‘Son?’ Her voice caught on the two simple syllables, the emotion in her heart welling into her throat.
Yes, Maatr. Please don’t be sad any more. I don’t like to see you sad.
‘My baby!’ she sobbed, and tears spilled down her cheeks, hot and plump.
My brother will join me soon. We shall both be together, safe and sound. You can be at peace now. We shall take care of everything from now on.
Devaki had no more words to offer. What could one say to a cloud that spoke with one’s son’s voice?
Maatr, please don’t cry any more. I know it has been hard for you. But the dark days are about to end. I am happy. Please be happy with me!
‘Yes!’ she cried. And cried one final tear, a tear of joy.
A tear rolled down the face of the cloud-baby as well, matching her own. It rolled off the face of the cloud-baby, and started falling down, down, until it landed on the balcony beside her, with a soft plop, and lay on the floor at her feet.
See! Now you made me cry. Now I shall cry, and cry a lot!
‘No, my son. Don’t!’
A rich gurgling chuckle. The kind only a baby can make.
I am teasing you, Maatr. I cry only because I need to do so.
Our land has been stricken by drought for far too long. It is time for the rain to return. That’s all I meant!
She covered her mouth with her hand, stifling her gasp. Was it true? Was this really happening? Was this really her baby, her eighth child?
Yes, Maatr. Who else would it be? I cannot promise to come to you often, as you-know-who is watching, but you may keep my tear as a token of my love for you and Pitr. Please give him my love as well. And know that I shall do my part. Everything will change now. Be happy. Smile! Bring back the spring and summer you have kept hidden all these years; let the sunlight into your heart once more. I shall be present in every ray of sunshine, every drop of rain, every bird cry ... I am watching over you.
As he said these final words, the cloud drew away, dissipating as quickly as it had approached, unfurling, uncurling, like a wave retreating and diminishing, until, barely a moment later, it was gone, leaving nothing but a shadowy wisp in the sky. Like the ghost of a memory.
Devaki looked down and saw the cloud-tear that had fallen at her feet. She bent to pick it up – and gasped. It had turned to stone. To smooth polished marble, so dark it seemed black at first, but when it caught the light, she saw that it was in fact deep blue, the same colour as the cloud, the colour of her beloved son. It was roughly the shape and form of a newborn babe, as if naturally formed rather than shaped by the hands of man.
‘Ghanashyam,’ she said, feeling her heart lighten even as she lifted the heavy bust and carried it into the chamber. ‘I shall name you Ghanashyam.’
And she laughed aloud with genuine pleasure for what seemed like the first time in years. Outside, thunder cracked and the sweet scent of first rain came to her on a soft wind as the drought over Vrajbhoomi ended at last. It was accompanied by the faint gurgling laughter of a baby.
ten
‘Lord Kamsa?’
He awoke from a dream of being smothered by a monsoon cloud – a gigantic thundercloud, fat with rain, that glowed dark blue when lightning flashed deep within its watery depths – and thrashed wildly for a moment. Then he realized there was no cloud. He was not large enough for his head to reach the clouds. He had reduced to man-height once again and was sitting on his rear, sprawled in the debris of his palace sabha hall, anga-vastra stained with what seemed to be his own vomit, and lower garments soiled as well. He sat up groggily, feeling the world spin and spin again – counter- clockwise. He shook his head only to feel a sensation akin to his brain being shattered to shards and his skull rattling with the fragments. He shuddered mightily, retched, felt his vision blur to blinding whiteness, then struggled back to consciousness.
‘Mighty prince, can you rise?’
Rise? Had he not risen already? He was the king of the Andhakas, was he not? And a far greater king than his father had ever been! Who dared ask him such a bold question?
He struggled to his feet, lost his balance and fell, sprawling on his back. The ceiling above was broken and through the jagged hole he saw a cloud passing overhead. Something about the cloud caught his attention. He lay on his back, staring up, transfixed.
It seemed like a typical thundercloud at first sight, but as he continued to stare, it seemed to change shape. Not in the genial way that clouds alter their form slightly as they drift by, but instantly, like a boiling cloud erupting from a fire – except that this cloud boiled and erupted downwards, directly towards him! And the shape, it was the shape of a newborn babe – chubby, cherubic, with puffed-out cheeks and big round eyes that seemed to take up half its face, a waggling double chin, short plump arms, torso and legs kicking out behind as it swam down towards him. Impossible! It was the very cloud from his dream. Right there, right then, in the flesh ... or in the smoke ... or whatever one called the stuff that clouds were made of.
‘Lord Kamsa? Are you well? Shall we—?’
The world around receded to a blurry buzzing in the distant background. Only the cloud existed, right above him, and it was coming down. He blinked, snorted to clear his sinuses, but the cloud was still there, still boiling down, still approaching him with naked aggression. Its colour was a dense deep blue, the colour of twilight sky. And that face, while cherubic, was also terrible in its determination and utter self-conviction. It stretched out one chubby short hand; the little fat fingers were grasping, reaching for him—
Kamsa screamed.
The sound startled him more than it startled anyone else. It broke his stupor and, hands slipping on who knew what stickiness and mushiness, he scrambled to his feet and ran across the sabha hall, leaping and skipping across bits of fallen ceiling, shattered furniture and the remnants of what appeared to be the Andhaka throne – My beautiful new throne, part of the new palace and the new Mathura that I have designed – until he was at the far end of the vast chamber, his back to the wall, in the shadiest corner available. Away from the hole in the ceiling ...
And the cloud, the cloud!
‘KEEP IT AWAY FROM ME, KEEP IT AWAY!’ he screamed.
He stood breathing heavily, gasping from time to time to take in more air.
Several moments passed.
Nothing happened.
Slowly, he began to register the presence of others around him. Soldiers clad in vaguely familiar uniforms, others in more familiar garb, faces he knew quite well but could not place at the moment – faces that were turned to him with visible concern and incredulity. Had he not banned all coloured uniforms and garb in Mathura? How then were these people ... A shadow flitted across the floor, directly beneath the hole, and he lost his thread. After a moment or two, Kamsa glanced this way, then that – his gaze passing cursorily across those surrounding him, barely noting a single one – then his eyes swept back to the hole in the ceiling. From this angle, he could see nothing but an irregularly shaped piece of the sky.
But from the shadows passing across the debris-strewn floor beneath the hole, he could tell that clouds were still passing overhead.
Not clouds. The cloud. That one!
‘Lord Kamsa?’ The man approaching him, clad in the armour and accoutrement of a high-ranking warrior, seemed less concerned than puzzled.‘What is it that troubles you? Why do you skulk thus in this shadowy corner? No sign of threat is to be seen anywhere. You are among your own here.’
Kamsa shook his head firmly, not taking his eyes off the hole in the ceiling. There! Shadows! Moving! His vision blurred, then swam back into focus, purple and green motes marching merrily from right to left and back again in perfectly arrayed rows.
‘Perhaps you do not recognize me. I am—’
‘Shhhh!’
Kamsa’s hissing carried across the sabha hall, silencing the whispered conversations that had sprung up among those standing around, staring at him. He reacted as we
ll, surprised at the impact his shushing had made – he had intended to be very soft.‘Be silent! It may hear you and attack again!’
The man standing before him stared blankly. ‘It? What is it you fear, great prince? There is nothing here that can harm you.’
Kamsa shushed the man again, fiercely, and gestured towards the ceiling, even as he tried to conceal his gesturing by turning partly away and looking the other way.‘It’s watching. I must be careful. Must!’
The man turned and looked around, glanced back at Kamsa, then looked again. This time, he seemed to follow the direction of Kamsa’s gesturing – which had become more frenetic and nervous by now – and looked up and saw the hole in the ceiling.
He strode back to the middle of the sabha hall, directly beneath the offensive hole in question. Kamsa stopped gesturing and stuffed his fist into his mouth, biting down hard enough to scrape a layer of skin off his knuckles. The fool! It will get him now!
‘Careful!’ he whispered hoarsely.
A few soldiers within earshot glanced at each other.
The fools, Kamsa thought, they don’t know it’s up there. The minute that idiot general or whoever he is looks up, it will swoop down and gobble him up alive. It’s just waiting up there!
The man with the familiar face and the high-ranking warrior’s uniform looked up, peering skywards. Something changed in the light streaming down from the open hole in the sky and he exclaimed.
‘Look!’ he said.‘I have never seen the likes of it before!’
At once, several others drew closer to him, to see for themselves what he was referring to. In a moment, most of those standing around in the ruined sabha hall were staring up through the hole of the ceiling.
‘Fools!’ Kamsa cried. But what he had intended to be a shout emerged only as a hoarse whisper.
‘My lord Kamsa,’ said another man, a familiar voice and face that he knew vaguely but could not place at the moment.‘Quick! Come and see. It’s quite extraordinary!’
Kamsa suddenly realized that everyone was staring at him. Several of his men had begun whispering amongst themselves again, with expressions that suggested that he was either insane or worse. A coward, they think me to be a coward. The fools!
A sudden flash of his customary rage shot through him, shaking him out of his stupor. But the instant he began to rear up, to start roaring at them in denial, the shadows on the floor began moving frenetically, as if the cloud was waiting above, waiting and watching, and any move he made, it would match and out-match. He subsided at once, quivering.
‘Lord Kamsa?’ said the man.
Who is he anyway? What the devil is he doing here? Who are all these people? And why the hell are they still staring at me and whispering – some are even smirking discreetly now – as if I am the crazy one?
Kamsa realized he would have to show them he was sane, and they the crazy cowards. He would have to draw the cloud’s attention to himself, and when it swooped down again, he would have to run, furiously, to get away. Let them be eaten by it. Or worse. What did he care? But it was important that he disprove this absurd notion of him being a coward. Nonsense! He was the bravest Yadava that ever lived, since the days of his forebear Yadu himself.
Shivering, trembling uncontrollably, he forced himself to go forward. He stumbled slowly through the debris and sticky wet waste that lay over everything like a coating until he reached the spot below the hole again.
‘Look, my lord. Can you see it now? Is it not wonderful?’ Kamsa forced himself to look up.
Just a quick glance and then he would run like blazes again.
Just one glance.
He looked up. And gasped a deep sigh of disbelief. His legs buckled, threatening to give away with relief.
The cloud was gone.
In its place was a sky roiling over with rain clouds, passing overhead in a stately procession, pregnant with rain, even as a bright sun shone from a clear blue sky.
‘Is it not remarkable, my lord?’ said the strange warrior cheerfully. Bahuka, Kamsa remembered at once, his name was Bahuka. ‘The drought has broken and rain clouds appear out of a clear blue sunshine sky. A rare phenomenon indeed. It is a significant omen.’
eleven
The day of the naming ceremony dawned bright and clear. Nanda’s estate was a mela of celebration. The crowds that had begun to arrive to celebrate Krishna’s birth had only swollen over the past ten days. In a sense, the celebration that had begun that day had not ended yet. With the cowherd community of Gokul going all out in its pouring forth of joy and exultation at the birth of their clan-leader’s first child, the merriment reached a peak. Word of the child’s beauty and uniqueness had spread far and wide; everyone gaped at the ghanashyam colouring of the child, the deep blue smoky skin, big jewel-bright eyes, pouting mouth, dimpled cheeks, and curls that hung low over the large forehead.
Hair festooned with fresh blossoms and saffron, ears dangling jewelled ornaments, necks bedecked with jewels that clinked and hung low with the weight of the precious metal, the gopas and gopis – male and female cowherds – were dressed in their finest garb. Many played musical instruments as they came. The brilliant colours of Vrajbhoomi clothing outmatched the shades of even the rainbow arcing across the Sravan sky. It had rained every evening since the day of Krishna’s birth, and the drought that had plagued entire swathes of Yadava farmlands and grazing pastures had officially and decisively ended. Already, the cows and bulls had begun enjoying the fresh green shoots that had begun pushing their way out of the richly watered earth.
The cattle too were adorned: the bulls with gleaming nose rings and gold-capped horns, the cows in silvery streamers and braided festooning, the calves with wreaths. All were washed in the river, and then smeared with oil and turmeric; the prime ones were decorated with garlands of gold and wreaths of peacock tail feathers. Around them ran the children, dressed like their parents and playing the part of gopas and gopis perfectly, right down to the gaily coloured turbans and polished mukuts.
Mango leaves had been strung across the courtyard of Nanda Maharaja’s house; the ground and interior of the house had been swept clean and lined with freshly stacked cow-dung patties, with sandalwood paste mixed in to give off a sweet scent. Great shining brass pots were lined up in the centre of the aangan, around the altar of the sacred tulsi plant. The gateways of the estate were adorned with various ritual leaves, strips of gaily coloured fabric, banners and flags. The sound of kettledrums and conch shells filled the air for yojanas around.
Preceptor Gargacharya’s arrival was heralded by a flourish of conches and the ritual greetings, exchanges, ablutions and appropriate ceremony. His mood was further enhanced by Nanda Maharaja’s warm and generous greetings and adherence to all the necessary injunctions of Vedic ritual.
Nanda gifted 200,000 decorated cows to Gargacharya and the procession of Brahmins that accompanied him. In addition, seven enormous mounds of sesame, as was the custom, were gifted to the pundits, along with fantastic stores of gold cloth and rivulets of precious jewels and mineral stones. Though born of a magnanimous heart and generous spirit, Nanda’s joy at his beautiful son and the propitious arrival of the best monsoon in a decade had opened the coffers of his generosity further. He had reason to celebrate, and wealth to spread. Even the Sutas – the travelling poets – and the Kusalavya bards who recorded the itihasa of such events, composed poems about them, wrote and sang songs and earned a modest living singing the tales of each occurrence, were delighted to receive lavish gifts of ornaments, garlands and cows. No distinction was made between Sutas of different varnas – Suta proper, Vandi, Kusalavya or even Magadha bards – all were treated equally, fed richly and given the same set of gifts.
‘The child’s name should begin with the syllable Ka!’ announced the happy instructor of the clan.‘As befits his dark colouring and in keeping with the wishes of his pitr and maatr, he shall be named Krishna!’
A roar of approval greeted the announcement. Everyone alr
eady thought of the boy as Krishna, and even if the acharya had recommended a different name, the boy would have been given that nickname. Either that or Kali – the two names that were customarily given to any Arya child who was as densely black skinned. They were in fact the most common names in the Arya world, most Aryas being subject to countless millennia of exposure to the harsh sun of their native land.
Unknown to the immense crowds celebrating Krishna’s naming day, another boy had also been named at the same time. SeatedonlyyardsawayfromYashodaandKrishnawereRohini and her yearling son who were discreetly but strategically placed in the shade of the aangan’s awning. This arrangement had been devised by Gargacharya.
‘But who is this honourable lady?’ Nanda had asked, concerned, soon after her unexpected appearance and self- introduction.
‘She is none other than the wife of Vasudeva, secretly wed precisely for this purpose,’ said the ageing pundit with a twinkle in his eye. ‘And the son she brings is none other thanVasudeva and Devaki’s seventh child, spirited away by godly forces to be raised by her in secrecy, far from the evil gaze of Kamsa and his minions. I sanctified the wedding myself, under equally stern terms of secrecy. Rohini is legitimately the boy’s foster mother now.’
Nanda stared at his guru, astonished. He had not known. ‘So you knew about this, Gurudev?’
Gargacharya chortled. ‘There are many things you are not aware of, Nanda. And that you need not trouble your mind with. It is enough that your son and her child are brothers; that is all you need to know.’
‘Brothers?’ Nanda asked, even more baffled.
Gargacharya scratched his balding pate and glanced around, asifwonderingifhehadsaidtoomuch.‘Youareaclan-brother to Vasudeva, are you not? In fact, you are even known as Vasudeva yourself. Vasu, because as lord of the gopas and gopis of Vrajbhoomi your spirit pervades all who live here, and Deva, because you are godlike to your people. So Rohini’s son is Vasudeva’s son, which means he is like your own son, therefore Rohini’s son and Krishna are brothers!’
KRISHNA CORIOLIS#2: Dance of Govinda Page 6
