KRISHNA CORIOLIS#3: Flute of Vrindavan

by Ashok K. Banker

  He smiled at her. ‘Maatr, I freed the sons of Kubera!’

  She looked in the direction he was pointing, at the two fallen trees. People had gathered around, talking agitatedly. But Krishna was pointing where nobody was looking, at the ends of the roots of the two trees. Yashoda saw a shimmering miasma gathering, as if some preternatural sap were oozing from the tips of the roots and collecting together into two separate masses. As she watched, the masses coalesced to form two ghostly humanoid shapes. She was even able to discern that they were men, two young men clad in rich robes and jewels. These two ghostly shapes, barely as substantial as the dust settling around them, joined their palms together and bowed before Krishna.

  ‘Supreme yogi,’ she heard them say, and knew at once that they were speaking not in sounds but in words only her mind could hear, just as Krishna had spoken to her when he was younger. ‘You are the Paramatma. All of Creation is merely your body. You are the ultimate controller of senses, souls, essences, and corporeal forms of all entities. You are Kala itself, Time Infinite. You are Swayam Bhagwan. You are are none other than Vishnu, the indestructible Preserver. You are the mahout and the prakriti. You contain rajas, sattva and tamas within your being. You are the overseer of all things, the supremely knowledgeable One, the uncapturable, the personification of almighty brahman itself. In this your amsa, you have blessed us wrongdoers by freeing us of our earthly prisons, leaving us free to return to our true forms and resume our celestial duties. Pray, give us permission to depart now, Lord. We are eternally grateful to you and remain your servants. We pray the forgiveness of your servant Narada as well and deeply regret the offense we caused him and Mahadeva as well by violating the sanctity of the sacred grove.’

  And as Yashoda looked on in wonderment, her little Krishna cried out, ‘Go now! You are forgiven.’

  And after circumambulating her son with folded palms, the two guhyakas vanished without a trace.

  Only then did Yashoda become aware of the great commotion around her.

  ‘Another asura attack! And once again Nanda and Yashoda’s little one was spared only by the grace of Vishnu. Look how close he came to being crushed by the falling trees. Look at the state of the mortar!’

  The voices rose in a cacophony, deafening out Yashoda’s protests and attempts to explain. She tried repeatedly to explain that it was only Krishna who had pulled down the trees but of course nobody would believe her or credit her story.

  Finally, Krishna himself put a hand on her head and said affectionately, ‘Maatr, do not trouble yourself. They will believe what they believe to be true. But you know the ultimate truth.’

  She was appeased by his words and his childish wisdom. But still felt troubled. ‘Yes, my son, but they are very upset. There is talk of migrating out of Gokuldham, even leaving Vrajbhoomi and going into exile. They fear that this is yet another sign that we Vrishnis are no longer welcome in this land. They mean for us to make an exodus! Your father Nanda’s friend Upananda has been advocating it from the very first incident of the cart-breaking and now he might even prevail, given the current mindset of our people. This may well be the incident that provokes our clan to leave this beautiful homeland and go into exile!’

  Krishna nodded, understanding all, and patted his mother lovingly. ‘So be it,’ he said. ‘Let what will be be.’

  She stared at him.

  He grinned mischievously. ‘How do you know it is not what I intended from the very beginning?’

  She was thunderstruck. Could it be possible? That Krishna wanted them to leave Vraj and Gokul? ‘You mean...’ she began.

  He shushed her with a raised finger. ‘Let us not speak further, Maatr. Who knows who might be listening. Come, take me home now and bathe me. I wish to be clean and fresh before I drink of your milk again. And I am thirsty enough to drink all your milk today!’

  And he took her larger hand in his own, clasping it tightly, and turned her homewards.

  9

  Jarasandha cursed as their view of Krishna and Yashoda faded, and even Narada turned away, looking smug and satisfied.

  ‘What is it?’ Kamsa asked. He was still reeling from the sight of the Slayer. That child? That little tyke? He was the prophecies One who would someday kill him, Kamsa? He could barely believe it. Yet he had witnessed the felling of the trees with his own eyes - or whatever passed for his eyes in this incorporeal plane - and he knew that what he had seen was no little boy.

  ‘He knows something,’ Jarasandha said. ‘He is looking forward to going away with his clan! That is not the way it was supposed to be.’

  Kamsa frowned. ‘How was it supposed to be?’

  ‘The attacks by the assassin squad I gave you were meant to chase the Vrishnis out of Vraj with their tails between their legs, frightened and scared, seeking sanctuary.’

  Kamsa thought for a moment. ‘Is that not what is about to happen? They are going into exile now, are they not?’

  ‘Yes, but that little God of the mortals, he is upto something! He knew all along that they would go into exile and he is not afraid of it. He looks forward to it, even takes credit for it himself!’

  ‘But what does that mean?’ Kamsa asked.

  ‘It means that our traps and snares set in the place of exile might be foreseen by him,’ Jarasandha snarled. As he spoke he dove into the ground. Kamsa followed. They were traveling back to the subterranean spot where they had entered this realm, he knew now. Back through the gateway that Jarasandha called a Vortal, to their own world. Kamsa would be relieved to return there, he did not care overmuch for spiritual tourism.

  ‘I see,’ he said, understanding suddenly and filling with bright, shining hope. ‘You intended this all along. You gave me Putana and the other assassins to send after the Slayer, knowing that they would fail but would serve a greater purpose: to shepherd the Vrishnis into a trap?’

  Jarasandha shrugged as they passed through giant boulders and stratified fossils. ‘I did not know for certain they would fail. I hoped they might succeed. But if they did not, then yes, there was a larger plan in place. And yes, that larger plan was to shepherd the human herd into a place where we could pick them off as calves in a den of wolves.’

  ‘And that is precisely what is happening now,’ Kamsa observed. ‘Yet Krishna said he did not fear it, he even seemed to welcome it.’ It was peculiar saying the name of the Slayer, but even as he said it, he knew that it was right. This was indeed the son of his sister’s body, the one who was prophecied to kill him. He could feel the blood they shared the instant he spoke the name, feel the connection that bonded them eternally. ‘Therefore, it would seem that he is not aware of the traps you laid in that new place of exile.’

  Jarasandha slowed down, Kamsa did likewise. Jarasandha was silent for a moment then looked sharply at Kamsa. ‘You are right. Perhaps he welcomes it because he mistakenly believes the attacks will continue in Gokul. Perhaps he does not know of the dangers awaiting him in exile! Not only him, but his people as well, for as you have seen, the key to destroying a leader or savior is to destroy those who regard him as a savior. Destroy faith and you kill a god. For what is a god without anyone to believe in him?’

  He clapped a hand on Kamsa, hitting him hard enough to knock out Kamsa’s breath momentarily. ‘You may be right. Perhaps the Slayer is naive enough to fail to see my larger plan. He foolishly thinks that this is the best way for his adopted human family to survive!’

  Kamsa grinned. It was rarely that he made his father in law happy, yet he appeared to have done so for the second time today. That was an achievement. ‘And now you will tell me all about your plans to ambush him and his people in the place of exile, and how they will finally end the life of the Slayer and rid me of his menace, yes, father?’

  Jarasandha nodded indulgently. ‘I shall, son.’

  And they passed through the Vortal back to their world.

  10

  Yashoda still could not accept that her entire clan should be forced into exile. She l
oved Vraj and Gokul dearly and the thought of leaving broke her heart. But she was reassured by Krishna’s words as well as by Nanda’s assurances that this was the inevitable course of action.

  ‘Even in council,’ he said gently, ‘all the elders agree that these attempts on our son’s life are signs that must be heeded. We must make this move. But have no worry, my beloved. The place we go to is no less beautiful and resplendent than our beloved Gokuldham.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked, curious.

  ‘A place called Vrindavan,’ he replied.

  ‘The legendary garden grove?’ she exclaimed.

  ‘A secret hamlet whose access is through the legendary gardens, yes. But while everyone knows Vrindavan the gardens, famed for their grapes and soma wine, only a few trusted souls know of this secret place. We use the term Vrindavan but even if the enemy searches the garden for weeks they will not find the way to our secret hamlet.’

  Yashoda was reassured even more. And after Nanda’s explanation she began to look forward to seeing this secret hamlet that he had described in such loving terms. After all, Gokuldham had been her home since marriage while it had been Nanda’s since birth. If he looked forward to moving to this new place so enthusiastically, then she would not say or do anything to discourage him henceforth.

  And so it was on a bright spring day, with a spring in their step and smiles on their lips, the Vrishnis migrated out of Vraj-bhoomi, making the journey to Vrindavan. They travelled by uks wagon carts, horses, mules, even elephants and camels. Dogs drew smaller carts of belongings, helped by the young children. The long gaily clad procession was so joyful and happy as it made its way across Vraj’s meandering hill slopes that they seemed more like people going to a festival than a migration into exile.

  KAAND 3

  1

  The sound of the flute filled the valley. Its haunting melody curled around the senses, evoked forgotten memories and lost emotions and cleansed the heart of anxiety. In her new home overlooking the lake, Yashoda sang a plaintive folk song to the melody of the flute. In the meadows where the vast herds grazed, Nanda and the other Vrishni lords marveled at how much their yield had increased and health improved. The gopas and gopis through the secret hamlet worked and played, loved and lived with renewed hope and vigor. Contrary to their fears, the migration had improved their lot instead of diminishing it. They had found everything to their liking in this secret place. The landscape was breathtakingly beautiful, the water clear as crystal, the air sweet, the animals and birds curious and unafraid - itself an auspicious sign - and all omens and signs were favorable in the extreme. The cows were yielding more milk, richer and creamier milk than ever, curds set perfectly in less time, buttermilk tasted invigorating and ghee heavenly. Even the wine was superior! But most of all, they felt safe here. Not only did the Usurper not know of this place, there was only one ingress point and it was closely watched night and day by their sentries posted in discrete lookout posts. Not one horseman or foot soldier could come to Vrindavan without word reaching Nanda at once, and for an army it would be sheer folly for the ingress point offered an impenetrable defense.

  The Vrishni were happy here. And the sound of the flute expressed their happiness more eloquently than words. That lilting song, so memorable, so sweetly sad, so profoundly moving, summed up all the struggle and travail they had gone through as well as the joy they now felt.

  They would bide their time here until the Slayer arose. Until the Usurper lay dead. Until Mathura was restored to its rightful ruler.

  They would live out their lives, herd their cows, collect their milk, churn their buttermilk, perform their rituals, celebrate their festivals, and play the sweet-sad drama of life under these stars and this sky, and bide their time till they were called upon to do whatever was needed.

  Warriors all, they did not come here to hide or escape persecution, they came to grow and strengthen their resolve, and incidentally, defy Mathura by refusing to pay any more taxes. So long as they had remained in Vrajbhoomi, they were obliged to pay the mandatory taxes and it had galled them all these years to know that those spears and swords and lances borne by the marauding armies of Kamsa were paid for with their own hard-earned coin. Now, by leaving Vraj, they had ended that obligation. This secret vale of Vrindavan was not officially under Mathura’s dominion. They owed no one taxes here. The same process was being repeated all across the Yadava nation. For if there was one way to hurt a kingdom, it was by denying it taxes. Without taxes, even the mightiest army would run out of supplies, or motivation, sooner or later. In its own way, this defiance was more effective than open civil revolt and it had the benefit of not costing Yadava lives.

  The flute summed up all these things and more. The defiance of the Vrishni, the tyranny of the Usurper, the heaven-assured Coming of the Slayer in time, the end of the reign of evil, the start of a new era of hope and peace.

  The flute sang on and in its bittersweet notes was contained the soul of all who lived here.

  For it was from their hearts that Krishna drew these emotions and translated them into song, a song he then performed through the simple reed length of the flute itself.

  The odd thing was, even when one could see Krishna engaged in other pastimes, one could still hear the song of the flute. It was as if his presence itself called the flute song into being. He had no need to actually touch it to his lips and blow: the flute song was the song of his own heart, expressing all that he had come to know about his people.

  Right now, though, Krishna was busy with another instrument quite different from a flute.

  Balarama and he sat by the lake slinging pebbles across the water.

  They were attempting to make the pebbles skip on the surface of the lake but by shooting them from the slingshots, not by hand.

  ‘There!’ Balarama cried in triumph as his shot skipped twice and almost a third time before sinking into the still surface. ‘I did it!’

  ‘Once doesn’t count, brother,’ Krishna said calmly, preparing to toss.

  ‘It skipped twice!’ Balarama said.

  ‘Once.’

  ‘Twice!’

  Krishna slung his pebble. It skipped twice and then sank, almost exactly as the one flung by Balarama. ‘There! Now that’s how you do it.’

  ‘Mine skipped twice and then almost once more. Your’s only skipped twice.’

  Krishna grinned at his brother. ‘Do it again and prove it.’ It was his favorite comeback: Whenever Balarama claimed to have outdone Krishna - which was almost all the time - Krishna defied him to do it again.

  Balarama promptly loaded a new pebble, wound the sling, then slung the shot. The pebble skipped once, twice...and a third time before making a fourth ripple and sinking into it.

  ‘There!’ Balarama cried excitedly. ‘That was at least thrice, maybe even four.’

  ‘Thrice,’ Krishna said calmly.

  ‘Thrice then,’ Balarama said, folding his arms across his chest. He was twice Krishna’s size and weight and width. ‘Bet you you can’t match that!’

  Krishna smiled to himself and slung a new pebble. But at the very instant he was about to fling it, the sound of a calf sounded behind them. Krishna released the pebble but it sank at once with barely a ripple.

  Balarama turned in response to the calf’s cry. ‘What was that?’ he said.

  For the moment in which Balarama’s head was turned, Krishna gestured and the pebble that had sunk rose up again from the water and skipped gaily across the water.

  ‘Now that’s how you do it,’ Krishna said coyly.

  Balarama turned back to the lake and saw the line of ripples spreading across the water. ‘Seven...eight?’ he cried out, as the pebble finally sank - or was allowed to sink. ‘That’s impossible! You must hav cheated, Krishna!’

  Krishna wagged a finger admonishingly. ‘Don’t be a sore loser, bhaiya. You can try again as many times as you wish. But first let’s go see what ails that calf.’

  2

&nb
sp; Krishna and Balarama had been given charge of the calves, in a bid to curtail their mischief-mongering. The suggestion came from Nanda, who had some experience with mischievous children. ‘My brothers and I raised hell in Gokul when we were growing up,’ he admitted one night to Yashoda. She was surprised. Nanda was so dignified, calm, almost phlegmatic, it was hard to think of him as a snotty nosed boy running around half naked in the dust with his brothers, raising mayhem. Yet the stories he told her were hair-raising and blood-curling and she prayed aloud that her Krishna and his brother Balarama would not repeat some of the same stunts. She even made him promise not to repeat them aloud in Krishna’s presence, to avoid giving the little rascal any ideas. Nanda chuckled and promised her. Then he offered the suggestion that they let Krishna and Balarama manage the calves.