Jarasandha held out a hand. Kamsa took it and rose to his feet. Jarasandha put his hand on Kamsa’s shoulder. ‘That is why I brought you here today. It was time you learned of Narada’s duplicity. And of the larger game being played in which the brahmin, you, I, and even the mythical Slayer Himself are but participants.’
He began walking again, his arm still around Kamsa. ‘Come. Let me show you.’
6
Krishna’s antics became the talk of Gokuldham. No matter how destructive the pranks played by the little dark one and his milk-fair brother, people always forgave them. At times, there was nothing to forgive. After the incident with the stick, Yashoda took to disciplining Krishna each time he misbehaved. She would never raise a hand on him or use too intense a tone and loud a voice. Because she sensed that these were things Krishna did deliberately and knowingly. Some part of him knew they were things he was not supposed to do and that was all the more reason for him to do them. They were his way of getting her attention or the attention of the other gopas and gopis. He thrived on attention. At times, when caught in some act of mischief, when a crowd gathered to berate his latest activity, he would start dancing. And soon enough the angry voices would fade and be replaced by amused exclamations as everyone marvelled at his agility and sense of rhythm. His dark feet pounded the dust, his body spinning and twirling at impossible angles, as he danced with a pace and perfection none other could match. Even the most accomplished dancers of Gokul gaped in amazement and admiration. Krishna’s dance was a thing to behold.
And always, accompanying the dance, came the sound of flute music. The same haunting melody that Yashoda had heard the first time in the thicket. And just like on that occasion, no one could make out where the music was coming from or who was playing it. Because the flute was the patent musical instrument of the Vrishnis, used to herd wandering cows, soothe sick ones, and even to coax dry ones into yielding milk, nobody gave it much thought. But Yashoda began to realize that in fact the flute music was coming from Krishna himself. Somehow, miraculously, impossibly, he was playing the flute and dancing at the same time - even though no flute was ever visible! How this could possibly be, she did not know. But like so many other things involving Krishna, she learned not to question it. Simply to accept. The music itself was so beautiful, so memorable, that nobody cared much about its origin or source, they simply stopped whatever they were doing and listened, watching as the little dark child’s bare feet pounded the dust and his body spun round and round until it seemed as if the very earth spun with him. Or because of him. As if it were due to his dance that the planet itself spun on its axis, and because of the angle at which he leaned while dancing that Prithvi itself tilted at that peculiar angle while spinning. He was the Coriolis effect personified, the one who made worlds spin and Creation exist.
This was the beauty and magic of govinda’s dance.
On one occasion, he wanted fruit. He loved to eat fruit, though not as much as he loved buttermilk and curds - nothing compared to buttermilk and curds. And there was no fruit in the house. So he picked up a fistful of grain and went to the fruit seller in the market, meaning to exchange the grain for the fruit. This too his mother had taught him after the incidents with the dahi handis. ‘People depend on selling or trading these items to earn their keep and feed themselves,’ she explained to him patiently, ‘by taking them without paying for them, we are depriving those people of their own means of living. We must always pay a price for everything we consume.’
He did not know how much the fruit would cost and it did not occur to him that even a fistful of grain - especially a tiny fistful like his - would hardly compensate for the fruit he desired. But he remembered to take the fistful at least.
But by the time he reached the fruit-seller, the grain had run out through his fingers and barely a grain or two remained on his sweaty palm. He held it out and knew that it would be much too little to pay for the fruit. In his little brain - for as a mortal, he was a babe and subject to the limitations of his body and age - he thought that such tiny grains could hardly compensate for such big fruits. The size measure was not quite accurate, but it was a measure at least and the only one he could think of, for the last time he had seen his mother buy fruit, she had handed a sack of grain that was about the same size as the basket of fruits she had received in exchange. Now he had no grain to offer and he was determined to prove to Yashoda that he did not mean to steal or deprive other people of their own means of living. What else could he offer that would compensate for the fruits he wished to buy? Finally, an idea came to him and he smiled to himself. Yes, that would do nicely!
The fruit-seller was busy bargaining with another customer and did not notice little Krishna at once. There was some question about whether or not the fruits were fresh. When she finished and the other customer moved on, carrying a small basket of her purchases, little Krishna piped up from below her line of vision.
‘Maatey,’ he said, for he had been taught to address all women as Mother unless told otherwise, ‘how many fruits will this buy me?’
The fruit-seller looked down at the little boy’s closed fists. He opened them and showed her the contents.
‘Deva!’ she exclaimed, attracting the attention of all the market. ‘Where did you get those!’
Attracted by the commotion, other customers and even vendors came to see what was going on. The instant someone spotted little Krishna, word spread and in moments a crowd had gathered to witness what new mischief Nanda-Maharaja’s and Yashoda-devi’s son was unto now.
‘What is it, Malani-devi?’ asked one of the bystanders of the fruit-seller.
‘Look,’ she said excitedly, pointing to Krishna. ‘Look at what he is offering to pay me for my fruit!’
Everyone looked. And was flabbergasted.
For in his two little fists, Krishna had a small fortune in precious stones. Sparkling diamonds, scintillating rubies, pearls, emeralds...It was a kilo weight of the choicest gems any of them had seen.
‘Where did you get these?’ someone asked Krishna.
By this time, Krishna knew that something had gone amiss. He could only think that they were all so agitated because they thought he had stolen the gems, which he had not, of course. He had simply picked up two handfuls of stones from the ground and turned them into the kind of gems he knew his mother liked through the power of his mind. But he also knew he could not say that to these people because mortals did not believe anyone could do such things. So he tried to be as truthful as possible: ‘I got them from the sack of gems in my mother’s kitchen,’ he said. ‘I didn’t steal them!’
Everyone goggled at the thought. They knew Nanda-Maharaja was well off. But surely not this well off! ‘How many are in the sack in your mother’s kitchen?’ they asked curiously.
‘Oh, lots!’ Krishna said, mistakenly thinking that if they thought there were plenty more where these came from they would see that a couple of handfuls did not matter much. ‘There are many sacks full of gems like these. Hundreds of sacks! Thousands!’
Everyone laughed. Now they knew he could not be telling the truth. Even King Kamsa the Usurper in Mathura did not possess thousands of sacks of such precious gems. Once again, it was assumed that Krishna had been unto his usual mischief and had filched the gems from someplace.
One wag cried out a closing comment that had everyone in splits: ‘Malani-devi,’ he said to the fruit-seller. ‘You should have kept quiet and taken the payment! Nobody would ever dare to have bargained with you about your fruits! You could always say that you had once sold a basket to Krishna for a king’s ransom in precious stones!’
Even Krishna laughed with the crowd. Though he did not quite understand why they were laughing.
From time to time when he was naughtier than usual - which usually meant that he had caused others to become overly upset or irate at his antics, instead of causing them to laugh as they had over the gems and fruits - Yashoda would gently lead him to the place where the morta
r was kept and tie him to it as she had done that day in the grove. The tying did not harm or cause him any great inconvenience and she never left him tied too long. It only served the purpose of restricting his freedom and reminding him that he needed to correct his behavior. He understood this and complied without protest, even when he did not understand what he had done wrong. Yashoda always explained his fault to him, patiently, and answered any questions he had, but even so, he often had difficulty differentiating between the things mortals considered incorrect, inappropriate or wrong, and the things they accepted as part of natural behavior. After that first day in the grove, Yashoda understood that it was only Krishna’s compliance that enabled her to tie him up and for his movements to be restricted by the mortar but it was the lesson that mattered, not the danda. If she could teach him without waving the stick, she would do so, even if it meant teaching him ten times to understand what he might learn in a single beating with the stick. For that which was learned through infliction of pain, suffering or coercion was no different from the learning acquired by a slave or a dog. It was only when one learned willingly that true knowledge could be acquired.
But then one day an incident occurred which made Yashoda realize that even this mild punishment was no longer useful.
It was also the incident that changed the lives of all who lived in Gokuldham and Vrajbhoomi forever and led to the great exodus of the Vrishnis.
7
The mortar had been moved that day, and been placed in a different part of the backyard of Yashoda’s house. There were two arjuna trees beside it, growing close to each other and leaving just enough space for a child to slip through, but not enough for a grown person to pass. Krishna was in one of his stubbornly mischevious moods that day, not just doing mischief but acting defiant about it. In time to come, even Yashoda would have no recollection of what his fault had been on that occasion because the events that followed were more memorable. But it was his attempt to drag the mortar that made her decide she needed to escalate the penalty. Because of this, Yashoda tied Krishna to the mortar in such a way that he was on one side and the mortar on the other side. The mortar blocked one way, and if he tried to drag it the other way, the trees would impede his efforts.
‘Now wait here and think about the mischief you did until I finish my chores,’ she scolded before leaving.
Krishna sat sullenly for a while, arms folded across his chest, eyes crossed in a sulky expression, lips pouting. Feeling drowsy as he often did when overcome by too much emotion, he fell asleep without meaning to and in moments he was leaning against one of the arjuna trees, eyes closed and thumb in his mouth, soothing himself to an unconscious state.
He opened his eyes and found himself in a different place and time.
He was on the side of a great mountain, in a grove of extraordinary beauty. The colours of the flowers and fruits and leaves, the quality of the air he breathed, the crystal clarity of the water in the waterfall and river nearby, all testified to this being some supernormal plane. The beauty of the vista he viewed was overwhelming.
‘You are on the slope of Kailasa,’ said a voice and he turned to see an ancient man clad as a brahmin, with long flowing white beard and red ochre garb. ‘This is the sacred grove called Mandakini. We are in the shadow of your friend and fellow immortal, Mahadev.’
The old brahmin indicated the top of the mountain. Krishna looked up and saw a snow-crested peak that was as familiar as the backyard of Yashoda and Nanda’s house. ‘He is engaged elsewhere, as are Maatey Parvati and their sons Karthikeya and Ganesha. Hence I came to see what the commotion was about.’
The instant he uttered the word ‘commotion’ Krishna heard sounds of laughter and splashing. He turned to look down at the river below, at a still pool formed by the overflow from the cascade. There were several people people there, splashing about merrily and making a great deal of noise and commotion. Even from here, he could see that they were naked as they day they were born.
‘They are Nalakuvara and Manigriva, sons of Kubera, treasurer of the devas,’ Narada said. Krishna knew the old brahmin’s name was Narada although he did not know how he knew. It was as if all knowledge was coming flooding back into his mind just as readily as the cold glacial river water was cascading down that waterfall below. ‘They have consumed too much varuni and thought it would be good sport to come and frolic with the gandharvas and apsaras who dwell here.’
Krishna glanced down again and made out two male forms among the score or more of female bodies cavorting in the still pool below. They all appeared to be enjoying themselves greatly.
‘Their enjoyment of vicarious pleasures is not in itself a sin. It is the impunity with which they do so with women other than their own wives, in a place reserved as a sacred sanctuary, without the permission of the owner, in a state of such intoxication that they can barely stay conscious. And most offensive of all is the fact that they act thusly only because they are empowered by the considerable wealth of their father. There is no quality of rajas that I find more offensive than pride of wealth. The earning and accumulation of riches is a matter of karma and is irrelevant in the larger scheme of things. But when people pride their riches over all else, even common sense and decency, they lose their humanity. To see these two young men act thus indecently and think they can get away with it because they are spoiled sons of a rich father, this is unacceptable to me. Therefore I shall curse them. It shall be their fate to remain naked as they are now, and to stay in a state of immobility for a hundred years, until they are freed from my curse by none other than you, son of Vasudeva. And that time has now come.’
Almost at once, the landscape changed before Krishna’s eyes. Gone was the idyllic beauty of Mount Kailasa, abode of the Three-Eyed One, and in its place was Yashoda’s backyard again: with the two arjuna trees before him. He looked around and saw that Narada had vanished as well.
He sat up and looked at the trees. They were stout and old, and looked like any arjuna tree he had seen. But he knew now what they truly were.
‘It is your lucky day,’ he said to the trees, patting each one gently with his baby hands as he stood up. ‘Your time of danda has ended, and I am to free you now.’
And he began to pull with all his might. The mortar moved forward several inches until its edges struck the two trees. There it held fast. Krishna knew that the force required to pull it free was more than a single horse could exert. Perhaps two or four horses might do it, pulling together and using strong ropes. But he had no horses at hand, and Narada-muni’s words had been quite clear. It was unto him, son of Vasudeva, to free these two punished souls.
8
Jarasandha and Kamsa watched as Narada watched little Krishna tugging at the mortar. As he strained his little mortal body, the ropes binding him to the mortar began slowly to stretch and then to fray. He saw this and stopped pulling for a moment. Taking firm hold of the mortar itself, he began to pull at it with all his might, trying to push it through the gap between the two arjuna trees. There was no room for the mortar to pass of course. Yet the force Krishna exerted was so great, the mortar began to pull at the trees themselves.
A great cracking noise sounded, and with a huge heave of effort, the arjuna trees began to emerge from the ground, their roots unseated by Krishna’s force. With a great powerful tug, he leveraged the mortar to pull both trees out by their roots. It was an astonishing sight for even the mortar was twice as high as the little dark-skinned boy himself. The trees towered over him, ridiculously tall and strong.
Kamsa could not imagine what strength it must take to uproot the trees. He had smashed many trees since he had acquired his new abilities. But to uproot them in this fashion? Both trees emerged from the ground, their roots trailing for several yards, clotted with clods of earth. Dust rose up in the air and the trees both came crashing down to the ground on either side of Krishna, sending up a great noise of timber cracking.
Kamsa flinched as he saw people approaching at a run. Jarasa
ndha smiled at his nervousness and patted his shoulder. ‘They cannot see us. We are watching through Narada’s Vortal, and Narada himself cannot be seen by anyone on earth at this time. And so long as we remain still and do not evoke too much emotional disturbance, even Narada will not sense our presence here. We are merely ghost observers.’
Kamsa nodded, reassured but still unnerved by the fact that there were people before him whom he could clearly see and hear but could not hear or see him in turn.
Yashoda came running up thinking the worst had happened. She was relieved beyond words to see Krishna standing safely, the remnants of the ropes dangling from his arms and waist. The dust cloud behind him had partially settled to reveal the two fallen trees, their roots exposed, and the mortar which had been crushed beneath the trees when the fell. It was incredible to conceive that her little son could have brought down those two great trees, yet from the first instant she had no doubt that this was indeed the case.
‘Krishna!’ she cried, embracing him. He was coated from head to foot in dust, turning his jetblack skin powdery white in colour. ‘What have you done this time?’
KRISHNA CORIOLIS#3: Flute of Vrindavan Page 18