KRISHNA CORIOLIS#3: Flute of Vrindavan

by Ashok K. Banker

  But now there was something else amiss. He was still asleep, exhausted from a long session of pushing the poison heavenwards, but he had sensed something ominous unfolding around him. It was the reason why he had allowed his weight to increase, in order to compel Yashoda-maiya to put him down. He knew the demon was coming: he could smell him approaching long before he reached. The demon had been watching and biding his time for weeks now, ever since Putana’s death, and at last he saw his opportunity. Yashoda was relatively unescorted, with only the bodyguards several yards away, and an open field of attack.

  Even when Yashoda had put Krishna down, and his head had lolled back against the tree trunk and the trunk had cracked, Krishna had been aware of what was going on. While the human part of him was fast asleep, the divine part still knew that Yashoda was in grave danger. So he sent an impulse into Nanda-baba’s mind, causing him to come to the top of the hill and call out to Yashoda. This in turn made Yashoda leave Krishna alone for a moment, long enough for the demon to see his opportunity and make his move. Krishna was concerned that the demon would attack while Yashoda was still with him, in which case, she might be harmed. This way, she was several yards away at least. He would have preferred that she be miles away but this was the next best thing. As the whirlwind exploded around him and the wind and debris enveloped him in a blinding miasma of madness, he senses Yashoda clinging to the neem tree nearby. She was being buffeted and battered but she would survive unharmed. Now he could focus on managing the demon.

  The creature in question was a being named Trnavarta. Krishna was not familiar with him personally but he had sensed this particular being’s presence - his supernatural stench, actually - for some time now. He had been one of the group that had arrived in Vraj with Putana, one of the team of assassins sent by his uncle. But in fact Trnavarta was not Kamsa’s man at all. His loyalty was pledged to Jarasandha, who was a demon himself, and a very powerful one at that. Krishna knew Jarasandha well - or rather, Vishnu knew him, which was the same thing.

  Jarasandha was a bad man. A bad, bad man.

  Someday, Krishna would have to confront him too. He knew this for certain just as he knew that Jarasandha was using and manipulating Kamsa to further his own ends. But right now, Krishna was facing Trnavarta and had to deal with him.

  He opened his inner eye and looked at Trnavarta.

  Not his human infant eyes - they would be blinded by the dust and grit, perhaps injured severely - he opened his celestial eye, the ability to view things as they truly were, looking beyond the obvious superficial appearance and physicality.

  He saw himself at the apex of a vortex. Dust, debris, grit, even little stones and twigs and branches, all swirling round in a frenzy. The sala tree was being systematically stripped of its leaves, branches, even its bark was peeling off and being swallowed by the vortex. The funnel of the whirlwind was focussed upon his little human form at the base of the tree, as Trnavarta tried to lift him up in the air. Thus far, he was not having much luck and this was frustrating him. He whipped himself faster, churning the air in a circular motion, reducing the radius of his vortex to increase the intensity. This made the funnel narrower, which was good because the intensity was reduced even further outside of the center.

  Krishna sensed Yashoda-maiya breaking away from the neem tree and stumbling away from it instinctively, her eyes still shut. Nanda came running downhill just then, and he took hold of Yashoda and led her a few yards farther away from the center of the chaos. The bodyguards were nearby too, one holding his head where something had cracked it open, blood pouring down his face and eyes, but there was nothing he could do. This was not some woman they could pull away from Krishna or even an assassin with a knife or a sword. Krishna observed Yashoda and Nanda speaking agitatedly to one another, trying to peer through the murky storm by the sala tree, then debating with the body guards. Other people had come to the top of the hill, alerted by Nanda’s shouts, and word began to spread as people realized what was going on. The music ceased over the hill and people stopped their ras-lila dancing to deal with this new crisis. Krishna hoped they would keep their distance. In his present weakened state, he was not sure how much he could do to protect them.

  Now that he had checked on Yashoda and Nanda and knew that they were safe, he turned his attention to Trnavarta himself. Where was the asura? With all the dust and debris flying about, it was difficult to make out the demon himself. At first all Krishna could see was a funnel of grit spinning to a height of twenty or thirty yards above the ground. It enveloped the entire sala tree, making it seem as if the tree itself were spinning around. Krishna sent his consciousness up the length of the tree to the top.

  There.

  At the very top, almost perched atop the tree itself was the demon, a distinctly masculine figure standing upright. Though he took the form of human flesh on earth, his body was made of molecules of pure asura maya, and he possessed the power to spin these molecules around the way a dancer in swirling robes could spin until the robes swirled around as well, rising in the air. Right now, he was almost entirely in his demon form, his upper body only barely discernible, his face contorted with murderous rage and effort. His mouth was open and a howling sound exuded from it, a keening sound like the wind. His torso looked like a great wad of cloth tightly wound into a knot, the bottom of the knot splaying out into myriad threads that merged with the grey funnel of the vortex. At a glance, it looked a little like a man in a grey frock suit twirling while playing ras-lila. The thought made Krishna giggle a little.

  Trnavarta heard or sensed the laughter and his eyes widened. Motes of matter broke free from his eyes and face and went spinning down to join the vortex. His face lost integrity as his anger rose. He opened his mouth and howled in response.

  Foolish child! You dare titter at me?

  Sorry, mister asura. I can’t help it if you look so funny! You look like a ras-garbha dancer in a flowing skirt, turning round and round. Don’t you feel dizzy, spinning so fast?

  Trnavarta roared and lashed out with one arm. A branch of his spinning vortex reached out and swiped at the place where Krishna’s inner eye hung suspended in mid air above the tree, looking down. Krishna felt a sensation like a blast of wind and grit coming at him but of course, his inner eye was insubstantial and could not be touched or harmed. Trnavarta realized this at once and roared again, in frustration this time. His upper body shook in anger, making him look like a dancer who had suddenly missed a step and was angry with himself for his own clumsiness.

  This made Krishna laugh even more, because it did look quite funny.

  Silence, you brat! I will silence you forever for your impudence.

  Krishna stopped laughing and smiled. You may certainly try. But before you do, why not go someplace where we have more space to settle this? Someplace higher perhaps? The whole sky is empty and available for us.

  Krishna saw Trnavarta look down at the base of the tree below him and at the physical body of little Krishna seated there, still apparently asleep. Then he looked up at the sky. He nodded slowly, a wily look coming over his wind-ravaged face.

  Perhaps we shall. I know you have deliberately made your body heavier in the hope that I would be unable to lift you high and drop you down from a height. Until now, I have been unable to lift your body itself, no doubt due to your unique nature. But if I cannot touch your body and lift it up, I can raise up the ground on which it rests. The ground is not possessed of any divine power so it cannot resist me!

  And with a great burst of laughter, Trnavarta reached down with his insubstantial grey body and began to rip up a section of the ground around the sala tree. In moments, he had torn free a patch several dozen yards around, roughly circular, with the sala tree in the center. He exerted a visible effort, a little strain showing on his face, then yanked hard, ripping the little island free of its earthly tethering. Roots and rocks fell free as the patch of ground rose up into the air. Krishna felt his physical body jerk as it was lifted up in the
air. With astonishing speed, Trnavarata carried him up in the air, up to the sky as he himself had suggested. He was surprised. He had only suggested the idea because he had been certain Trnavarata could not lift him. The asura’s demonaic nature made it impossible for him to man-handle Krishna’s divinely infused human form. But by uprooting the whole patch of earth, Trnavarta had outwitted him.

  14

  Kamsa finished oiling his body and dismissed the helper. The boy ran back to the sidelines to join his companions, whispering amongst themselves as they pointed out the players on the field. Kamsa saw some coins exchanging hands and grinned to himself. He wondered whom they were betting on. He felt certain it would be Jarasandha’s team of champions. Kamsa had been given a choice of playing with Jarasandha’s team or the opposing army’s team. He had deliberately chosen to play with the opposing team, knowing that would irk his father-in-law and provoke him into trying harder. Jarasandha still believed he was surprising his son-in-law into mistakenly thinking he would be able to use his powers to easily demolish his opponents on this field, not knowing that each of the players was possessed of their own powers as well. But Kamsa knew this already. He knew this because the old stable syce had told him so the night before. Not merely told him to warn him, but had prepared him for it as well.

  Yadu, that is his name. I should think of him by that name.

  After all, he mused, the man was no mere horse carer. He was none other than Yadu himself. The founding father of the Yadava nation and forebear of Kamsa’s entire line.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ the old man had demanded when he moved against Kamsa last night, his fingers grasping Kamsa’s throat in a grip so tight, Kamsa could feel his breath choked off. Which was impossible because once he increased his body’s density, it was no less than a thing made of solid iron or lead. Yet the old man was strong enough to crush even a throat made of iron. How was that possible?

  ‘I am Yadu,’ said the old syce, his breath wafting hot against Kamsa’s face, redolent of the last meal he had eaten. ‘I am the forebear of your race, boy. I have lived long enough to see this nation grow from a single family of exiles into the proud Yadava nation it is today. And yes, as you are probably wondering, I am stronger than you. For the ability you have developed, though it was unwittingly awakened by Jarasandha’s potions yet its essence is in your very blood itself. My blood!’

  Then the old man had released Kamsa with a shove. Kamsa had stumbled back against the stable wall, striking it with force enough to make the entire structure shudder and groan. The horses whinnied in alarm, smelling the aggression in the air, reacting to it. The more aggressive ones stamped their feet and kicked the rear of their stalls impatiently. Yadu turned his back on Kamsa, walking a few steps away.

  ‘I have watched from the sidelines these past centuries as your ancestors, my descendants, built a kingdom and a nation that I was very proud of. Even Ugrasena, your father, was a good king, though in his youth he did tend to warmonger more than he needed to he more than made up for it by realizing the futility of violence and addressing his past excesses by seeking peace with his allies, our fellow Suras. After all, whether you live on this bank of the Yamuna or the other side, you are all Yadavas, children of Yadu. And I was glad to see peace finale settle across this war-harried land. But then you came along and revealed your inner demon. And everything fell apart!’

  Kamsa regained his voice and glared at the old syce. ‘You mean to tell me that you have lived here as a stable hand for these hundreds of years and nobody knew it? You, the forebear of the Yadava race himself?’

  Yadu shrugged. ‘They thought me dead a long time ago. They even mistook a body for mine on the battlefield, and assumed it was too mutilated to recognize. It happens. Sons are impatient to inherit, people are always happy to have change...’ He shook his head, sighing, ‘The very origin of our line began that way, with my father disowning me.’ He looked up and saw Kamsa staring up at him blankly. ‘It is not an incident much written about in Yadava histories, because it was not our proudest moment, to know that our line began because I was exiled from my own father’s house for my inability to do as he asked.’

  Kamsa came forward warily, rubbing his throat. ‘What did he ask? Who was your father?’

  Yadu shrugged. ‘His name was Yayati and he wanted to exchange his old age for my youth...’

  ‘Exchange...?’ Kamsa couldn’t understand what the man meant. He was still having a hard time processing the idea that this old stable sweeper was his ancestor, the progenitor of his entire lineage.

  Yadu made a dismissive gesture. ‘It’s a long story. I shall tell you some other time. Right now, there is a reason why I am revealing my true identity to you.’

  Kamsa waited to hear the reason.

  Yadu told him. It was a very good reason. Listening to it made Kamsa forget all about the pain in his throat. It almost made him stop wanting to lunge at Yadu and tear the old man apart limb from limb for having done that to him.

  Now, Kamsa stepped out on the field and began slapping his muscles to warm them up. He slapped his chest hard several times, then his massaged his shoulders, swung his torso around to loosen his back muscles, bent and slapped his inner thighs, outer thighs...He felt a shadow approach, looming over him. In the background, the sound of the crowd was a tangible thing, all pervasive, filling the air like rain on water.

  ‘Yadava!’ said a great booming voice. For a moment Kamsa thought he must be hearing an echo caused by the enclosed stadium. Then he looked up into a jaw the size of his own thigh and realized that it was not an echo, merely the natural sound produced by a person of that great size. The man’s chest was probably twice as wide as Kamsa’s, and Kamsa was not a small man by any standards. He was also a good two head taller and his arms hung by his sides like entire hams of meat. His jaw was square and jutted out at an angle, forcing his lower teeth up over his upper teeth. When he spoke, the sound was like someone speaking inside a wooden barrel filled with metal ingots.

  ‘Our master tells me you consider yourself invulnerable,’ said the grating barrel voice.

  Kamsa did not answer. The man’s tone made it clear he was more interested in issuing insults than actually conversing. This was a common precursor to games as each team boosted their own spirits by insulting the other team and calling them names. He had expected no less.

  The man seemed to realize that an answer was not forthcoming from Kamsa.

  ‘Well, since you consider yourself invulnerable,’ he said, ‘I wanted to show you this.’

  The man drew a sword. It was a fine broadsword, fit for any high lord or even a king in battle, the metal beautifully worked and beaten to a fine perfection. Judging by the size and length and the making, it could probably hack through armor if wielded hard enough; it might take a swing or three but no armor could withstand more than a few direct hits with that weapon. It was what Yadava’s Marauders used to call a Godslayer.

  The man with the crooked jaw raised the sword in his hand then hacked down at his own forearm, the inner softer side. The Godslayer struck his forearm with force enough to part metal armor. With that much force behind it, it should have parted any man’s forearm from his body easily.

  Instead, the sword simply struck the forearm with a dull thunk.

  The man raised his eyes to see if Kamsa had noted this result. Then he raised the sword again and hacked at his own foot, aiming directly for the knee, the weakest part of any man’s leg. The sword struck it again with a dull thumping impact. There was no effect on the man’s knee. Even the skin wasn’t broken.

  The demonstration went on a few moments longer. By the time Crooked Jaw was done, the sword was chipped and cracked in a dozen places, but there was not so much as a blemish upon his person.

  Finally, he handed the sword to another of his companions, a broad shorter man with enormous bulging shoulders who grinned to display missing teeth. ‘That is Maitrey,’ said Crooked Jaw in his booming nasal voice, ‘he eats onl
y nails and glass. I am Vindhya.’

  Kamsa did not say a word.

  Crooked Jaw looked down at him and smiled grimly. ‘You thought you were the only one, did you not? Well, you were wrong. We are all the same, and we have far more experience and knowledge of our ability than you, sweet-faced prince. You should go back to your sweet-smelling kingdom and resume prancing with your ponies and princesses. This is no place for you.’

  Kamsa cleared his throat. ‘King.’

  Crooked Jaw frowned.

  ‘I am King of Mathura, Lord of the Yadavas.’