Nanda’s head reeled. But he implicitly trusted his guru’s judgement and wisdom; he bowed and touched the guru’s feet with his forehead and asked no more questions.
So when the time to name little Krishna came, Gargacharya also performed the ritual for the other boy, Rohini’s son. Except that he recited the verses for the other boy softly and his associate repeated them within the house, from his position beside Rohini and the boy, and applied the various items of the ceremony to mother and child as required. Thus did Gargacharya perform the namakarans of two boys even though the world saw him perform only one.
When he had named Krishna, and the crowd roared exultantly, Gargacharya quickly took advantage of the roar to name Rohini’s son as well.
‘His name must begin with the syllable Ba,’ he announced.
Nanda and Yashoda turned to glance inside the shade of the awning, to see what Rohini replied. Little Krishna turned his round head and gazed inside too, his dark bright eyes gleaming as a mischievous smile played around his puckered lips. The boy sitting inside on his mother’s lap leaned forward, his face leaving the shade of the awning and cutting into a beam of sunlight that had somehow found its way through the large fronds of a banana tree. His eyes found Krishna’s unerringly and both infants looked at one another no less intently than two kings locking their gaze. The contrast was striking: the older boy was as milky white as Krishna was night black. Yet, beneath the veneer of the marbled whiteness that was his skin, there was a faint bluish hue. The same deep shade of blue that was Krishna’s colouring, but like a blue light hidden within a white bushel instead of a black one. In that instant, as Nanda and Yashoda looked from one child to the other, there could be no doubt that they were blood brothers, from the same womb. Rohini’s and Yashoda’s eyes met as well, and both women smiled, sharing a happy secret. Nanda sighed and shook his head, not knowing what to make of it all, but trusting in the powers that were and the wisdom of his guru.
‘Balarama,’ said Rohini softly, only speaking loud enough to be heard by the Brahmin beside her. The Brahmin nodded and continued rocking to and fro in his cross-legged position, reciting the appropriate shlokas that confirmed the name as the given appellation of the child. Gargacharya added his own benediction to the ritual and it was done.
Krishna threw his head back and laughed his rich gurgling laugh. Yashoda looked down, amazed at how soon the boy was able to hold up his head. It was much faster than any baby; most took at least a few months, and none did it in less than several weeks. Yet here was Krishna, barely ten days old and able to hold his head, turn and look any way he pleased – up, down, left, right. Truly, he was a precocious one.
Across the estate and the adjoining pasture fields, the crowds were dancing and singing with joy. Gopas played roughly and fiercely, pushing one another over, splashing buckets of water, ghee, milk, curds and buttermilk on one another, lapping up the food as well as wallowing in it! Music exploded as a thousand musicians played at once, all somehow finding the same syncopation and matching one another perfectly, in the harmony that came only of a lifetime of generational togetherness.
‘Sadhu! Sadhu! Sadhu!’ went one refrain, announcing the auspiciousness of the occasion.
‘Krishna! Krishna! Krishna!’ sang another chorus, celebrating the birth of Vraj’s newest and most honoured son.
The feasting continued all through the day and night, with not a single being, be it animal, human or bird, turned away unfed. The poorest of the poor were welcomed with open arms, embraced, given gifts and fed lavishly. The richest of the rich were treated with rough joy, drenched in ghee, buttermilk, curd, butter or plain milk – any one of the products of the sacred goumata that was their livelihood and indeed, their life itself.
And through it all, as he lay beside his newly found brother Balarama, little Krishna laughed and clapped his chubby palms together. The older boy, able to stand and walk with halting but firm steps on strong little legs, stood watch over Krishna as intently as a sentry over a prince. When some of the gopas came closer to try and tease the newborn, Balarama stood blocking their way and glared at them so fiercely, they changed their minds and backed away.
Krishna only chortled and clapped his hands again, kicking his chubby legs merrily. His gurgling laughter seemed to fill the air, echoing from one end of the land to the other. Yashoda, tired and sleepy but happy beyond description, lay in the arms of her beloved Nanda and wondered idly if Krishna’s laughter could be heard as far as Mathura.
twelve
The warrior’s name was Bahuka. He was an aging veteran of more wars and conflicts than even he could count; so many that at one time or the other, he had fought for virtually every major faction in Aryavarta, with the result that it had happened quite often that he was on a certain side in one war and on the opposing side in the next. He had killed former comrades, former leaders, been hired by the scions of kings he had killed, and had enjoyed such a chequered career that he was feared by one and all. The consequence of all this battle experience and notoriety was to make him a man completely without airs. He feared nobody and nothing on earth. He said what he pleased, to whomsoever he pleased. The same applied to his behaviour and actions. For the past few years, he had aligned himself with Jarasandha, and this, he claimed, was the first alliance he had made not for wealth or power but because he believed in the cause that the king espoused.‘Which,’ as he added wryly,‘is what will probably get me killed.’
He was overseeing Kamsa’s toilet. After the meltdown in the sabha hall, he had insisted that Kamsa ought to look like a king in order to earn the respect of a king from his subjects and followers. So he had ordered a bath drawn and was now ensconced in a comfortable seat while Kamsa was being scrubbed, rubbed, bathed and perfumed by a host of female attendants.
He is still wearing his battle armour and sword, Kamsa noted sourly, which was explicitly against Kamsa’s own long-standing orders and a breach of protocol in any king’s private chambers. But he was Jarasandha’s man, and Kamsa knew better than to say anything to him. He had no doubt that the man was there to report to Jarasandha and was probably spying out everything he could possibly spot as quickly as possible. Once he had all the dirt he wanted, he would ride back on a fast horse to his master and fill his ears with poison about Kamsa being afraid of clouds and whatnot.
Kamsa felt like reaching out and yanking the man down into the bubbling hot bathing pool, where he could beat him to a bloody pulp and drown him. But he couldn’t do that, of course. The sooner the man finished his spying and reported back to Jarasandha the better. That was probably why the man stayed fully dressed, Kamsa realized – because he intended to be ready to leave at any moment.
That realization brought a tiny smile to his face. He grinned involuntarily and the grizzled veteran glanced at him, cocking a bushy white brow.
‘Are the bathing beauties soaping the right spots?’
Kamsa stared at him dully for a moment, then realized the man was making a lewd comment. He scowled.‘No. Of course not. I was just thinking, that’s all.’
‘Of your beloved wives? Your beautiful, loving, devoted wives who await you back home?’
Back home? Mathura was his home. Didn’t the old fool know that? Aloud, he had to be more diplomatic.
‘My father-in-law is very generous. He has given me a grand palace to reside in. However, pressing matters require me to stay here in Mathura.’
Bahuka nodded. Another bathing attendant entered, bringing more scented oils. The elderly man watched her scantily clad form approach with a keenness that suggested that age had not dulled his virility.‘He is somewhat surprised that your stay has lasted this long.’
Kamsa was dipping his head into the warm, scented water at that time, to rid his scalp of the unguents the attendants had massaged into his hair, and Bahuka’s words caused him to involuntarily swallow a little water. He emerged coughing and spat out a mouthful of water, almost far enough to land on the veteran’s road-dusty boots.
‘I confess ...’ He hacked a few more times and watched as a bubble popped out of one nostril and drifted away nonchalantly.‘I confess it has taken a mite longer than expected. But only because there is so much more work to be done here.’
Bahuka looked at him speculatively. There was something about the old man that suggested he had looked at rabbits in the field in just the same way, moments before bringing them down with a slingshot stone to their flanks. His grey eyes gleamed in the diya-lit incandescence of the steamy air. Whorls of steam and mist drifted around him as the barely dressed attendants passed by, making him seem out of place, like a rusted lance in a cupboard of soft silks.
‘It has been a decade, Kamsa,’ he said quietly.‘A little more than a decade, in fact. Is that what you call a mite longer?’
Kamsa did not fail to notice the lack of an honorofic before his name. Nobody had addressed him simply by his first name in ... a long time. And the veteran’s tone, while quietly polite, had a deathly steel edge to it as well. He was sending a subtext with the words – that he was speaking for Jarasandha himself, and Jarasandha wanted to know why the hell Kamsa was still in Mathura.
‘I...’ Kamsa flailed his arms in an attempt to pretend he was still busy bathing. Water splashed everywhere. ‘I am sure Jarasandha has come across cities that have proven stubborn or resistant to him, from time to time? Surely they have taken him a mite ... somewhat longer to overcome than other cities?’
Scratching his crotch vigorously, Bahuka glanced down at the soapy wet floor between his feet and chuckled. ‘Not ten years, Kamsa! I doubt Lord Jarasandha has taken more than ten weeks to overcome even the most stubborn opponent to date!’ He stood slowly, pointing a gloved finger down at the bath.‘I don’t think you have earned the right to even compare yourself with your illustrious father-in-law yet, boy. So it’s best you answer me like a man, and stop making excuses. That way, it might go better for you.’
Kamsa stared up at the warrior. Who did this fellow think he was, speaking to him this way?‘Mind your tongue, Bahuka. Remember you speak to the king of the Yadava nation!’
Bahuka hawked and spat – right into the pool. Kamsa felt some of the spittle hit his bare chest and was shocked.‘Boy, from what my spasas tell me, you aren’t king of your own house! Let alone the entire Yadu nation.’
Kamsa was so shocked, he found his anger slow in coming. How could anyone behave thus in front of him – and expect to live!‘Be careful what you say next, general. They may be the last words you speak.’
The veteran put his hands on his hips and laughed, throwing his head back to reveal a mesh of ugly white scar tissue on his throat. Evidently, someone had tried to cut the man’s gullet with a not-too-sharp blade and had sawed the rough blade to and fro several times to achieve the desired result. And quite clearly, the victim had somehow survived the attempt. Kamsa felt his skin crawl. What sort of man survived having his throat vigorously sawed open? Definitely not a cowardly one.
Bahuka finished laughing and shook his head sympathetically as he looked at Kamsa again.‘You have been tinpot dictator of your own little playground too long, young fellow. Lord Jarasandha was right to send me here – as he is always right. You have lost touch with reality, with the world around you, even with your own limitations. I suspected it from the reports my spasas kept bringing me, and which I passed on each time to Lord Jarasandha with my recommendations, but when I saw you this morning, lying in your own residues in that wreck of a sabha hall, surrounded by the debris of a failed regime, I knew you had completely lost it altogether.’
Kamsa growled. It was the best he could do. He did not want to speak any words that he might regret later. Expressing himself through words had never been particularly satisfying to him. Growling communicated his feelings more effectively. The bathing attendants began to scream and whimper and retreated to the far ends of the bathing pool, some clambering out to be lost instantly in the steamy mist.
‘I was merely tired and resting after a hard night’s work,’ Kamsa said, unable to control the sulk in his voice.‘I had just finished infecting all the senior Brahmins in the city.’
Bahuka cocked a head with renewed interest.‘Is that so? And when did you do that?’
‘Because the Brahmins hold the people together. By reassuring the people that this damn Slayer myth is true, they give them hope to continue to rebel against me. By infecting the Brahmins and turning them into my own creatures, I wanted to break that final wall of resistance.’
Kamsa climbed out of the bathing pool, careful not to let himself slip. He knew that Bahuka was watching him like a predator and would strike at any sign of weakness. Besides, if he couldn’t tell the man what he felt, he could at least show him his naked backside as he climbed out. Actions always spoke louder than words.
‘Really?’ Bahuka asked. ‘So that was your great plan? But I didn’t ask you why you did it, I asked you when you did it.’
Kamsa rubbed himself down, frowning. The attendants had all fled, no doubt afraid that he was going to erupt in another of his nearly daily rages and slaughter them all, or worse. In fact, he couldn’t understand why he was unable to expand himself. Despite growing angry several times since the interaction with Bahuka had begun, he was still the same human size. Why?
He turned around, scowling.‘What do you mean when I did it! You mean, when did I infect the Brahmins? Why, yesterday, of course.’
Bahuka stared at him curiously, then frowned, stared some more, then finally chuckled. He shook his head, clicking his tongue sympathetically. ‘It’s worse than I thought. You are now losing time along with your mind.’
Kamsa stared at him uncomprehendingly. What was the man babbling about now? What did he mean by ‘losing time’?
Bahuka laughed. ‘Your little act with the Brahmins was months ago, immediately after the birth of the Slayer and his slippery disappearance from right under your nose. You were lying senseless in that ruin of a sabha hall for several weeks. Nobody dared go in and wake you for fear of your wrath.’
Kamsa stared at him in disbelief. This could not be true, could it?
‘Besides, your ploy with the Brahmins was useless. They all do that very day as a result of your stupid attempt. What else do you think was all that gooey mess you were lying in, splashed around the sabha hall the day I arrived? That was all that was left of them, you fool!’
Kamsa turned and hurled the contents of his morning meal, eaten just before bathing, into the scented pool.
thirteen
Soon after the namakaran of the two boys, Gargamuni visited Mathura.
An old and renowned preceptor of the Yadava nation, none dared question his comings and goings, not even Kamsa’s most brutal marauders. The reason for this was more likely their own superstitious and religious beliefs rather than any lack of fear of their self-crowned king. There was also the very compelling fact that Brahmins carried no arms and never resorted to violence, even to defend themselves, and therefore posed no threat.
Gargamuni’s destination was the princess’ palace.
Vasudeva and Devaki greeted him with warmth and due ceremony. They assumed he was there as usual to enquire after their well-being as well as to pass on news of the Vrishni clans. Brahmins were the primary source of news and information, after all. And the older the Brahmin, the sharper his ears for the choicest titbits!
What he had to say that day was quite extraordinary and wholly unexpected.
‘The Slayer is alive and well in Gokul, deep in the heart of Vrajbhoomi.’
Vasudeva sank to the ground, his knees giving way with relief. Devaki was already seated on the ground in front of the muni. They clasped hands as tears of joy rolled down their faces. Gargacharya beamed at them.
‘I have come from the home of Nanda Maharaja, lord of the gopas and gopis of that region. He and his wife Yashoda believe the boy, Krishna, to be their own and love him passionately. They will raise him as well as you would have.’
Devaki lowered he
r head in sadness at the thought of never being able to watch her son grow, to watch him take his first steps, speak his first words ... but she also felt a great sense of relief and joy that he would be so well cared for. As well as Vasu and I would have raised him ourselves – were we but given the chance. She wiped her tears and nodded at the muni’s words. Vasudeva’s arm squeezed her shoulder, comforting her. The emotions coursing through both of them were the result of ten years of persecution, pain, constant stress and fear. To hear that their son was finally safe and far from Kamsa’s bloody claws was immensely liberating.
‘There is more good news,’ Gargamuni said, his eyes twinkling beneath his bushy white hooded brows. He leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial whisper for dramatic effect: ‘Your seventh child is also safe and well.’
Devakigaspedwithdelight.ShelookedatVasudevawhowas staring at Gargamuni with an equally delighted expression.
‘His name is Balarama,’ the old acharya said. ‘He is a fine strapping young boy, just over a year old. And he is being raised by Rohini, the wife you took on my advice last year.’
Vasudeva nodded, glancing at Devaki who was looking at him, then looking at Gargamuni.‘I did as you said, Gurudev. And truly, your advice was wisely given. Or that boy would be dead now as well.’
Devaki nodded slowly, thoughtfully. ‘So this was the secret that you said you could not divulge to me at the time.’
‘Yes,’ replied Vasudeva, ‘for Gargamuni warned me that to speak of it even amongst ourselves might have led to Kamsa’s spasas latching on to the truth. Are you upset with me for not telling you that I took another wife?’
Devaki shook her head, smiling.‘Do you even have to ask? I am happy beyond words. Our son is alive! Two of our sons! It is the happiest day of my life!’
KRISHNA CORIOLIS#2: Dance of Govinda Page 7