KRISHNA CORIOLIS#3: Flute of Vrindavan

by Ashok K. Banker

  Kamsa took stock of his own team mates. They were tough looking men, of a tribe he had never encountered before nor heard of. From the looks of it, they appeared to be the reserved reticent type, not saying much, not displaying much emotion, but strong and confident. They exchanged looks, gestures and little touches amongst one another that suggested they had a strong bond. Clearly, they had played before as a team. Jarasandha might take pleasure in humiliating him as well as in winning, but he was not fool enough to give Kamsa a useless team. The only point of this sport was for both teams to be evenly matched. Otherwise, it would be a very quick and boring game.

  He turned to his team mates, drawing their attention. They regarded him dispassionately, neither displaying subservience nor arrogance. They had understood their condition but not accepted it, he saw. They had something to fight for and were willing to do what they had to, even risk their lives, but not kowtow to the enemy or bow and scrape. That pleased him. He respected enemies who chose to lose their necks in battle than bend them at someone’s feet. He could work with this team, he only needed to be certain that they would accept him and work with him as well.

  ‘I am here to win,’ he told them. He used elaborate hand gestures to emphasize his words. ‘If we work together, we will surely succeed.’

  Then he clenched his fist and pointed it at the sky: ‘To victory!’

  After a brief pause in which they glanced at one another, they raised their clenched fists as well. ‘To Victory!’ they said in their dialect. He was relieved to note that he knew the dialect. It would communication easier.

  Kamsa heard a commotion in the stadium and looked around. He saw two familiar female shapes entering the royal pavilion above the playing field. His wives, Jarasandha’s daughters. They were dressed in rich robes and bejewelled as queens, and looked as coquettish and alluring as ever. They waved excitedly to Kamsa, calling out his name. He nodded, embarrassed, and saw Jarasandha smile down at him. So. His wonderfully considerate father-in-law had decided to add another level of pressure: the prospect of abject humiliation and embarrassment should he lose here today. It was one thing to lose before twenty thousand soldiers; it was unacceptable to lose before one’s own wives. At least, for Kamsa.

  Which was why he would not lose.

  He took his position at the fore center of his team’s playing area, awaiting the signal to begin the game. Bending over, patting his oiled thighs, he recalled the words of Yadu the night before:

  ‘Until now, whatever you did was your own madness. I desire no part in that. But the road your set on now will lead Mathura to fall into the hands of the Magadhan empire and that I will not tolerate. You may not realize this but Jarasandha desires nothing more than to make the Yadava nation a part of his greater domain.’

  ‘I realize it,’ Kamsa had replied. ‘And I will not let it happen.’

  Yadu scoffed. ‘It will happen no matter who you do here. The only way to prevent it is to convince Jarasandha that he is better off letting you run Mathura for him than for him to take over its running. He has enough on his field already to manage. There comes a point when an emperor has to delegate and trust his kings to rule their individual kingdoms. Right now, Jarasandha is not fully convinced that you are capable of doing so. Your record has been...spotty...to say the least. But you can prove that you have changed. You can give him confidence in your abilities to manage on your own and keep him at bay.’

  ‘How?’ Kamsa asked, genuinely interested. It was a question he asked himself every day. He had known that the last time he had spoken with Jarasandha, he had only bought himself time. Jarasandha had to return to address other issues of secession and rebellion. But sooner or later, he would turn his attention back to Mathura. And he was not satisfied with how Kamsa was running things, he would wrest it away in a trice, installing his own satrapy and relegating Kamsa once more to a mere puppet figurehead. Kamsa remembered what it had felt like to be such a figurehead, with Bahuka calling the shots, and would never accept such an arrangement again. Yet his only rejoinder was to use violence, to fight Jarasandha or his champions and prove his ability through superior strength. And that had a certain disadvantage: in an actual fight, no matter how powerful he might be, Jarasandha was almost certainly stronger, and he had many more champions to spare. There was a limit to how many Kamsa could fight and kill.

  ‘By gaining the respect of your people again,’ Yadu said. ‘You have done bad things, terrible things that can never be forgotten or forgiven. But you are a warrior and warriors do terrible things. Violence is the wrong path and yet a kshatriya has no choice but to walk that path all the way to the end, so that other varnas can live their lives peaceably. This is your dharma. But the least you can do is balance the scales. Prove to your people that you do what you do for the betterment of Mathura, for the future of the Yadavas. Put the marauding and madness behind you. You have already suppressed your rakshasa side admirably, that is why I decided it was worthwhile speaking with you. Now, you must rebuild the reputation you lost and become the king Mathura needs once more.’

  Kamsa had only stared at him. It was as if Yadu had stated his entire life goal in words. There was nothing the old man had said that he did not agree with. He had put his rakshasa side behind him, he had turned his back on the madness and marauding. That was all the old Kamsa. This Kamsa, the Kamsa he was now, desired to be a king in the true sense of the word. To command dignity, respect, adulation. Even the respect of his own father-in-law. He craved desperately for Jarasandha to acknowledge him as a good king and an equal, not merely a protege and son-in-law. But how could he achieve such things?

  ‘How?’ he asked.

  The old man smiled, his thousand-wrinkled face creasing like a crumpled leather map that had been folded and refolded too many times. ‘By winning.’

  Now, Kamsa returned to the present moment, to the stadium in Jarasandha’s war camp, where he stood with 19 other team members, awaiting the signal for the game to begin. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Jarasandha raise his hand, assenting. Below, the game referee blew a long sharp burst on his carved bone horn, indicating the start of the game.

  The two team captains stepped forward. Kamsa and Crooked Jaw faced each other across the line that separated their two ‘kingdoms’. Crooked Jaw glared down at him. ‘We will tear you apart limb from limb.’

  Kamsa grinned at him. Crooked Jaw had been expecting like threats and bombastic claims from Kamsa, not a congenial smile. He frowned, confused. Kamsa added to his confusion by dropping one eyelid in a mocking wink. Crooked Jaw snarled and shook his fist, almost striking the referee.

  The man in question shouted to be heard above the hubbub of the spectators, eager for the game to begin.

  ‘God Emperor Jarasandha has declared that there will be no restrictions on body blows and strikes. All moves are acceptable. However, there will be no replacements either. If you lose a man, you play with what you have left. The last team standing wins! Jarasandha has also declared that since the Magadhan team won their last match, they have the honor of starting today.’

  And with that he stepped back hurriedly, eager to be out of reach of the two opponents, and blew a sharp short burst on his bone horn.

  At once, Crooked Jaw leaped across the line, choosing to send himself into the fray as the first invader.

  The game was on.

  17

  Yashoda had not stopped crying since she saw the wind demon carry her Krishna up in the sky. To her horror, the demon uprooted the entire tree along with a large patch of each on which the tree grew, and carried the whole up high. As she walked, the swirling whirlwind carried the island of soil and trees up, rising swifter than a chariot, until it was barely a speck in the sky. She ran towards the spot from whence it had risen, collapsing to the ground, and stared up after it until it was lost to sight.

  ‘Krishna!’ she cried.

  Nanda kept his arm around her, attempting to comfort her. But she knew that his heart was in fragme
nts too. He was crying as copiously as she. For what could he do? What could any father or mother to save their child from such a calamity? A demon who came in the form of the whirlwind and could uproot entire islands of earth and carry them up into the sky? It was beyond imagining.

  ‘Where has he taken our child?’ she asked Nanda, clutching his arms in desperation.

  His handsome face, tear-streaked and crumpled with pain, offered no answer.

  In time, the other gopis and gopas joined them as well. A great crowd gathered at the spot of the abduction, virtually all of Vraj-bhoomi. For ever since the incident with Putana, the whole region had been ablaze with rumors of child attacks and abductions. Now, the worst fears had come true. Krishna had been taken by another rakshasa. More people kept arriving as the word spread. People were agitated, upset, even angry.

  ‘We must join the rebellion,’ some said.

  ‘Yes, this is all the Usurper’s doing. He is a rakshasa himself and has recruited other demons to kill our little ones.’

  ‘He fears the prophecy of the Slayer, even after the purges of the newborns.’

  ‘Who is to say he will not order another massacre, this time of little children.’

  ‘Or of all children!’

  ‘The only way to fight him is to join the rebellion, go into exile and take up arms against Mathura.’

  ‘Akrur was right. We should ally with the Bhojas and seek the military aid of King Kuntibhoja. Together, we can march on Mathura and dethrone the Usurper.’

  Tempers grew hotter and the suggestions grew bolder, more violent.

  Nanda listened to this all for a time, then, finally he rose, turning his tear-stained face to the crowd. At once, they broke off their angry chatter and fell silent.

  Nanda wiped his face with his sleeve. ‘I understand your anger. I have felt it too. But the day that Yadavas go to war against Yadavas is a day I do not wish to live to see.’

  Some of the softer elements, those who realized the shame and horror of a civil war, asked gently, ‘Then what would you have us do, Nanda-Maharaj? Things cannot go on as they have until today.’

  He nodded slowly. ‘I know this better than you. It is I who have lost my son today.’

  Everyone nodded and agreed with him. He had more right to speak than they did here.

  ‘Yet the solution to violence is not more violence. The answer to oppression is not rebellion, nor is war an answer to any problem.’

  The harder elements, those who advocated rebellion and civil war on a daily basis, were ruffled by this answer. While retaining a show of respect for their dearly loved chieftain, they asked gruffly, ‘Then what is the solution? Shall we stand by and do nothing as our children are slaughtered?’

  Nanda looked this last speaker directly in the eye. While a man of peace to the core, Nanda was not a weak man. Like all those who choose the path of non-violence he was, if anything, stronger than most warriors. For any fool can take up a sword and shake it. It takes a truly brave man to refuse to pick up a sword when one is already pointing at your throat. ‘The solution has already been given to us. Have you forgotten what Gargamuni told us? What all the elders and wise men have told us?’

  Everyone nodded. ‘The Slayer!’ they said aloud in unison.

  ‘Aye,’ Nanda went on. ‘The Slayer. He has been born. And he survived Kamsa’s worst attempts. That itself is proof enough of his power. The day is not far when he will rise up and rid the earth of the blasphemy that is the Usurper. And then we shall all be free. And we shall have achieved that freedom without fighting our brothers in Mathura, or pitting half our nation against the other half in a bloody civil war that may go on long after Kamsa himself is gone.’

  There was wisdom in his words and even the most hardline political radicals in the gathering heard this wisdom and acknowledged it. Some still felt that immediate action was needed. After all, they argued, if the Slayer was only recently born, it would surely take a great many years before he grew old and strong enough to face a being as formidable as the Usurper. How were they to survive until then?

  ‘By migrating out of Vraj,’ Nanda said.

  This announcement sent shock ripples through the gathering. ‘Migrate? You mean exile? Leave our land? Our nation? Our herds?’

  Everyone knew what had happened to Akrur and the other chieftains who had led the exodus to Bhoja and other neighboring kingdoms. Their lands and herds had been annexed on the Usurper’s orders and they had lost everything. They lived now as permanent exiles, condemned to execution on sight if caught. It was not a life most desired. The hardliners were silent and grim, feeling that exile was better than living in humiliation but they still could not see how this was in line with Nanda’s desire to wait until the Slayer arose to do his task.

  Nanda set their doubts at rest. He shook his head. ‘Nay. Nothing as drastic as exile. We shall not leave this beautiful God-given earth. We shall merely move to a nearby location, a place where the Usurper’s soldiers will not find us easily and where we can bide the time until the Slayer rises.’

  ‘Where?’ they clamoured. But some already knew. For Nanda had been discussing this very option for weeks now, ever since the first attempt on Krishna’s life. They had even helped make arrangements secretly. But now they waited for Nanda to reveal his plans in his own words.

  ‘Vrindavan,’ Nanda said.

  ‘The forest? Among the wild creatures?’ some asked, alarmed. It sounded almost as bad as going into exile. Vrindavan was a large and dark forest, filled with unknown predators and big enough to lose one’s way. It was not anyone’s idea of a good place to live.

  ‘There is a secret grove within the forest,’ Nanda said, ‘It was set off a long time ago in order to breed different varieties of honeybees to produce the famous honey from which the soma, honey wine, is prepared. Its location is a secret to all but a certain section of wine makers, because they did not wish for anyone else to have access to that special honeybee and its heavenly produce. It is large enough for us to take our herds and live comfortably, a small Vraj-bhoomi within the heart of the great forest. It can be accessed via a secret pathway from the gardens. My friend Vasudeva told me of its location and suggested that if things became too difficult here, we could seek shelter there.’

  ‘We can take our herds there?’ someone asked hopefully. For most Vrishnis, exile was less terrible than leaving one’s herds behind.

  ‘Yes,’ Nanda said. ‘We can rebuild our houses there and live as comfortably as we do here. We shall have to be careful with our cook fires to avoid giving away the secret location. But if we post watches at strategic locations and do not venture out from there, it will be nigh impossible for the Usurper’s soldiers to find us. They are more likely to lose themselves in the forest than stumble across this secret nook.’

  Everyone looked at one another. There seemed to be no real objection to this plan. Even the hardliners, disgruntled as they were about the lack of violent response, admitted to themselves that for the time being, waiting and watching was the wiser option.

  There was only one question that troubled everyone.

  ‘What if the Slayer never rises?’ asked a lone voice of doubt.

  Nanda sighed and looked at Yashoda. She had stopped weeping only because she had been drained of tears. But she was still watching the sky and praying silently, unwilling to lose hope. ‘I believe the Prophecy. The Slayer will come.’

  ‘And what if he fails?’

  Nanda was silent. He did not know how to answer that.

  Just then, Yashoda started forward. ‘Look,’ she said hoarsely, her throat choked with too much crying. ‘Look!’ she said louder, pointing upwards.

  Everyone turned their attention skywards, peering up.

  Even Nanda looked up, curious.

  He saw it.

  A speck, growing larger as it approached very, very quickly. Now it was a tiny dot, then a larger dot, then it was the size of a little fingertip, then it was the size of a thumb... and it
was growing larger very quickly.

  ‘Krishna!’ Nanda heard himself say.

  18

  Crooked Jaw lunged forward in an attacking move. Kamsa’s team mates were spread out in a semicircle surrounding the intruder, blocking his way, ready to grasp hold of him if he tried to make a rush at their ‘home’ line, but also wary of coming within his clutches. His goal was to try to reach their home line while their’s was to stop him from doing so. It was basic war strategy: the enemy attempted to take one’s prime city, your army attempted to stop them.

  The game required the intruder to constantly chant a single word. It could be anything the player or team wished, so long as it was chanted constantly without pause. The effect was to prevent the intruder from drawing breath too easily and tire much faster, thereby pressuring him to either achieve the enemy’s home line or ‘perish’. The Magadhan team’s word was, predictably, ‘Magadha’ and Crooked Jaw repeated it over and over again, ‘Magadha Magadha Magadha Magadha...’ as he feinted this way then that. Among other things, the referee’s task was to ensure that all players chanted their word without pause or respite, failing which, they would be deemed to have perished and be removed to the sidelines.

  Crooked Jaw’s chest was a huge barrel, which was probably the reason why the giant could continue his feinting and chanting without tiring for several moments. The crowd kept cheering him on, certain of their team’s victory. Kamsa assumed that the home team almost always won these games, because if they lost, even if some survived the game itself, they would not survive Jarasandha’s disapproval afterwards. That was strong motivation to win and it showed on the larger man’s face as he danced with surprising agility from one end of the field to the other, sending Kamsa’s team mates rippling this way then that in order to maintain a solid wall.