KRISHNA CORIOLIS#2: Dance of Govinda

by Ashok K. Banker

  Vasudeva smiled with relief. Although a man could have as many wives as he desired, it was customary to consult the older wife before remarrying. In fact, in Arya society, the older wife was usually the one who chose the new wife, for the new entrant into the household would spend as much or more time with her than with the husband. It was as important for the wives of a man to be able to live harmoniously – to be friends, even – as it was for the man and woman to appreciate one another. Vasudeva had had no choice in the matter, even though the marriage to Rohini was conducted by Gargamuni from afar and no actual marital interchange ever occurred between them; but he still felt responsible. There were many types of relationships, marital and otherwise, but the bond he shared with Devaki was unique. His loyalty to her was complete and uncompromised. Rohini had known this, Gargamuni had assured Vasudeva before the wedding, and was willing to undertake the task of raising a child on her own without naming the father publicly – a daunting task for any woman in any age. The mere knowledge that she was aiding in the survival of Vasudeva and Devaki’s son and ensuring that the Slayer foretold of in the prophecies would live as a result was sufficient for her.

  ‘Balarama,’ Devaki said, raising her head to look up at the sky visible between the pillars of her chamber.‘It is a beautiful name. Almost as beautiful as Krishna.’

  Then she remembered the figurine and felt she must show it to them.

  She brought it out of its hiding place in a corner of her private chamber where she had wrapped it carefully in a red ochre cloth. She unwrapped it now, as reverentially as if it were a scroll containing the writings of the sacred Vedas, repository of all Arya learning and wisdom. Gargamuni and Vasudeva admired the polished blue marble, wondering at its smoothness and its perfectly formed replication of a newborn babe.

  ‘You say this formed from a single drop of rain left by a rain cloud?’ Gargamuni said.‘Sadhu! Sadhu! That was no rain cloud; it was your son Krishna himself, who had come to inform you that the long terrible drought had ended, and the time of seeding and harvest was back for the Yadava people. It was a sign that the reign of Kamsa will end soon.’

  But Devaki was busy staring at the statue and blinking in disbelief. ‘It has changed shape since I last looked at it.’ She touched the stone gently in wonderment.‘At first it was only a rough blob, the features barely visible. But now ...’

  They looked at it closely. The piece of blue marble – a hue that none had ever seen in any sample of that particular stone – was shaped perfectly to resemble a newborn infant in every last detail. It could not have been more perfect had it been crafted by a master artisan. The baby lay on his back – legs and hands raised upwards in the classic pose, as if reaching for his mother – his cherubic face captured in a posture of laughter, an errant lock of hair fallen over his broad forehead. Unable to help herself, Devaki gently touched the forehead as she would a real child, as if to brush back the lock of hair from his eyes.

  She felt real warm flesh beneath her hands and the shape of the forehead changed in front of their eyes, the lock of hair moving back and settling slowly on the hairline, resting neatly on the scalp now.

  The sound of a baby’s gurgling laughter filled the palace. Even the serving girls paused in their work and looked up, wondering. And the sentries posted below, though loyal to Kamsa, glanced around and at each other fearfully, wondering what the sound meant. The news that the Slayer had been born and had escaped Kamsa’s clutches despite his best efforts had spread across the kingdom. It had adversely affected the morale of those still loyal to the usurper king. After all, if the Slayer was out there and would some day destroy their master, what might he not do to them, Kamsa’s minions?

  Devaki gasped in surprise. ‘It lives!’

  But when she touched the statue again, it was only smooth marble – not cold, however, as marble ought to have been, but firm and unyielding as stone nevertheless. She sighed, disappointed.

  ‘You speak truly, Devaki-devi,’ Garga said. ‘Krishna himself has ensured that you shall not be deprived of the joy of his presence. He is with you in every sense.’ Garga glanced around, not because he feared being overheard, but to make his point theatrically.‘But you must be certain not to let anyone know of this token of his love, nor what it represents.’

  Devaki swallowed, nodding vigorously.‘I call it Ghanashyam for that reason.’

  ‘Ghanashyam,’ Gargamuni mused.‘How apt. And in fact, the scriptures said he could be named with the syllable Ka, but Gha and Cha were permissible too! How apt indeed.’

  The old preceptor rose to go. ‘Oh, one last thing,’ he said, ‘it almost slipped my ageing memory, yet it is more important than anything else I have told you until now.’

  Vasudeva wondered what could be more important than knowing that two of their children were alive and had successfully survived Kamsa’s murderous clutches, but held his silence.

  As if knowing Vasudeva’s thoughts, the old Brahmin wagged a bony finger with white hair growing sparsely between the knuckles at him.‘Kamsa has failed to inform you of this but I have learnt of it through my sources. An invitation arrived for you yesterday from Hastinapura.’

  ‘From Hastinapura?’ Vasudeva’s heart skipped a beat. ‘My sister Pritha, is she well?’

  ‘Indeed. You need not worry on her account. She is quite well, though troubled, of course. There is great unrest in that fine kingdom of the Purus.’

  Vasudeva nodded, relieved that nothing had befallen his sister. They had been very close before Kamsa’s madness had made even normal social interaction impossible.‘I have heard there is unrest there as well. And of course that Jarasandha is raging at their borders.’

  Gargamuni nodded grimly. Despite his age and benevolent paternal features, at moments like these, the steel within him was clearly visible. ‘Jarasandha is one of the reasons why this meeting has been called. They have called on you formally, using the pre-agreed code to indicate extreme distress. It is certainly a crisis.’

  ‘Then I must go to Hastinapura!’ Vasudeva said, rising. ‘If my Puru brethren need my help ...’

  ‘Nay, my son, nay.’ Gargacharya put a hand on his shoulder, firmly keeping him seated. The strength in the old man’s arms surprised Vasudeva. ‘If you leave, Kamsa’s spasas will know the purpose and destination of your journey and he or his representatives shall surely race you to Hastinapura. By right, Kamsa is now king of the Yadava nation, even if self-declared. And if he goes to Hastinapura, the Purus would have no choice but to greet him formally and acknowledge him as such, and that is something they are loath to do. Through clever statecraft, Pitamah Bhishma has successfully avoided recognizing Kamsa’s sovereignty for all these years, without dishonouring the Puru nation’s ties with us Yadavas. If you go, you will render all that statecraft wasted.’

  ‘Then what would you advise me to do?’

  Gargamuni nodded, indicating that he had given the matter some thought. ‘Lord Akrur must go in your place, as your spokesperson and friend, but not as an official envoy.’

  Vasudeva was frustrated at not being able to go himself, but nodded at the old guru’s wisdom. ‘It is a wise choice. I trust Akrur to speak as if he were me personified. But if he goes to Hastinapura, might not Kamsa still attempt to outplay him by arriving there as well?’

  Gargamuni’s eyes twinkled as he wagged a finger.‘That is why I have requested that the meeting not take place in Hastinapura or Mathura but on neutral ground.’

  Vasudevanoddedapprovingly.‘Whereisittobe,then?Ishall instruct Akrur accordingly.’

  ‘It is a remote fishing hamlet deep in the heart of the Yamuna’s valley, where the Dasa fisherfolk live.’

  Vasudeva nodded, frowning.‘I am vaguely aware of the place but more precise directions would help.’

  ‘Your friend need only follow the Yamuna. She herself shall lead him to his destination. A boat shall be waiting for him there. It shall carry him across the river to the island.’

  ‘An island?
’

  ‘Yes, an island in the midst of the river. It is named Pachmani. But the local fisherfolk call it Manchodri. It is there that the meeting shall take place. None but you and Akrur should know of this meeting.’

  Gargamuni told Vasudeva the date of the meeting, then said his goodbyes, shuffling away with a deceptively shambling walk. Absorbed in thought, Vasudeva watched him go.

  fourteen

  Kamsa’s sleep was plagued by a fevered dream of him reduced to the size of a gnat flying across a cornfield as a gigantic monsoon cloud – the same anthropomorphic deep blue cloud he had seen in the sabha hall – attempted to strike him down with bolts of lightning. The jagged bolts crashed down to the left and right of his scorched flanks, resulting in blinding white explosions. Flying in a zig-zagging motion was all he could do to stay inches away from each new assault. As one final bolt seared its way towards him, he knew this was the one that would strike him dead, blazing him into a

  vaporous puff on impact. He screamed with abject terror.

  He awoke thrashing on the floor of his bedchamber. He croaked, calling to his attendants, but nobody came. After several moments of struggling to regain his wits, he got to his feet and was about to throw a tantrum, perhaps bite off the heads of a few of his more recalcitrant attendants, when he heard the unmistakable sounds of marching from outside his balcony. Looking out, he saw more activity in the courtyard than ought to have been at this time of night. He didn’t bother to dress, and left his chamber in just the white langot in which he slept, wishing yet again that he could expand himself as easily as he used to. Had he been able to do so, he would have simply expanded himself to five or ten times man-size and leapt off the balcony, the few dozen yards to the ground posing no more difficulty than leaping down a short flight of stairs.

  But for some inscrutable reason, he just couldn’t grow any further than this normal man-height, no matter how hard he tried. It was frustrating in the extreme. For one thing, throwing a tantrum was not quite as effective as it used to be: his people just weren’t that scared any more. In fact, he suspected that they secretly laughed at him behind his back, as if the behaviour that had been so terrifying when he was a giant’s size now seemed ridiculous and feeble. And it probably was. He felt so himself.

  He emerged into the courtyard, and was struck at once by a blast of cold breeze that made him acutely aware of how little he was wearing; he wished he had taken a moment to throw on something. But this was the monsoon season, surely, and he hadn’t expected the temperature to be this low outside.

  ‘WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?’ he bellowed. Or rather, attempted to bellow. What he produced instead was a squeaky croak that tapered off into a whimper as a fresh gust of icy cold breeze blew across the open courtyard. Kamsa shivered and, teeth chattering at the unexpected change in temperature, was forced to cover his bare torso with both arms crossed. He struggled to overcome his reaction and stand straight, to command respect and instil fear. The problem was, he was so accustomed to eliciting these responses through sheer force, power, size and intimidation that he had no idea how to gain them through normal means. Appearing in his langot in the early hours of the morning of a chilly day, while his soldiers marched and stood around in immaculate uniforms and ranks, he ended up looking absurd.

  ‘What are you men doing?’ he demanded, wheezing.‘I called no turning out of ranks this morning!’

  ‘I asked them to,’ said a laconic voice from behind him.

  Kamsa turned to see the lanky form of Bahuka striding leisurely up to him. Contrasting with the darkness of the courtyard, the veteran’s hoary head of hair glowed with a penumbra of light from the palace behind him, which threw his features into shadow and lent him an air of almost supernatural menace. Kamsa shivered again, wishing like hell he had draped on an anga-vastra at least. But who could have expected a monsoon morning to be this chilly?

  ‘You?’ he stuttered through chattering teeth.

  ‘Aye,’ said Bahuka arrogantly. ‘In case you forget, Prince Kamsa, I command the army now. By your own writ.’

  By my writ? Since when? ‘I am your king,’ Kamsa replied angrily, feeling some heat finally surge through his freezing body. ‘Address me with my proper title. And I recall signing no such writ. I am supreme commander of our armed forces.’

  Bahuka moved slightly in the shadowy darkness of the courtyard, gravel crunching under his boots. He was only leaning over to speak softly to Kamsa but for a split second he appeared to be attacking and Kamsa involuntarily took a step back.

  ‘You reverted to “prince regent” when you declared Lord Jarasandha to be de facto ruler of Mathura and the other Yadava nations,’ he said softly, yet not so softly that the ranks nearest to them did not hear every word.

  I did? When was that? Kamsa racked his brains furiously but could remember doing no such thing. Yet he could hardly say so aloud. It would only make him look like a fool again in case Bahuka produced a signed scroll with Kamsa’s seal on it. And in a sense, Bahuka was only saying aloud what Kamsa had always agreed to do. After all, that was the arrangement he had had with Jarasandha: to take over his father’s kingdom and rule it independently, but under fealty to Jarasandha – which could be interpreted legally as making Jarasandha the de facto ruler.

  Receiving no response from Kamsa, Bahuka went on, a little louder this time: ‘As for the army, you yourself announced my appointment as commander of the forces. At a very dignified martial ceremony in the new palace.’

  ‘The new palace?’ Kamsa replied idiotically. What ceremony? What appointment?

  Bahuka reached out, startling Kamsa yet again, placed a heavy gloved hand on the apparently erstwhile young king’s bare neck, and gripping it in exactly the kind of hold required to break a man’s neck with a single twist – Kamsa had done it often enough himself – turned Kamsa’s neck just enough to make him look in the other direction, diagonally. In the distance, he saw the looming shape of a structure he did not recognize having seen before, right where his old palace – which was in fact his new palace when he took over Mathura – had stood. He could see a steady flow of men carrying heavy objects coming out and depositing the load to a line of waiting uks carts.

  ‘There,’ Bahuka said in a low tone that was almost a growl. ‘Oh,’ Kamsa said, ‘I see.’

  But he did not see at all. How could a new – or a new-new – palace have risen overnight without his noticing it? And why was it that he could recall none of it?

  Boot heels clicking on the flagstones, then crunching across the gravel, a man came running from the direction of his private residence. He carried a large garment of some kind and bowed low as he approached. He handed the piece of clothing to Kamsa who stared at it stupidly.

  After a long moment, the man said querulously, ‘My lord? Your garment? To guard you from the cold winter wind?’

  Kamsa started.‘Who is that? What is your name?’

  The man glanced at Bahuka who nodded. He then rose to his full height and approached a little closer.‘Lord Kamsa, it is I, Pralamba, your chief advisor.’

  Kamsa stared at the unfamiliar face. He had never seen the man before. Pralamba held out the garment again.

  Kamsa attempted to laugh in derision, but it came out as a coughing fit.‘It is only mid-monsoon. This is barely a passing rain breeze. I do not need any garment.’

  Bahuka cleared his throat. ‘Prince Kamsa, being occupied with statecraft, you seem to have failed to notice the passing of the seasons. The monsoons have passed, as has autumn. It is now early winter. Perhaps you should take the garment after all. We wouldn’t want you to freeze to death.’

  Kamsa stared at Bahuka’s silhouetted profile, dimly visible in the light from the distant chambers. Nearby, he thought he heard a soldier in the ranks snicker. Face burning with shame, he took the proffered garment and put it on, admitting that the clothing did provide welcome protection. He had been freezing to death; that was no monsoon wind. But when had the seasons changed? It had only
been a day or two since Bahuka had arrived in Mathura. How had so much happened so soon?

  Another man marched up to them, walking with the quick stride of a military man. He stopped short and saluted smartly.

  ‘Captain Pradyota, report,’ Bahuka said with the ease of a general giving orders to a long-serving junior.

  ‘Sire, we are ready to move out. Awaiting your command.’ ‘Very well, Captain, stand by a moment at your ease.’ Captain Pradyota saluted again and stood at ease, awaiting further orders.

  Bahuka turned to Kamsa. ‘You do remember Pradyota, do you not? He is captain of the guard.’

  Kamsa frowned, still trying to get warm, almost ecstatic at being covered by the warm woollen garment.‘What about Bana and Canura? Where are they?’

  ‘You dismissed them. Pending further intimation.’

  Not sure what to say next, Kamsa swallowed nervously. There appeared to be a whole parallel timeline in which all manner of events had taken place without his being aware of them. He no longer knew what was what.‘I see. And Pradyota is now captain? What is the mission that requires assembling at this early hour?’

  Bahuka cocked his head with an attitude of interest, as if surprised at Kamsa’s ability to make any observation of intelligence. ‘Why, it is part of your ongoing programme, my lord.’

  Kamsa chose his words carefully. ‘Remind me, which programme are we speaking of?’

  ‘The one that you decided upon after the alleged Slayer was supposedly born and escaped your grasp.’

  ‘Yes, yes. But spell it out, man. Explain it to me again.’ Kamsa was struck by sudden inspiration:‘I wish to hear you say it so I know that my plan is being followed to the letter.’

  He saw Bahuka’s teeth flash in a reluctant grin. Take that, you old blade. ‘Certainly, sire. When even the pogrom of slaughter of the newborns and children did not produce results, you decided that the problem lay with the people’s faith in this mythic Slayer.’