KRISHNA CORIOLIS#3: Flute of Vrindavan

by Ashok K. Banker

  Nine of which were empty now. Licked clean!

  The last vessel was half full and Krishna was working intently on that one now, scooping dahi with both hands and slurping noisily on them. His clothes, his hair, his face, his entire body was coated in dahi. He looked like he had fallen into a vessel of dahi or emerged from one freshly set!

  He continued eating, not even aware of Yashoda and Rohini’s presence - they were still by the door, peering inside.

  He was aware of Balarama’s arrival. ‘Bhaiya,’ he said, pointing down at the dahi. ‘Yummy-yummy. Taste, no!’

  Balarama sat down at once, and began scooping dahi into his mouth as well.

  Yashoda and Rohini looked at each other. They shook their heads slowly, despairingly.

  Unable to help themselves, they both burst out laughing together. Great peals of laughter poured from their mouths. Tears of laughter rolled down their faces. The others, still tiptoeing through the house and shushing one another, all heard the laughter and came running.

  Krishna heard his mother’s laughter and reacted at once.

  He jumped to his feet.

  He pointed at Balarama, who had frozen with his hand in the dahi at the sound of the laughter.

  ‘I didn’t do anything,’ Krishna said loudly and innocently, ‘It was Balarama! See! He’s eating all the dahi!’

  2

  The crowd roared with adulation. People even threw money and items of food - anything they had to hand - perhaps not realizing that Kamsa did not fight for money. He fought for glory. And in the past year he had amassed a great deal of it.

  The fact showed in the way he was greeted by even the aristocrats, nobles and kings in Jarasandha’s pavilion as he entered. All Magadha loved him. A record number had turned out to watch the Champion of Mathura play in today’s games, and before the game began one of his men had whispered in his ear the figure rumored to be the total value of the bets placed on today’s game alone. It was a king’s ransom.

  Kamsa slapped the backs and shoulders of his men as they parted ways. All his team mates had become his dear friends and mates in life as well. Sala, Mustika, Kuta, Tosalaka, and Chanura were the closest to him and he treasured the time spent training and practicing with him. His participation in this sport had changed his life, just as Yadu had predicted. ‘There are only three things in life that drive a man forward,’ the old man said once to Kamsa during a particularly grueling training session. ‘Someone to care for who cares about you, something you love to do, and something to aspire towards. Without these three things, nothing else is worth anything.’

  Kamsa had found someone to care about briefly - Putana - and her loss had unsettled him. But the other two items on that short list had never been his to enjoy. He had never found out what it was he truly loved doing, nor did he aspire towards anything in particular. When young, he had desired to be what his father was, a great and powerful king of Mathura. But after he had achieved that goal and lived the life of a king for a decade or more, it began to seem meaningless and empty. Was this all there was to kingship? What next? And as for a goal to aspire to, he had found nothing else apart from that. That was because, all his life he had barely hoped he would achieve his first goal, of replacing his father. He had never been able to think beyond that.

  But after he had begun playing this sport, he had discovered two important things. One was the fact that achievement and success changed everyone. It didn’t matter that he was king of Mathura. A king could simply inherit his throne. In a sense, Kamsa had inherited his, after all. But a champion at a certain sport could only attain that position through talent, effort, achievement. Kamsa had excelled at this sport to an extent that nobody could have believed possible. But more than simply excelling, he had made the sport itself a national pastime. Nay, an international pastime! For now they were planning an inter-kingdom tournament with rounds eliminating teams until only the two or three best were left for the final day.

  After all, Magadha was no more a kingdom, it was an empire. And an empire needed something to bind itself diverse and multiple cultures and peoples together. Jarasandha had seen his soldiers playing the game behind their tents one night several years ago and had arrogated the idea for himself, sponsoring larger and larger games until finally, each time his army camped even for a week, they set up a stadium overnight and held games for all to watch. Jarasandha had intended it to be a means of alleviating the stresses of battle and the inter-tribal rivalries and enmities that often led to late night daggers in the back and gang fights. But what Kamsa had done was take the same sport and transform it into a national pastime. With himself its national champion.

  Now, he had queens fawning on him, princesses eager to give their virginity, lords and merchants betting huge wagers on him and eager to be seen by him and with him for their own reasons. He had the respect and admiration of his own wives, both of him, he was pleased to note, had bellies heavy with child. But above all, he had the grudging but unmitigated admiration of Jarasandha himself.

  The God Emperor rose from this throne as Kamsa entered the main pavilion. ‘All rise for the Champion,’ said his father-in-law in his piercing voice. And every last person in the large tent rose and bowed and congratulated Kamsa. Girls ran up and hung flower garlands around his neck until he began to feel like a living garden. Oily looking men with curled moustaches made barely veiled offers to have Kamsa wed their daughters, sisters, aunts, nieces.

  When all the hubbub was over, he sat with Jarasandha on the throne dais. Entertainments continued in the hall, but the Magadhan’s attention was barely on the nubile dancers or exotic music, said to be from some far western nation named Egyptos.

  ‘You have done well,’ Jarasandha said to him. ‘I am genuinely impressed.’

  Kamsa felt a flush of pleasure. He did not know why he should feel such a great satisfaction at hearing Jarasandha praise him. He knew it had something to do with the fact his own father had never praised him much as a child, and once he had imprisoned the old king, he had taken away any reason to be praised forever. In Sanskrit, there was no separate word for father-in-law. The term was simply father. And he supposed that Jarasandha had come to represent a father-like figure in his life. He had moulded him, prepared him, awakened his rakshasa nature, taken that power from him, transformed him into something else, albeit unwittingly. At all the major turning points in his life Jarasandha had been present, moving him this way then that, like a piece in a chaupat game. Even this most recent change was Jarasandha’s doing. Yadu had somehow known Jarasandha would present Kamsa with this challenge and would expect him to perform or die but it was Jarasandha who had put him into the stadium and told him to play. And even now, it was Jarasandha whose opinion mattered to him more than all those screaming crowds and fawning nobles.

  ‘Someday, we should have a bout or two,’ Jarasandha added.

  Kamsa felt a thrill of elation. Jarasandha prided the sport of wrestling even more than the game of Kho. He was reputed to be a master wrestler, perhaps the greatest who had ever lived. For him to invite Kamsa to spar with him was a great honor and privilege. It didn’t matter if he won or lost, Kamsa would give his front teeth just to be able to lock heads with his father-in-law and show him what he was capable of first-hand.

  Perhaps that was just what Jarasandha desired as well.

  ‘There is trouble brewing in Hastinapura,’ Jarasandha said. ‘It will affect Mathura sooner or later. I am told Vasudeva has been in constant contact with Bhishma-pitama, the old Kuru Pitr, sometimes directly, other times through his envoy Akrura.’

  ‘Envoy? How can Vasudeva have an envoy? He is a rebel in exile!’

  ‘Not to his people. They consider him their king even now. And you the Usurper. For that matter, there are factions even within Mathura who consider you an Usurper and your father to be still the rightful liege of the land.’ Jarasandha gestured casually. ‘But you know all this already. I am concerned with the events unfolding in Hastinapura and h
ow they will affect us sooner or later.’

  Kamsa nodded. He had heard the same things through Pralamba. ‘What would you have me do?’

  Jarasandha was silent for a long moment, looking into the distance. When he spoke, his voice was speculative and his tone more sibilant than usual. Over the years, Kamsa had noted that when Jarasandha lapsed into these modes of deep concentration, he often began slurring his words together in this same sibilant way. He wondered if that forked tongue was an indication of a more pervasive serpentine nature.

  ‘It has been a while since we heard from your Slayer, has it not?’

  Kamsa nodded grimly. He wanted to hawk and spit but restrained himself. This was not the Kho ground. There were rules of etiquette and decorum here. ‘The last I heard was of the death of your man Trnavarta.’

  Jarasandha went on quietly, ‘I think it might be time to step up the pressure again. There are more assassins in Vraj. They have been biding their time, awaiting my signal. I shall be giving them the word to go ahead and fulfill their missions now.’

  ‘You mean...’

  ‘Slay the Slayer, yes,’ Jarasandha said. ‘But that is only one part of the plan. Regardless of whether they succeed or not, I want you to do everything you can to harry the Vrishnis.’

  ‘Why?’ Kamsa asked because he was curious, not out of concern for the cow herders.

  ‘Because those are Akrura’s people. And Vasudeva’s. And the longer the rebellion continues, the more complacent they become. It is time to strike the rebels where it will hurt them most: in their homeland. Far from where they are right now.’

  Kamsa frowned. ‘I thought that was the worst possible thing we could do. That it would only provoke the rebels to escalate their efforts against me. Perhaps even push them into an alliance with my enemies - our enemies.’

  ‘That is why we must do so through other means.’

  ‘Other means...? I don’t understand.’

  Jarasandha smiled thinly at him. ‘Supernatural means.’

  Kamsa stared at his father-in-law for a moment. Then he grinned. He had always had a complicated relationship with his father-in-law. Sometimes he hated this man, sometimes he idolized him. Right now it was the latter.

  3

  Yashoda churned the milk.

  It was among her favorite activities of the day. She found the act of holding the large stirring stick and working it round in a rhythmic repetitive motion extremely soothing. A household as large as her’s, with its constant influx of visitors and extended family dropping by unexpectedly for meals, required a great quantity of yogurt everyday. Not to mention those two new mouths that demanded epic servings of yogurt all for themselves. She smiled at the thought of her little Krishna’s mischievous antics with the dahi handis and of how, since that day, he had become notorious in all Gokul-dham for being the biggest yogurt eater of the territory. She glanced down into the enormous vat: a goodly part of this would go straight into Krishna’s and Balarama’s bellies tonight itself. She could only wonder how much they would consume once they were older. Perhaps they might outgrow their excessive love for dahi by then? Ah, well. She shook her head wistfully, smiling. She could only hope.

  She had to use a very large vat and a stirring stick as thick as her own hand and almost as heavy as a boat’s oar. This called for all her strength and concentration, standing with her feet set firmly apart, her back and shoulders and arms using all their strength to work the stirring stick around in the precise churning action that was needed. Unlike some of the less stenuous chores she performed daily, this one left no room for idle thoughts or distractions. This in itself was soothing, for to be able to shut out one’s many anxieties, worries, concerns, considerations and other mental activities was a great blessing in these troubled times. Then there was the churning itself which called for a certain skill and finesse. If she churned too fast and hard and long, the yogurt would harden too much and if she did not churn it evenly, it turned out somewhat lumpy and uneven.

  Once she was done with churning today’s milk to yogurt, she dragged the heavy vat into the pantry and turned her attention to her next chore. The churning of yesterday’s yogurt into lassi. Or buttermilk as some called it. This process was similar to churning the milk to yogurt except that the set yogurt was much harder to churn. She looked forward to the effort. As she began stirring the enormous handi of dahi mixed with water and seasoned with rock salt and some condiments, she grew absorbed in the activity, the world around her fading into obscurity.

  Her bracelets tinkled on her forearms, the malati flowers decorating her hair swayed and released their aromatic perfume, sweat trickled down her hairline and temples to be caught by the linen cloth she had wound around her head. Another thicker linen cloth swaddled her broad hips like a girdle. Her earrings swung to and fro each time she completed one turn of the churning. She fell into the hypnotic rhythm she had developed over the years, a song slipping forth from her lips as she worked. It was a lullaby she sang often to Krishna, a favourite one he always wanted her to sing when being put to sleep, but that was not the reason she sang it now. She sang it because it was the same lullaby her own mother had sung to her while she churned the buttermilk in her ancestral home. Her nap-time had always coincided with the churning and her mother would nurse her for a while, then set her down beside the churning vat, and sing the lullaby to assure her of her presence and love as she worked. Yashoda had fallen asleep so many times to the rhythmic sounds of the churning and her mother’s voice singing that song that she associated the two inextricably in her mind. Now, barely aware that she was singing, the song slipped from her lips - and from her heart - as she churned the stirring stick round and round, and a part of her mind fell back, back through the decades into the baby Yashoda lying by her mother’s side as she churned the buttermilk. And perhaps her mother had heard the same lullaby sung to her as well when she was a baby and perhaps her mother had churned the buttermilk as she had sung it too. Who could say how many generations of Vrishni women had done the same? As Yashoda sang, generations of her mothers and foremothers sang along with her, each mother to her sleeping child, passing on the gift of tradition and love eternally, down the ages.

  Krishna was sleeping inside the house and as Yashoda’s song rose, he heard its echoes reaching back through time, linking her to her mother before her, and her mother before her, and so forth to the beginning of their race. He had been sleeping on his back as usual, arms and legs sprawled, but now he flipped over onto his back in a quick fluid motion, resting on his elbows and knees, and listened intently to his mother’s singing. He could hear not just her voice but the voices of all her ancestors too. He listened to that song of the ages, across time and the barriers of life and death, and felt the maternal love and strength of each of those strong Vrishni women. How could any man ever go to war having heard that outpouring of love and nurturing?

  Overcome by love Krishna began crawling towards the rear of the house then remembered that this body was now capable of independent bipedal movement and pushed himself to his feet. He ran barefooted to where his mother stood churning the buttermilk and grasped her legs from behind. Without pausing in her song or churning, she glanced down and acknowledged him. Briefly. Because her entire attention was focussed on the churning which did not brook distraction. Krishna waited then went around to her front, tugging at her garment. She sang on, her body swaying as she churned. He looked up at her and felt hunger rise in him powerfully. These mortal bodies, always wanting something or other. He desired to drink her milk. He could not be denied. The urge was powerful and primordial.

  But Yashoda was busy. This was her alone time. The one time of day when she could do her chores in solitude, lost in the rapture of her rhythmic churning, or cooking, or the simple pleasure of being able to hear her own mind speak without other people around her. The household was taking its afternoon siesta and she had cut short her nap in order to give herself this precious time.

  Krishna tried ha
rd to get her attention but she was gentle yet firm in her denials. She even picked him up and put him down on the cushion in the corner, urging him to go back to sleep. It was true that if he did not get his afternoon nap he tended to get cranky. Even swayam bhagwan needed a good nap so long as he was occupying a mere mortal body.

  Finally, realizing that he would not leave her alone until he had drunk, Yashoda allowed him to sip from her breast. He drank greedily, wondering at his own thirst, then was lost in the miasma of self-fulfillment that could not be described in words. Only when floating upon the ocean of payasam, upon the gently sustaining coils of Anantha, his eternal consort Lakshmi beside him, eyes upturned in the transcendental nidra state, had he come close to experiencing this level of self-fulfillment.

  Suddenly, the spell was broken.

  Yashoda had placed today’s milk to boil on the fire. She put him down abruptly and rushed to take it off the open flame before it boiled over.

  Krishna saw her, saw the boiling milk and understood that she had no choice, she could not continue nursing him and let the milk boil over and burn.