KRISHNA CORIOLIS#2: Dance of Govinda

by Ashok K. Banker

  ‘Give the order to withdraw.’

  They stared at him dumbly. Accustomed as they were to obeying him unquestioningly and instantly, he had never known them to be dumbfounded even at his most bizarre or unspeakable command. Yet they stared at him speechless now.

  ‘Withdraw, sire?’

  ‘Aye. Pull out all our troops. Leave not so much as a dying man or a chopped limb behind. Take everything. Move out within the day and move on. Continue on the same route as before, until you reach the next location.’

  They continued to stare at him, exchanged a brief glance, then nodded slowly, turning to go. He chuckled, giving them an excuse to look back and stare questioningly:‘You’re wondering why.’

  They stared back impassively. Like all those close to him, they spoke rarely and only as much as was needed. Jarasandha was no Brahmin to depend on words. There were more efficient ways of communication. Swords spoke louder.

  ‘You’re thinking that if Jarasandha of Magadha fails to breach even a single city, it will dent my unmarred reputation. Word will spread that the forces of Magadha can be resisted. They will say we are not the demons we claim to be. That we can be stood up to and bested. Then the rout will begin. Even those cities we have already subjugated will rise up against us. And those we have not yet reached will resist us with renewed vigour. We shall have to fight twice as hard and ten times as long to conquer the same territory.’

  They did not have to nod to show agreement: Hansa and Dimvaka agreed with everything their lord said or did. It was implicit in their existence. The first thing they disagreed with would be their last. Dogs to this master, there was no room in their cognition for anything other than total obedience.

  Jarasandha smiled.‘You are right in thinking these thoughts. I cannot afford to let this city go unsacked and unpillaged. In fact, I must now make an example of it. I must demonstrate to the world what happens when anyone defies me too fiercely and too long. It is one thing to put up the show of a fight or a brief siege in order for the local chief or king to maintain his honour in his people’s eyes. That I can accept and condone. But this,’ with a contemptuous arm, he indicated the city sprawled five hundred feet below like a scattering of broken toys, ‘this isunacceptable. This is open defiance. This is a challenge to the death. And so I shall give them what they ask for. They shall have death. They shall have destruction. I shall raze this city to the ground and no other shall ever take its place. This site shall forever remain barren and blood-stained as a reminder of the price of defying Jarasandha of Magadha.’

  He grinned, revealing his teeth in an expression that he knew made even his most trusted generals want to step back uneasily. Rarely did they see their master this angry, this bloodthirsty, but often enough to know well enough to be wary of him, of his power, of what he was capable of unleashing.

  ‘But how will I do this if I command the army to move on? I shall tell you how.’

  He clapped his hands around both of them, swinging them around to face the edge of the plateau, the direction he was facing. ‘In order to set an example, I have decided not to use the army for this special case. Instead, I shall accomplish this alone.’

  Jarasandha sensed the men’s powerful shoulders tensing involuntarily beneath his grasp.

  ‘You, sire?’ Dimvaka asked. ‘You will take the city yourself ... alone?’

  Jarasandha grinned.‘Yes, I shall do it. Both I and myself.’

  Four

  All was in readiness for the naming ceremony. Nanda was overwhelmed with the turnout. He had barely had time to glance out at the crowds, but they seemed to extend well over the next several hillsides, and the sheer volume of sound suggested that the whole Vraj nation had gathered there.

  He supposed the reason was the utter joy of having a rare occasion to celebrate after months of terror and pain, and he was not too modest to acknowledge that his non-partisan standing in the community made it possible for all factions, all tribes, all varnas – in short, everyone – to eat and drink and be merry at his festivities without worrying about the political or social ramifications. The only thing he hoped was that there would be enough food and drink to go around. Vraj Yadavas could be a lusty bunch and from the looks and bustle of the crowd, they would consume as much as any army.

  A fleeting thought crossed his mind, an errant question about how much this would cost him, but it was dismissed instantly and forgotten soon. Everything he owned was the community’s and everything the community had was his; that was the way it was in Vraj. The pride he felt in the air, those shining eyes and wet cheeks, they were because this child was not his alone, he was Vrajbhoomi’s son.

  News of the massacre had reached this remote corner of the nation from Mathura, and the sheer horror of the event had penetrated through even his shield of fatherly joy. But as the morning had drawn on, it had actually energized the proceedings. Somehow, the birth of a son to Nanda and Yashoda on this particular night seemed propitious and extraordinarily auspicious. To the thousands, perhaps even tens of thousands for all he knew, assembled here now, it must also feel like a raised fist defying the brutal Prince Kamsa – sorry, King Kamsa – and his pogrom against the newborn sons of the Yadava capital. A golden ray of hope in the dark morass of tragedy, shining on despite the odds.

  Nanda suspected that many of those celebrating were doing so as an act of defiance, as a means of grieving for the little innocents who had been slaughtered in Mathura the previous night. What better way to mourn the dead newborn sons of their friends, relatives and allies in distant Mathura, crushed under the tyrant’s boot heels, than to raise a cup and dance in celebration of one that yet lived, untouched by that monster’s killing claws. He could understand his people’s eagerness to salute his son’s birth as a symbol of fresh hope and freedom from tyranny.

  A flurry of excitement rose nearby, alerting him to the arrival of the very personage he had been awaiting. He bowed low before the white-bearded, white-haired yet balding preceptor who approached with halting but determined steps, leaning on two stout brahmacharya youths who more than compensated for their guru’s age and gait with their cherubic robustness.

  ‘Pundit Gargamuni!’ Nanda exclaimed. ‘It is an honour to receive you at my humble domicile.’

  Gargamuni’s wizened face creased in a thousand folds as he chortled.‘Nanda Maharaja, it is I who have the honour today. There is not a Brahmin in all Vrajbhoomi who does not long to be here.’

  Nanda performed the ritual ablutions of hospitality as he listened respectfully to the old priest. Gargamuni’s bony feet twitched as Nanda washed them gently with water, then milk, and then with water again, as was the custom.‘Your hands are too soft, Nanda ... that tickles!’

  Nanda smiled discreetly. For an old Brahmin, Gargamuni could be quite a wit at times. He had always enjoyed listening to Gargamuni’s stories of his younger days as a Brahmin and the experiences and adventures he had been through. As the guru of the Yadavas, Garga was reverentially known as ‘Muni’, and the honorific was now a fixed part of his name. Nanda could not recall a time in his life when Gargamuni had not been there to offer spiritual advice, succour, oversee ceremonies, or otherwise fulfil a guru’s role. Vrajbhoomi was blessed to have his guidance and wisdom.

  As he finished wiping the pundit’s feet, he heard the sound of a baby crying and looked up, smiling indulgently. His smile faded to a look of puzzlement as he realized the source was not his own son. It was a babe swaddled in the arms of a woman who appeared to be asking Nanda’s men to let her pass so she could go to him. One of them, Nanda’s younger brother Sannanda, turned to glance enquiringly at him. Nanda raised an arm, gesturing to them to let her pass.

  The woman approached with the aspect of one fleeing something or someone. When she reached the spot where Nanda had knelt before Gargamuni, she crouched and bowed. And as she did so, the cloth covering the child slipped, revealing the baby’s head and part of one shoulder. The boy – for it was a boy – gurgled and clenched h
is fist happily, turning his eyes towards Nanda. He appeared to be at least four or five despite being just a year old – it was a meaty shoulder and large fist for an infant; yet the way she carried him suggested a much younger child. He was also exceedingly fair of complexion and handsome of profile – at least that is the impression Nanda got from the little he saw of the child from the angle he was at. Nanda brushed these observations aside as the woman began speaking with great urgency.

  ‘My lord Nanda, Pundit Gargamuni, I beg you for your protection and shelter.’

  Nanda glanced at his family priest. The old man’s bushy white eyebrows rose several inches, resembling a moth taking flight.

  ‘Who are you, gracious lady? Why do you seek us out thus? And from whom do you need protection and shelter?’

  The lady glanced around again, fearfully. ‘My name is Rohini—’ she began.

  ‘Rohini,’ the old pundit said speculatively. ‘A fine name. It means one who is filled with a rising tide of bliss. Thereby also the Tall One, and by implication, the Mother of Cows.’

  Nanda nodded to acknowledge the preceptor’s definition though he did not entirely understand how the guru had come by the three quite different definitions from merely a single word. He then turned his attention to the lady, who – Nanda noticed now that his attention had been drawn to that aspect of her form – was indeed quite tall.‘Rohini-devi, I am Nanda; welcome to my land. What is your purpose here?’

  She glanced at the old pundit.‘I wish that Pundit Gargamuni perform my son’s naming ceremony.’

  ‘Certainly!’ said the old priest, responding so suddenly that he caught Nanda quite by surprise.‘It would give me great pleasure!’ Nanda recovered from his surprise.‘Well, yes, I expect Pundit Gargamuni will be pleased to do so as soon as he performs the ceremony for my son.’

  The tall lady shook her head.‘I mean that it must be done together. Both boys must be named together. That is why I have brought him here.’

  Nanda was taken aback at this odd insistence but took it in his usual good humour. ‘Well ... I suppose it could be done. But why this urgency? And what does your talk of protection and shelter mean?’

  The woman moved closer so she could speak softly and yet be heard above the din of the surrounding crowd. ‘Kamsa’s soldiers will come even to this remote district sooner or later. It’s imperative that both boys be named before that happens. You must clear these crowds and we must perform the naming ceremony in private, discreetly.’

  Nanda wondered briefly if the woman was in her senses. Did she not see the enormous crowd? Did she not feel the spirit of jubilation in the air, a sense of celebration?‘That would be impossible. Besides, I am not sure they ought to be named together. What do you say, Gargamuni?’

  Gargamuni nodded his head sagely. ‘Together is good, yes.’

  Nanda stared at him. Whatever was the matter with Gargamuni? Agreeing so readily? He looked at the lady and shrugged.‘But why is it so important?’ he asked.‘I didn’t quite follow your—’

  Rohini moved closer, grasping the bundle in her arms tighter than before. ‘It’s a matter of life and death, Nanda Maharaja. Not just for us, but for our newborn sons as well. You see, these two boys are brothers. They must stay together always, for only in one another’s company will they find strength enough to face their enemy when the time comes.’

  Nanda was speechless for a moment. He cleared his throat and said softly, gently, as if addressing a deranged person, as the woman might well be: ‘It is impossible that they are brothers, dear lady. But that aside, who is this enemy you speak of? And why would he desire to harm two infants?’

  Rohini Devi leaned forward, her voice hissing as she spoke her next words softly, sibilantly:‘Kamsa ...’ she said,‘his army already seeks both these boys. He will resort to any means necessary to destroy them. I beg you; protect my son and your own from him.’

  five

  Protesting the unmitigated abuse endured over the past few years of Kamsa’s reign, the enormous palace doors groaned. The palace complex resembled a ruin rather than a king’s domicile. Under Kamsa’s father Ugrasena, the seat of the Yadava nation had been a place of pride and beauty. Designed and overseen by the great architect Vishwakarma himself on Ugrasena’s commission, it had stood as a testament to the high cultural and aesthetic standards of the Andhakas. But Ugrasena was long gone, dethroned and confined to a sunless dungeon inside his own palace, with only his repentant queen, Padmavati, to keep him rough company – and after the shocking discovery that their son Kamsa was in fact the progeny of a rakshasa who had lain with her and seeded her womb, what comfort could husband and wife have found in one another in those dark confines? Gone as well was the reign of prosperity and joy that had come with the latter half of Ugrasena’s rule, which began once he grew to repent his earlier, youthful ardour and war lust and began to dismantle the machinery of violence in favour of laying the foundation for peace. His greatest moment had come when he had crossed rajtarus with King Vasudeva in a historic ceremony after signing a peace pact, heralding a new era.

  But Kamsa had demolished all his father’s work, even as he had gone about demolishing Mathura itself, and his own palace.

  He had started by pulling down the peace treaty, then gone on to destroy more tangible institutions.

  Now he intended to take the final step in a long progression. To ascend to the pinnacle of his reign, and build the legacy that he hoped he would be remembered for in years to come ... centuries, millennia even.

  Not that historic achievements mattered much to Kamsa. He had killed the court historians a long time ago, at the commencement of his reign in Mathura. The idea of anyone watching his actions, jotting down his words and describing his every deed, then organizing it all into neat Sanskritized packages of verse – shlokas, they called them, after the metric quatrain invented by Valmiki for his adi-kavya epic – was distasteful in the extreme to him. He loathed, feared even, the idea that there were eyes and ears recording his every word and deed and recording their version of them for posterity. After hearing one particularly horrendous account of his own ascension to the throne, he had gone about the palace complex rooting out every last munshi – as the scribe sub-varna were called – and had killed them all. Eaten them alive, in fact. It seemed a fitting way to kill a poet. After all, what else was a poet but a person who ate lives and spat out his own version of them for public consumption? So Kamsa had eaten every last court scribe alive. Since then, itihasa had gone unrecorded in Mathura, which was why he could do what he was about to do now without concerning himself with how it might appear to watching eyes.

  Kicking one misaligned door hard enough to splinter the yard-thick wood, he shoved the groaning doors of the sabha hall shut, then turned to face his audience.

  The sabha hall was filled with Brahmins – pundits, purohits, rishis, munis, sadhus, sanyasis, gurus ... he had invited every Brahmin of note. He intended to give out guru-dakshina, the sacred ceremonial paying of compensation that all Kshatriyas, the warrior varna, owed to their teachers, the Brahmin varna. He had announced a feast such as Mathura had never seen before. That was all that was needed: every Brahmin of note in the city had come eagerly. Now he scanned the hundreds of white-clad, ochre-clad, and even sky-clad Brahmins of every shape and size, and smiled.

  He had reduced himself to his human form and size for the occasion. It would not do to scare them away until he had accomplished his goal.

  There was no fear on any of the waiting faces. Brahmins rarely feared anyone or anything. Brahmin-hatya, the killing of a Brahmin, was the worst crime any Arya could commit. It deprived one of any possible chance of ever attaining moksha or liberation from the eternal cycle of birth and death, for regardless of one’s other actions, no Brahmin would ever perform the samskaras (religious rites necessary for the aatma’s ascension to higher planes) on one who had slain a Brahmin. Whatever the provocation, none dared harm a Brahmin – except other Brahmins, of course, and even
that was rare. The epic conflict of the great brahmarishis Vishwamitra and Vashishta was perhaps the only recorded instance of such an enmity, and it was an exception so rare, it bordered on mythology.

  He held his smirk as he strode towards his audience. They were seated cross-legged in rows, awaiting the promised feast. Brahmins loved to eat, didn’t they? And no matter how much they ate, they never seemed to get fat! Well, there were a few exceptions, but generally, Brahmins were rake-thin. He supposed it was all that self-deprivation and long meditation. What did they call it? Ghor tapasya? Why would anyone deprive oneself of the fleshly pleasures for any reason? Surely enlightenment couldn’t be better than the physical pleasures of life and the body?

  ‘Your repast shall be served shortly,’ he said, and then, seeing the Brahmins craning their necks and cupping their hands theatrically behind their ears, realized that his voice was not loud enough to be heard at the far ends of the hall. ‘YOU SHALL BE FED SOON!’ he shouted.

  Then he began to expand himself. The reaction was instantaneous. Shock. Revulsion. Sneering disapproval. He retained the grin as he grew until his head touched the thirty- foot-high ceiling of the sabha hall, but then continued as he shattered the ceiling, making plaster and debris fall all around, and broke through the roof, rising up, up, up through the air. He stopped when he was about a hundred feet high. That was sufficient for his purposes.

  The chaos below amused him. While the Brahmins were agitated and upset at his lapse of protocol, a few even injured due to the falling debris from the hole in the roof, the majority were still seated complacently, waiting to be fed. Expecting to be fed. That was what he hated about their varna. The sense of entitlement they possessed. As if all the earth and the remaining two worlds were theirs first to claim and possess and enjoy. As if they need only toss the leftovers to the other varnas.