But unforeseen by the Magadhan, the second potion had resulted in a peculiar side effect. Kamsa’s ability to increase his density while outwardly retaining the same size and form. And with Putana’s help and her toxic milk, Kamsa had enhanced this new ability to the point where he was the equal of any of Jarasandha’s own supernaturally empowered champions. Impressed by his son-in-law’s newfound abilities and the apparent maturity that came with the change, Jarasandha had withdrawn his forces from Mathura, with the understanding that Kamsa would abide by their alliance and father heirs upon both his daughters at the earliest.
Now, the day of reckoning was approaching soon. With Putana’s plan to assassinate the Slayer before he grew to full strength having failed, Kamsa seemed to be left with no real options. Only today he had received a missive from Jarasandha, summoning him to a conference of Kings. The Magadhan’s empire had grown to a formidable extent: not as large as Jarasandha himself had envisaged and desired as yet, but far greater than any other kingdom in Aryavarta had expected only a few short years ago. There was no question of opposing Jarasandha, not with the Yadavas themselves in revolt against their ruler. And as Pralamba had wisely reminded him, there were a number of other neighbouring kingdoms with their own political ambitions and agendas. The instant he weakened or took a misstep, Mathura would be wrested from him as easily as a battlefield crow snatches away a morsel of flesh. He could not afford to make a misstep.
This was the only reason he still suffered the Slayer to live.
Weary of pacing the same floors, he left his chambers and strode out into the moonlit night. He headed for the stables, not because he wished to ride but because he did not know what else to do. He needed to do something that would distract him from these political anxieties. Something that involved pulverizing boulders or smashing skulls would be wonderful.
The stable house was dark, silent and redolent of horse droppings. He walked the length, trying to decide which horse would be strong enough to put up a decent fight. The animals were asleep but at his scent, they roused and began to whicker softly to one another. At least a few bared their teeth in the darkness, threatening to nip at him if he came within reach. Amused, he held out a finger to one, a mean-spirited grey beast that was the get of a dyke imported from the arabi deserts during his father’s reign. The stallion snapped hard at his finger. Hard enough to bite off any man’s finger clean through the bone. But Kamsa was not any man; he had hardened his density just enough to test the horse’s bite. The beast’s powerful jaw clamped down on a finger that was denser than the hardest oak, not quite as solid as iron. Kamsa heard the sound of bone chipping and felt the horse’s tooth chip. The stallion’s eyes widened in shock and he reared back. Never before had he bitten any living being capable of withstanding his powerful jaws. Kamsa had a feeling he would never bite anyone again either. He laughed and moved on to the next.
‘Why harry the horses? Surely you are man enough to face a more wily opponent?’
The voice was quiet, challenging, even mocking. It came from the darkness at the far end of the stable house, in the shadows where the moonlight streaming through the open doors did not reach. Kamsa squinted but his abilities did not include the power to see in the dark. The stench of fresh horse manure came to him strongly; the arabi stallion had vented his bowels in shock and several others, sensing their fellow’s distress, had followed suit.
‘Who’s there?’ Kamsa said in a normal voice. He had no need to raise his voice nor to insert any inflection. He was king of the realm. He was possessed of powers no mortal foe could withstand. Fear was not a part of his mental composition. But he was genuinely curious. Who would be here at this unearthly hour? And what man would dare address him thusly? For a moment, he thought of Pradyota. The Captain of his guard had been devastated by the news of the death of his wife Putana - allegedly killed in an accident while on a routine visit to Vraj - but as far as Kamsa knew, he had no idea of Kamsa’s ‘special’ relationship with Putana, nor the real reason why she had been visiting Vraj. Putana had been very astute in keeping her true nature a secret from her mortal husband; she had been keeping that secret for a very, very long time from a great many husbands. Still, Kamsa constantly felt a twinge of unfamiliar emotion every time Pradyota came before him for official matters. He was even tempted to unburden his heart to the man, to share their mutual grief at the loss of the woman whose love they had both shared albeit in very different ways. Kamsa had not been a husband to Putana in the sense that Pradyota had yet he had shared a bond with her that was more intimate and secret than that between husband and wife. He doubted Pradyota would understand and in any case, he had no intention of revealing her secret. What would be the point now that she was dead? So he had kept his mouth shut and his emotions bottled but now, in this darkened stable house, for some reason he thought perhaps, just perhaps, the man addressing him might be the captain.
The dark figure separated from the shadows at the far wall and approached Kamsa. As he came closer, the moonlight was still insufficient to illuminate him fully. But at least Kamsa could make out who he was. He was not Pradyota, he realized and felt an irrational rush of relief at the realization.
It was the old stable hand, the ancient fellow who had always been around for as long as Kamsa could remember. He had been the one who brought the pony on which Kamsa took his first ride, and even then, he had looked ancient. Kamsa rarely bothered with the menial help but the man’s constancy in the ever-shifting firmament of his life was unusual enough that he had glanced occasionally at the worn parchment map of the old syce’s face, creased with a thousand wrinkles and wondered how anyone could live that long.
He had also been there while Putana and Kamsa had worked on developing Kamsa’s newfound abilities. He might not have been present when they went out into the wilderness to execute the more elaborate training regimes Putana had put him through, but he had seen enough to know that the king’s new strength was unusual. Kamsa had wondered aloud if he could be trusted and Putana had glanced back at the old man and smiled an odd smile before replying yes. Kamsa remembered that odd smile now and wondered what it had meant.
In the darkness, with barely enough light to reveal the outline of the old man’s form, the thousand wrinkles were not visible, nor were the other signs of age and decrepitude. He was just a man-shaped being standing in the shadows, no distinctive features or details visible. He could be anyone, any age, any race. And when he spoke again, his voice did not betray his age either. This lent him an air of menace that Kamsa had never sensed in him before. Perhaps it was just the way he stood in the shadows, legs akimbo, arms dangling loosely by his side, eyes glinting in the shadows as he stared directly at his king, undaunted either by his knowledge of Kamsa’s true abilities nor of his royalty.
‘What did you say, old man?’ Kamsa asked softly. He was spoiling for a fight and while there was no real challenge in taking on an old man, if this was all that was available, he would not refuse it. Horses, rhinocerous, men...a skull was a skull, and smashing one was all he desired right now.
The old stable hand said nothing for a moment. Kamsa assumed the man had realized his mistake and was recalcitrant now. Not that it would save him. He was due a punishment. But then the syce spoke again and this time there was no mistaking the raw menace and challenge in his voice. Even Kamsa was a little surprised at the gruff arrogance in the man’s words. It was one thing to make a remark in passing and quite another to retort to a man’s face, particularly when that man was King Kamsa the Marauder of Mathura.
‘You grieve for your lost woman yet all she did was lie and deceive you to the very end. You thought she helped you because she wished you to succeed in killing your prophecied slayer. But all she truly desired was her own moksha.’
What was the old man blabbering about? ‘Are you speaking of Lady Putana?’ Kamsa asked. He was so surprised at the man’s words, he forgot his anger for a moment. Of all the nonsense he had thought the old man might spo
ut, speaking of Putana so intimately had not been anticipated. ‘What do you know about her, you muck-raker?’
The old syce shifted slightly, or perhaps it was the moonlight that moved behind Kamsa, illuminating the ancient wizened face a little more. He could see more than just the man’s eyes now. It almost appeared as if the creases and lines on that ancient face had smoothened and he was as young and robust as he had been when he was as young as Kamsa himself. A trick of the light and shadows, nothing more, Kamsa thought.
‘I know more than you ever will,’ said the oldun. ‘I know that she sought to die at the hands of the Slayer, because to be killed by the Eighth Child guarantees direct ascension to the heavenly realms. That was the only reason why she played along with your puerile games and pathetic attempts at thwarting the inevitable.’
Kamsa’s eyes widened. ‘What did you just say?’ He clenched his fists and took a step forward, feeling his flesh harden instantly. ‘How dare you, insolent old fool!’
‘Silence!’ barked the stable hand. ‘You may not have been taught to respect your elders but you will show me respect when I speak to you, boy. I may rake the muck your horses make and work all day in these stinking stables, but I am still your elder and you will show my age the respect it deserves.’
Kamsa was astonished. Did the man wish to die right here and now? Clearly he was out of his senses, senile probably. ‘Who do you think you are? Don’t you know whom you speak to? I am--’
He got no further. The old man was on him before he could speak his own name out loud. Kamsa felt a powerful hand upon his throat, clutching his adam’s apple in a grip of steel, and the old man’s breath on his cheek. It smelled of old apples and saffron. The man himself stank of horse shit and sweat. But it was the hand on his throat that had Kamsa’s attention: he had hardened his body to the consistency of iron layered several dozen times, hard enough that a sword swung with full force at even the softest part of his body would shatter to shards without nicking him. Yet the old man had grasped his throat in a vise that could crush him instantly. He felt the force of that grip, felt the pain in his adam’s apple, like something lodged in his throat, and knew that despite his great invulnerability and ability, the old syce was stronger and more powerful and could kill him on the spot if he desired.
‘I know exactly who you are,’ said the old man, a faint spray of spittle coating Kamsa’s face as he hissed the words from an inch away. ‘You are the guttersnipe who overthrew one of the greatest kings that ruled Mathura and Usurped the Yadava throne, plunging this great nation into the darkest age of its history. I should rip your throat out and let you bleed out on this manure-stained floor while the horses snicker. For I cannot brook letting you sit upon my throne for a day longer and destroy all that I spent my life building up. I have seen you do too much damage to this great nation already, I cannot watch any longer. Say one wrong word and I shall kill you where you stand.’
9
‘Yashoda, come on! You’ll miss the start!’ cried her friends. Her sisters were out of sight, probably joining in the festivities already. Not for the first time she wished Nanda was with her. But as host of the event, he had to go ahead to ensure that all was in order for the ras-lila. Normally, she would have taken care of all the arrangements: she loved the process of selecting flowers for the garlands, supervising the decorations, the setting up of the tents and stalls, the preparation of the food, the whole noise and bustle and rushing madness of the whole event. She thrived on being in charge and putting together elaborate arrangements for feasts and festivities at short notice. Nanda had even asked her tentatively if she wished to involve herself, either wholly or partially. It was she who had refused. She knew how hectic such things got and once she had dipped her toe in the water, she would not be able to resist diving in, so to speak. And in all that hustle and bustle and giving of orders and supervising a hundred different things at the same time, she could not possibly keep a constant watch on Krishna.
And she could not accept anything less.
Krishna was all that mattered to her now. She would not accept anything happening to him on her account. Nanda’s burly fellows with their lathis could watch over him and twirl their oiled moustaches all day and night, only a mother’s eyes could keep track of a little tyke constantly. As anyone who has ever raised a little child knows full well, sooner or later there comes a moment when one looks away, or turns one’s head, or lifts one’s eyes for a moment. Just a moment. And somehow, through the peculiar powers unique to their ilk, little infants will find a way to put themselves in harm’s way precisely in that instant. For her to involve herself in the ras-lila arrangements would mean trusting him all the time to the watchmen. She could not do that. Not yet. perhaps not ever.
So here she was, among the last to arrive at her own festivities, rushing to keep up with the others. She was all dressed and bejewelled and was pleased by the fact that she had only grown slightly plumper than before she had birthed Krishna. Not that Nanda minded, for plumpness ran in her family and he favored her being ‘healthy’ rather than lean - as he had told her on many an occasion, making her blush - but for her own vanity. She wanted to fit into the same ras suit she had worn before her pregnancy, her favorite green and yellow and purple one, and she did. With just a little adjustment at the seams, but not much more. Looking forward to an afternoon with her friends and sisters and their families, dancing and clicking sticks and singing the ritual songs together. She could do with a little laughter and cheer.
‘Yashoda!’ her friends cried, disappearing over the top of the hill. She saw them crying out with delight as they looked down at the festival grounds on the far side of the hill, then disappear from sight. She wished she could simply run up the sloping rise and down the other side, as they had done when they were children. But it was a good three hundred yards uphill in a gentle gradient, with hummocks and rabbit holes everywhere and she was already out of breath. My, but if it wasn’t she who had put on weight, then why did she feel so heavy?
‘Maa,’ Krishna gurgled sleepily. He had just drunk a stomachful of milk before they left. As if acknowledging the fact, he burped now, loud and long, the sound almost making her giggle out loud. ‘Maa,’ he said again, contended, then his head lolled on her shoulder. She staggered back, almost losing her footing entirely and tumbling backwards.
She glanced around. The bodyguards were there behind her, about ten or fifteen yards distant, two of them talking genially with one another. They were supposed to maintain a cordon around her at all times but as the days passed they had grown bored of standing alone out of talking distance and had taken to strolling in pairs, chatting incessantly. Why was it people always thought women talked a lot? Clearly they didn’t know Vrishni men! The two closest to her were aware of her but not looking directly at her. In any case, if she did actually tumble over, they were too far to reach her in time.
She took another step uphill and gasped. Great Goddess! Who said she hadn’t become fat? She felt absolutely humongous right now. As if she had put on a hundred kilo weight. Or a thousand!
Another step, and this time she could actually feel her bones creaking with the strain. This was ridiculous. She could barely move. She stopped and leaned against a tree. Sweat stains were spreading around her underarms and down her back. She was already exhausted even before she reached the ras-lila! How was she going to dance?
Krishna’s head lolled a little and somehow his momentum carried his head down her shoulder. The side of his head touched the trunk lightly, just a feather brush.
The bark of the tree split apart.
It cracked and fell in powdery fragments.
Yashoda frowned and looked closely at the tree trunk, at the spot where Krishna’s head had touched it lightly.
The trunk had cracked.
There was a distinct line in the trunk.
She blinked, bewildered.
What did it mean?
She looked at Krishna, fast asleep. She looked d
own at the arm holding him and tried to adjust it a little for comfort. The arm screamed with agony. She realized that the muscles she thought had stiffened had actually been strained to the point where they could take no more weight. They screamed with protest as she tried to shift Krishna to her other hand.
Sweat pouring down her face and neck, staining the blouse of her best ras-lila suit, she struggled to lower Krishna to the ground. Somehow, with a mighty effort, she managed to place him on the ground at the foot of the sala tree. She rested his head and back against the trunk of the tree. His head rolled forward, then swung back instinctively, striking the trunk. It was just a nudge really. Her Krishna was a tough boy that way, often competing with his half-brother Balarama in demonstrating how much he could bear without crying - although when it came down to push and shove, it was always Krishna who called ‘Maa’ before Balarama asked for Rohini.
KRISHNA CORIOLIS#3: Flute of Vrindavan Page 6
