between the two celestial factions. Therefore he was only able to give his Krishna self a portion of his energy and time. Krishna himself was forced to do all the work, pushing the poison to his original father-self, and was limited by the weakness of his human infant form in this work. Vishnu could have sucked the poison up to the ocean of milk in an instant, cleansing Krishna in the wink of an eye, and he would do so the instant he was free, but days and now weeks had passed on earth and Vishnu’s involvement in the asura-deva struggle and other matters had only increased since then. So Krishna the infant concentrated all his energies in pushing the poison up to Vaikuntha-loka. This drained him considerably. It was the reason why he had not been able to speak mentally to Maatr Yashoda and reassure her since the incident. It was also the reason why he slept so much more than before. Most perplexing of all was the inexplicable urge he had developed to consume dahi, a substance he knew of but which was hardly appropriate for an infant of his tender age. He could hardly wait until he was old enough to ask Yashoda to feed him dahi in all possible forms: lassi, most of all! Even freshly churned butter would do, as would whipped curd. Yum! The thought of it made him open his mouth and long for it.