21
The people of Mathura opened their eyes and looked out upon their new home. Every face shone with wonder. Every pair of eyes reflected the gold and green and crimson colors of the great metropolis. Infants in arms swiveled their heads to gawk in big-eyed awe. Children stilled their incessant limbs and stared in reverential silence. Women with babes in arms or children at hand let their mouths fall open as their kohl-lined eyes gaze in wonderment on sights that they had never dreamed of before. The faces of Yadava men, hardened by war, work and hard living, lost their deep-set lines and craggy looks as they regressed to the softer unlined expressions of their boyhood. The very old grew agitated at heart as their eyes brimmed with tears, filled with gratitude for having lived long enough and survived so much in order to be able to see this day; they raised their lined faces and smiled as tears rolled from their rheumy eyes. Dogs, cats, livestock, cattle, all sniffled and crouched down or paused in their chewing and foraging to stare silently as animals stare at a strangely colored sky or harvest moon, sensing that something now existed that had never existed before, marveling at the industry of mortals and the shakti of gods. Newcomers to the swarga realms, the heavenly planes, did not gaze with such amazement. For this was the mortal realm, yet the sight they beheld was like nothing mortal eyes had ever beheld before.
Dwarka lay resplendent in the morning sunlight, a glittering cornucopia of architectural beauty. Lush groves where gentle breezes roamed, carrying the fruity odors of ripening fruits. Ripened tree fall lay scattered at random, the bright red and orange and prickly pelts contrasting with the deep green of the grass. Great parks with walkways, shaded benches, ponds and waterways, vaulting fountains and leaping squirrels. Massive gates of ornately filigreed gold wrought patterns. Towering watchtowers of crystal with golden spires that rose high enough to look out over the city entire as well as the over the great stone walls and bulwarks to observe the ocean beyond; elaborate platform moved by contraptions using weights and pulleys served to raise and lower the watchtower guards and visitors in moments, eliminating hard climbing up the 1008 stone stairs. Gargantuan granaries that were artfully built so a simple panel could be opened and a lever pulled upon to release as much or as little grain as was required each day, each granary containing vast stores of grains capable of feeding the entire Yadava nation for years, if not decades. The great pots for daily dispensation before each granary, from which citizens could freely help themselves to as much as they needed for their household’s nourishment, were made of solid gold; the granaries themselves were constructed of silver and brass. Everything was designed artistically to be functional as well as aesthetically pleasing.
The houses themselves were marvels of construction. It was impossible to even comprehend how their curved corners and jeweled domes could have been built, or indeed, how they remained standing so staunchly. Every house was made of solid gold, regardless of the occupant’s earlier status. There would be no discrimination between classes or castes here in Krishna’s city; he had made sure of that. The houses were all of gold, the domes bejeweled, the roofs set with emeralds the size of fruits. Every house had a terrace with a view of the ocean as well as the gardens and inner city. Somehow, by some miracle of architecture, no matter how near the ground a house might be when entered, once you ascended to your terrace by climbing a dozen steps or so, you found yourself looking down from a terrace that was many dozen yards higher. This meant that nobody could claim to look down on his neighbor, nor was anyone compelled to look up at her neighbor! Every house had a temple and when the family that chose that house entered within, they found their own chosen idols in the shape of their own deity of preference housed within. How could Krishna have known—or Tvasta? Neither needed to know. The houses themselves provided what their occupants desired.
Even though members of all four varnas came to Dwarka, they lived in complete equality now. Only the rulers and administrators whose houses needed to contain space for administrative staff and duties, or items that had to be organized for distribution or redistribution were granted larger mansions and buildings suited to their official needs. This was no democracy, yet no democracy could claim to be this democratic in the history of humankind.
Magnificent was the city, rich were its treasures and pleasures.
Tvasta led his people on a walking tour, his words somehow conveyed through the intelligent acoustics of the city itself to every last person following. Krishna and Balarama exchanged smiles at the gazes of amazement that lit up the faces of the people as they looked upon one new wonder after another.
“This is Sudharma, the great hall of assembly,” announced Tvasta proudly, as two of the largest doors ever seen, each rising to the height of five elephants standing upon each other’s backs, opened of their own accord, swinging wide to permit the people to stream in. Even that huge population seemed dwarved as they shuffled into the vast cavernous sabha hall that seemed to reach for yojanas in every direction. Like many houses and buildings within Dwarka, the sabha hall was far, far larger on the inside than it was on the outside. Also like the rest of the city, the sabha hall adjusted its size to accommodate the number and nature of those entering within. Right now, it had expanded to the size of a kingdom, the far walls and vaulting ceilings literally yojanas distant: only the enormous size of the great statuary and the carvings on the ceilings and portraits on the walls served to provide some scale against which to compare the size of the space.
“All that is spoken or decided within these walls will always be correct in dharma,” Tvasta said. “That is why it is known as Sudharma. This sabha hall was gifted by mighty Indra himself,” Tvasta said. “As part of his demonstration of friendship towards our Lord Krishna for the inconvenience he caused him and the Vrishni during the years of exile.” He did not elaborate the story itself: all those who knew the story of Krishna knew every last detail already. “Other devas gave other treasures and gifts. Lord Kubera gave eight great treasures. Varuna, lord of wind, bestowed white and black horses as fast as the wind itself. The nine planets each gave precious gifts.”
The great procession passed through the hall and beyond, the great doors slowly swinging shut only after the last stragglers had exited, pausing briefly to let a yapping puppy bound after his young mistress. They continued their magical tour.
In the center of the city, everyone’s breath was stolen momentarily by the awe-inspiring sight of a tree greater than anything they had seen until now. The houses of gold, granaries of silver, roofs studded with diamonds, towers of crystal, all paled before the great, towering tree that rose from the heart of the island-kingdom, her roots spread out around her for miles in every direction like vast skirts, the trunk a thousand yards around, the towering branches fanning out to shade more than a third of the great city, the upper branches and trunk containing an entire zoology of beasts and birds and insects of all kinds. Silhouetted against the evening sun—for the tour had taken all day—the tree was magnificent beyond all description.
“This is Parijata,” said Tvasta reverentially, for a great artist respects that which human eye, mind and hand cannot match more than any man-made creation. “The celestial tree. Our Lord Krishna informs us that beneath its boughs, all natural laws are suspended.”
To demonstrate, he leaped upwards, stretching out his hands, and to everyone’s shock, flew up through the air, rising toward the lowest branches which were high above the ground. “Do as you will,” he cried out, turning as he rose up, his face flushed with excitement, “no harm will ever come to any being in Parijata’s shade. Neither death nor injury, age nor illness. Come dance upon the air if you wish!”
And with that, the tour ended and the celebrations began. One by one, led by the very young and most adventurous at first, followed by everyone else, the people of Mathura flew up into the air, dancing and cheering and laughing and clapping with joy and praise for their Lord Krishna and the great miracle he had wrought.
22
Vasudev
a and Devaki rode in Krishna’s celestial chariot along one of the many carriageways that crisscrossed Dwarka. Devaki gripped the side of the chariot, still unaccustomed to this miracle of flight. Vasudeva smiled at her reassuringly but she noticed that he kept his hand on the railing as well. Courageous as he was, horseless motion was not something he could fathom let alone accept unconditionally. The chariot flew smoothly, silently, as if seeking to disprove their anxiety and as it progressed, they grew more confident. They flashed through crossroads, somehow avoiding collisions with other horseless carriages similar in function though lacking its celestial resplendence. Immediately behind them came Balarama’s celestial chariot carrying Nanda Maharaj and Yashoda Devi and their family. From the looks of Balarama’s animated conversation and the awed expressions of the Gokulites, it was clear that they were finding the wonders of Dwarka a far cry from the rustic simplicity of Vrajbhoomi.
And there were wonders indeed to see. Even Vasudeva and Devaki caught their breath as the chariot ascended higher through successive carriageways and avenues that crisscrossed and intertwined in a bewildering pattern of movement that promised a collision at any moment yet appeared to be as well-orchestrated as a concatenation of tributaries melding into a delta. Somehow, the horseless chariots that were provided for public transport in Dwarka were capable of flying at astonishing speeds and zipping past each other at angles that would have disoriented any living being, without ever so much as brushing past each other. Now, as Krishna’s chariot brought them up to the height of the watchtowers guarding the city’s perimeter, they found themselves looking down at the length and breadth of the incredible metropolis. A glittering cornucopia of emerald rooftops, crystal domes, pearly mansions, silver facades, golden pillars, glittering walls, gleaming statuary, vaulting fountains, lush gardens and walkways, all teeming and bustling within the bounding of the great stone walls.
And in the midst of it all, sprouting with luminescent virility, rose Parijata, towering above it all, a great and gracious grandmere, spreading her skirts to welcome her progeny. Beneath her shady boughs, even from this height, Devaki could glimpse the tiny figures of people flying and dancing, old as well as young, the former come to spend time in the healing shade of the divine tree which made all ailments and conditions disappear magically for the duration, the latter simply eager to frolic and play.
Devaki realized that they had stopped and that she had been gazing out at the wondrous sight for several moments. Beside her, Vasudeva was observing the city with moist incredulous eyes as well. Krishna’s voice from behind them gently intruded upon their reverie.
“Does it please you, Pitr, Maatr?”
Devaki shook her head, eyes shining. “Nay.”
Vasudeva turned to glance at her curiously.
“It enthralls me,” she said, throwing her head back and laughing, then catching herself and covering her mouth. “It is beyond belief, Krishna. How did you accomplish this, my son?”
He smiled. “I had some help. And time.”
Vasudeva chuckled. “A night and less than a day!”
“So it seemed,” Krishna acknowledged. “But that was in the mortal realm. By working outside of human time, we were able to build the city at leisure, taking a great deal more time.” He paused then tilted his head, reconsidering. “Well, perhaps not at leisure. But it certainly took decades.”
Vasudeva and Devaki exchanged a glance as if to say, Can you believe such modesty? And shook their heads at the same time.
“But how will we sustain these…machines, this wealth, this luxury?” Vasudeva asked. “The Yadavas are not a rich people, certainly not after Kamsa’s reign and Jarasandha’s self-aggrandizement.”
Krishna smiled. “It does not take wealth to run this city, Pitr. It is run by the strength of dharma and the power of brahman. The people of Dwarka provide sufficient energy for all the devices of the city to run and replenish themselves, even repair themselves when required, for all eternity. The city is entirely self-sustaining. All that we could ever want will be provided for within these walls. Only the more traditional tasks such as farming, cooking, and their like need be done through labor. The city itself needs neither money, nor taxes, nor wealth to maintain itself.” He patted the gleaming gold railing of the chariot. “Like this pushpaka, everything here is powered by brahman shakti. And brahman shakti is everywhere, within us all, an unlimited infinite supply.”
Devaki shook her head, marveling. “You make it sound so simple. Yet how does one harness the force of brahman? How does one put the most elemental energy in the universe to work in this manner? Krishna, you have wrought a miracle named Dwarka. This is the greatest city ever built in human knowledge. Nothing before it and nothing after it can ever hope to equal its magnificence.”
Vasudeva nodded gravely, his beard rippling in the gentle breeze. It carried with it the salty tang of the open sea, for it was a sea breeze blowing. In the distance, sunlight cast great gleaming nets upon the great expanse of perfect blue, and high clouds drifted lazily, as if slowing to look down and admire the beauty of Dwarka. “Your mother speaks truly. You have accomplished something beyond all imagining.”
Krishna inclined his head, smiling. “After so many years spent beneath the bloody boot of Kamsa’s oppression, the people deserved a season of rest. This is small compensation and reparation for all the atrocities and terrible, terrible horrors they experienced.”
“And we are safe now?” Devaki asked. “Jarasandha’s forces cannot threaten us here, surely?”
“No. Never,” Krishna said.
“Even if he dared to seek us out and eventually found us,” Vasudeva said, “he could not hope to mount an assault and maintain a siege capable of breaking the defenses of this island-fortress. Nay, mother of Krishna. I can say with full confidence that we are finally safe from all oppression and war. It is just as Krishna says: A season of rest. We can rebuild our battered hopes and dreams here in peace and leisure. The Yadava people will now flourish.”
Devaki shook her head, beaming happily. “At last, we are free. Oh, Krishna, my son, I am so happy today. And we are both so proud of you and your brother.”
Krishna nodded, smiling as he bowed to each of his parents in turn. “It is I who is fortunate to have been brought into this world to serve you, and all my people.”
23
Krishna and Balarama’s sarathis landed their chariots on the rooftop of the palace. Every residence in Dwarka had a rooftop landing stage for the family’s flying chariot. The palace, of course, had several dozen. Balarama grinned at Krishna as he stepped off his own chariot. The rest of the family moved towards the stairway to descend down to the main palace.
“Finally, bhraatr,” Balarama said, ‘We can sleep peacefully, knowing that no threat looms over our people. The terrible Tuesdays have ended. Tomorrow when we awaken it will be Wednesday at last!”
Krishna smiled. “Yes, it will. But the threat is not ended. Merely distanced.”
Balarama looked at him. “What do you mean? Are we not safe here? Beyond all threat of attack of siege or any other form of danger?”
Krishna nodded. “Yes, we are.”
Balarama spread his hands questioningly. “Then what is the problem?”
Krishna shrugged. “The Yavana is still approaching Mathura and will reach it by nightfall.”
Balarama frowned, putting his hands on his hips. “So? Let him. He will find no one there to fight or harm. Why should we care what he does?”
“If he does not find us there, he will pursue us here.”
“So? Let him. He doesn’t have a chance of finding us!”
“Yet he will try. And as long as he keeps trying, we will only be postponing the inevitable, not ending the threat.”
Balarama sighed. “So you wish to go to him and face him now?”
“I don’t wish to do anything. I would be content remaining here to the end of our days and enjoying a much-deserved respite from battles and slaying. But what choice
do we have? It is the only way to rid ourselves of him and to live in peace.” Krishna paused as he looked out at the vast ocean. “Besides, we still have to deal with Jarasandha.”
“Jarasandha? But isn’t he the reason why we built Dwarka and moved our people here?”
“Yes, bhai. And now that they are safe, it is time we dealt with him.”
Balarama sighed, scratching his shoulder. “I don’t understand. Why can’t we just forget about him? We are safe here, beyond his reach.”
KRISHNA CORIOLIS#6: Fortress of Dwarka Page 10
