Humans were insufficient: there was no sport in being able to smash soft bags of pulpy flesh and brittle bone. It was like a boy mashing insects between his thumb and forefinger – as he himself had done when he was a boy.
He needed some real sport. Something that would offer opposition. That could withstand his iron blows and stone flesh.
Rhinocerous. What could be more perfect?
He grinned, baring an inane smile in a reddened face.
Then he began running straight towards the rhino herd. They snorted in surprise, lowering their horns and charging him. He charged back. There were four of them charging him at the same time, all large adult rhinoceroses. The two smaller ones stayed back, making sounds of distress, and a large one stayed with them – probably a mother or aunt.
Man-rakshasa and rhinos thundered at each other with the fury of creatures that were supremely confident that nothing could withstand their onslaught.
Kamsa had seen rhinos charge at solid wooden walls inches thick and drive their horns through them like nails through soft wood. He had seen them smash human bodies to mangled pulp in Jarasandha’s sports arenas. He had seen them knock down elephants and pound stone walls until they cracked and shook. He knew the damage these creatures could inflict when enraged or challenged. By charging straight at them he was invoking their maximum fury. They would not rest now until he was dead.
Unfortunately for them, the rhinos had no idea of the damage he could inflict.
Two-legged being and four-legged creatures met in a thumping impact.
When the dust cleared, two rhinos were lying on their sides in the dirt, their horns shattered and bleeding profusely. The other two milled about in confusion, unable to fathom what had happened. Never before in their lives had they encountered any living creature that could withstand their direct charge.
Kamsa stood facing them, arms on his hips, grinning. He was happy now. Still enraged at Putana’s loss. But happier than he had been some moments ago. He had killed – or at the very least inflicted mortal wounds – upon living beings. That was the one thing that could always lift his mood. Happiness was an opponent best served dead.
He charged the rhinos again.
And again.
And again.
When all four adults were dead, their armour-plated bodies lying broken and bleeding from a dozen wounds, heads and horns torn and ripped and mangled from the terrible impacts, he turned to the surviving adult female and the two younguns. They were bleating in distress but still lowering their horns and stamping their feet, ready to defend themselves to the death. That was the thing about rhinos: they were stubborn to the point of death.
He was happy to oblige them.
He charged again. And again. Until there was not a living rhino left.
After that, he felt happier.
That was how he mourned the death of Putana.
5
Nanda too was anxious. If he failed to express his anxieties to his wife, it was because he did not want to alarm Yashoda any further. But he had received word from Akrur to beware of assassins from Mathura. And the group of travellers that had accompanied Lady Putana to Gokul-dham had mysteriously disappeared around the time of her death. Their belongings were gone from the quarters he had assigned to them, and nobody in Gokul had seen them leaving. It was extremely worrying. For now it was evident that all of them had been sent here on a nefarious mission. What were their names? Agha was one of them. And the others were…Trnavarta…and Baka. He felt little satisfaction in recalling their names. No doubt they had gone underground by now, altering their appearance and garb, pretending to be someone else. For all he knew, they could be mingling with the Vrishnis, pretending to be gopas!
But what truly made him anxious was the sight of Putana’s enormous body. That elegant noblewoman, wife of the captain of the Mathura guard, no less, a high-birth woman who had been known in Mathura aristocracy even before Kamsa had dethroned his father and installed himself as king, if she could turn out to be such a terrible demoness, then who knew what other demons might lurk in Mathura or across the Yadava nation? It was a frightening though, to accept that there demons living among them, seemingly human in every respect, until the day they set forth on a particular mission. In this case, to assassinate an infant child! And the three other visitors had been former aides of the God Emperor Jarasandha of Magadha, who was himself rumoured to be the most powerful demon of all; there was no doubt they were empowered with asura maya as well. He could not begin to comprehend where or how they might strike at his little son.
How to protect Krishna? That was the most daunting question of all. He could hardly surround Nanda and their son with lathi-armed guards all night and day. It would look preposterous and would invade her privacy. She would never have a moment alone and the presence of the men itself would make her anxious and nervous. He knew his beloved wife well. She believed that carrying a sword was itself an invitation to violence. The presence of armed men would rob her of all peace of mind.
So he set several of his most trusted gopas and gopis to watch discreetly from a distance. There were family among this number: he recruited her own brothers and sisters as well as his own. This way, she would see familiar beloved faces surround her and take comfort in their presence, while their mission would be to watch over her and send for the real guards the instant they sensed danger. The armed guards would be kept at bay, out of Yashoda’s sight, but within quick hailing distance. They would operate in shifts and be on alert at every moment of the day or night. Nanda received more volunteers for this duty than he required. Then again, how many were too many? If a giantess attacked again, would it take ten armed men to bring her down? Or forty? Or a hundred? Who knew what powers the other assassins might possess? Who knew how they would attack?
Still, all he could do was prepare and anticipate, and he did so.
He offered to pay the volunteers for the time spent away from their own herds but they would not hear of it. They readily agreed to drink his famous Gokul milk and consume its products though! That was payment enough, they said, brushing milk off their elaborate moustaches with the backs of their hands, grinning.
So began a routine of Yashoda and Nanda pretending that all was normal, smiling, laughing, talking, going about their daily chores, meeting and receiving people, doing everything they had before. But with a pallour of anticipation hanging over them that dampened everything they did. Nanda would see it clearly Yashoda would be talking with her sisters and friends and notice some stranger approach Krishna, and her smile would vanish, then she would start moving towards Krishna with a lurching gait that betrayed her alarm, only to stop short abruptly when the man turned and she saw he was her friend Tarangaksi’s fiancee, coming to greet the little hero for the first time. Her face would relax again but the creases remained and Nanda knew exactly how she felt because he felt the same way.
He prayed daily that this anxiety would be removed from their lives. In a way, the warrior spirit within him wished that the assassins would show themselves sooner rather than later, so that this ordeal could end once and for all. It was the waiting and anticipation that caused the greatest distress.
6
When Kamsa felt he was somewhat calmer and ready for conversation, he sent for Pralambha. The old minister arrived, visibly nervous. He had probably had wind of the rumours of Kamsa’s unusual mood following the news of Putana’s death. The old man had been sidelined by Bahuka, Jarasandha’s emmissary, who had been sent to oversee Kamsa during his most manic period following the birth and escape of the Slayer. Kamsa had been truly out of control then and in retrospect, he knew that had Jarasandha not stepped in and taken measures to bolster up his regency, Mathura would have burned in a brutal civil war that would leave Kamsa without a kingdom to govern or the Yadavas without a king to oppress them. Jarasandha had sent Bahuka, an old veteran who had handled such transitions numerous times, to drug Kamsa’s food or drink – or both, for all Kamsa knew –
in order to curb his rakshasa powers. The unknown drug had been effective, perhaps too effective. Not only had Kamsa lost his powers, including his ability to enlarge himself to gargantuan size with all the resultant side-effects that entailed – suppurating living growths sprouting from his festering skin being the most horrendous side effect – but he had also lost large chunks of time. He would sleep one night in spring and wake one morning in summer. During the interim, he would apparently be walking, talking, eating, drinking, living, breathing as normal, but in fact that was only a drug-induced walking coma.
He had no recollection of the lost chunks of time, but during those fugue periods, he would be as docile and amiable as a puppet on a string attached to Bahuka’s meaty fingers. And how the emmissary had made Kamsa dance to his tune: he had thrown open the coffers of the palace and given away the bulk of Kamsa’s dynastic fortune, gathered over generations, to the people, using greed and the inevitable lusts and self-indulgence it brought, to lull the people into a false sense of security. By the time Jarasandha came to Mathura to cleverly claim allegiance of the Yadava nations to his Magadhan Empire, Kamsa could little more than watch as his father-in-law ruled in his name.
It had taken Kamsa months to regain his self-confidence and strength, and a violent encounter with a quad of Jarasandha’s personal bodyguard, four Mohini Fauj eunuch warriors whom he had maimed and brutalized with ease in his own bed-chamber, demonstrating his newfound strength and abilities for the first time to the master of Magadha. Jarasandha had been impressed. Kamsa had been cautious not to reveal more than was necessary: such as the fact that his powers were growing and increasing in intensity. What Jarasandha had seen was barely half of what he was capable of now. Yet Putana had told him that he would take years still to come into his full powers and if he moved too soon, he would risk losing everything. It was one thing to smash the skulls of a few Mohinis; it was another thing altogether to go up against Jarasandha himself. Even Kamsa was not impetuous and impatient enough to do that just yet, perhaps he never would be. After all, Jarasandha was more useful to him as an ally than as an enemy. It was the knowledge that Jarasandha stood behind him that kept civil war from breaking out even now, that forced tens of thousands of Yadavas to flee into exile rather than stay and fight openly. And it was the same knowledge that kept his neighbours from invading and attempting to take over Mathura.
But this was a different problem. This was the Slayer. An enemy who was interested in regional politics or empirical ambitions. This was a being prophecied to destroy him. Him. Kamsa! Why? Because he had a great destiny, that was why. And all those born with a great destiny are bound to attract powerful enemies. Every great hero has a great villain. So Kamsa had his Slayer, an infant child born to his own sister under his own roof and who desired to murder his own uncle. If patricide was the word for the killing of one’s father, and matricide murder of one’s mother, what was murder of an uncle called? He did not know the word. He had disliked Sanskrit so intensely as a boy, he had tipped his Sanskrit guru out of a high tower window one morning after a particular gruelling session on derivatives. But it was a crime nevertheless. How could an infant, barely two years old, be a threat to him, Kamsa, the most powerful being in this part of the world? It was ludicruous. Yet that same infant had killed Putana, his Putana. And he must pay for that crime. Infant or no infant, Kamsa would put an end to this right here and now.
Pralamba stood before him as Kamsa paced, musing on his course of action. Finally, Kamsa turned and looked intently at the Chief Advisor. The older man blanched, his greying moustaches twitching. Ever since Jarasandha’s departure, he had lived in perpetual anxiety about his fate. Kamsa knew that other kings would have had the Advisor put to the sword merely for fraternizing with the Magadhan Emperor while he acted as de facto king of Mathura while Kamsa was unable to govern, but Jarasandha was Kamsa’s father-in-law and Mathura had sworn allegiance to Magadha. So strictly speaking, Pralamba had done no wrong. Even so the man was never quite at ease around his king and Kamsa himself saw no reason to give the man reason to feel at ease. Even if Pralamba had not betrayed him entirely, he had not demonstrated loyalty to Kamsa either. Had Kamsa not withstood the attack of the four Hijras in his own bed-chamber and demolished those four unfortunates with crushing ease, they would have killed him and Pralamba would have stood by and watched. So would Pradyota, Putana’s husband, for that matter, and for that reason Kamsa had a bone to pick with him as well. But this was not the rakshasa Kamsa they expected to turn into a festering giant of a sudden, raging and rampaging at will, this was Kamsa the Terrible as he now liked to think of himself. A king so shrewd he had outwitted the great Jarasandha himself, and before his reign was over, he would dethrone his father-in-law as well. And to achieve such great things, he needed every political support. Pralamba was an experienced Advisor with keen knowledge of the Yadava tribes and clans and his spasa network was excellent. He was more useful to Kamsa alive than dead. And so long as he remained useful, he would stay alive.
Somehow, the Advisor was canny enough to sense this and he seemed to grow visibly less anxious as Kamsa paced. After all, tyrants who lashed out viciously rarely took such a long time to brood on their actions beforehand. Even so, he was wise enough to gauge Kamsa’s agitated state and to know better than to speak until spoken to; that was one of the reasons Kamsa had kept him around after Bahuka’s departure. Because of his canny judgement.
Finally, Kamsa turned to him. With offhand casualness he said, ‘Gokul-dham.’
Pralamba dipped his head to acknowledge that he heard. ‘What of it, your highness?’
‘Burn it to the ground. Punishment for the murder of Putana, the wife of the captain of our guard. As a member of the royal staff, her heinous murder cannot go unpunished. Raze the entire settlement to the ground. Kill everyone living there. Also kill those who stand in the way or express sympathy for the dying.’
Pralamba was silent for longer than required. He did not object vocally nor make any sound or gesture to indicate he disagreed with Kamsa’s orders, nor did he assert a simple ‘yes, sire,’ and leave to execute his king’s orders. This was his diplomatic way of communicating to Kamsa that he disagreed but that it was upto Kamsa to ask him why he disagreed. Again, another excellent reason why he remained alive when virtually every last minister, advisor, preceptor and officer of the court had been executed or imprisoned in the past decade.
‘Well?’ Kamsa asked, his voice echoing in the empty throne chamber. ‘Since you have not left to do my bidding I can only presume you wish to offer some objection. Speak!’
‘Not an objection, your highness. Merely…a doubt.’
Kamsa gestured impatiently, indicating to him to go on.
Pralamba went on with a mite more confidence, careful to keep his voice low and his gaze unchallenging.
‘My Lord, Gokul-dham is governed by Nanda-Maharaj.’
‘So?’
‘Nanda himself is a peaceful man. But he is dearly loved and supported by the people, particularly the Vrishni clan.’
Kamsa nodded grimly. ‘And the Vrishnis are leaders of the rebellion. All the more reason to teach them a lesson.’
‘True, my lord. The rebels must be dealt with firmly. But you propose to attack Gokul-dham and harm Nanda and his people. They are peaceable folk and not directly involved in the rebellion.’
‘They must support, encourage, supply the rebels. Otherwise Akrur and the other chieftains would not be able to sustain themselves for so long and harry our army this effectively,’ Kamsa said. ‘Ever since Vasudeva and Devaki scurried away like cowards…’ He clenched his fist in anger. The thought of his sister and her husband eluding his grasp still rankled; even though ostensibly they had left on a pilgrimage, his spasas informed him that their departure had given credence and strength to the growing rebellion within his nation. Akrur, son of Svaphalka, was reportedly leading the rebellion with the Vrishnis at the fore of the Sura insurrection. Until now, they had only
succeeded in harrying his army and defying his authority in symbolic rather than meaningful military tactics but any such defiance was a thorny barb in his flesh and could not be tolerated. ‘Gokul-dham is the heart of Vrishni territory. It is not possible that this Nanda-Maharaj and his people do not supply and provide the rebels with their needs. Punishing them will send a message to the rebels and curb the menace before it grows into a full-blown insurrection.’
Pralamba nodded slowly, unable to ignore the unshakeable logic of this argument. ‘What you say is true, sire. But attacking a peaceful hamlet such as Gokul-dham and a revered community leader such as Nanda-Maharaj will also send out a different message, one that you may not wish to send.’
Kamsa frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘If we attack Gokul, not just the Vrishnis alone but all Sura Yadavas will rise up against you. No Yadava can bear the slaughter of innocent gopas and gopis in the heartland.’
Kamsa shrugged. ‘They are already harrying us through forays and petty insubordinations.’
‘But this would be an all-out rebellion. They would raise up militia under you, with Akrura’s Vrishnis leading the fray. We are not talking about a small assault or harrassment.’
Kamsa was still not impressed. ‘We Andhakas have fought the Suras for decades. We are willing to continue if need be.’
Pralamba clearly wished to argue the point but he took a moment to pause and gather his wits before continuing. ‘But this time, if they rise up Drupad would support them. He might even join his forces with their’s.’
‘Drupad? King of Panchal?’ Kamsa snorted. ‘Why would he risk making an enemy of Mathura?’
‘Because he is already involved, sire. It is well known that he is sheltering many tens of thousands of refugee Sura Yadavas who have fled to Panchal. And as you know full well, he has always coveted Mathura.’
Kamsa could not disagree. ‘That he has,’ he admitted reluctantly.
KRISHNA CORIOLIS#3: Flute of Vrindavan Page 4
