He had lost all confidence. The fact that he appeared to have lost his supernatural abilities only compounded his misery. Not only was he unable to expand himself, he had lost his superhuman strength as well. Reduced to the stature of just a normal mortal man – or as normal as he could be – hemmed in on every side by Jarasandha’s henchmen and spasas, and unable to even live consciously through every day, he felt as if he had become a foot-soldier in some elaborate game of chaupat, the dice-game of military strategy favoured by kings and generals.
He had never cared for the game, partly because anything that required concentrating too hard and too long frustrated him as a boy, but also because his father enjoyed it a lot and was very good at it; so of course he had had to hate it intensely. He had broken his father’s most prized chaupat set once, grinning with malicious joy as he shattered the ivory pieces and dice to fragments under his boot heels. He still remembered how happy that made him at the time – thinking of how upset his father would be when he found the destroyed game – happy enough to not care about the thrashing he was sure to receive from Ugrasena later.
Now, he shuddered as he rode round a large field towards the royal stables, and couldn’t help glancing up at the sky – he almost expected to see a giant boot heel coming down to smash him to pulp.
There was no boot heel in the sky but from the clear cerulean blue upturned bowl above him and the warmth of the sun on his face and neck, he deduced that it was late spring or early summer now. How much time had he lost this time? A few weeks? More than that? He dreaded finding out, just as he dreaded knowing what had happened in the‘lost time’.
Handing his mount to a syce, he re-entered the palace precincts through the stable gate. Construction was still in progress in some parts, but he was struck by how much Bahuka had been able to rebuild during his blackouts. On the long walk to the palace proper, he was confronted at every turn by new statuary, shrubbery, gardens, temples – temples! – and other artistic and cultural flourishes that had been absent during the decade of his rule. It angered him to see all the very things he had ordered destroyed, or had demolished himself, reconstructed in even grander finery than had existed before he, Kamsa, took the reins of power in his granite fists.
Once within the palace, he was struck by the architectural and interior changes. Gone were the alterations and amendments he had made to extinguish his father’s Mathura. Of course, he was partly responsible for destroying his own renovations – he did recall being somewhat out of control during the past year or four, or perhaps even all through the decade. And why not? He had been liberated from the yoke of his father’s tyranny. The domestic despot had been unseated, the captive prince released at last. It had been a decade of celebration.
He almost smiled, recalling the havoc he had wreaked, the wanton destruction he had unleashed, the sheer scale of demolition! Ah, but they were great years. He would do anything to continue that celebration – forever! Damn that Bahuka and the master he served. Jarasandha might be emperor of the mortal realm or even of all three realms for all he cared, but here in Mathura, Kamsa was still king. And it was time he demonstrated that. What else was Bahuka but Jarasandha’s glorified spasa, stationed to spy on Kamsa and exercise control over him? The same went for the new cronies that Bahuka had carefully placed around him – all spasas of Jarasandha, no question about it. Today he would put that spasa and his cronies in their place once and for all. He would show them who was king of the Andhaka nation.
He entered the royal enclave and stopped short at once. The three courtyards – each of which was high-walled and accessed by only a single lowered gate, Bahuka’s newfangled design again – were packed to the brim with soldiers.
Not mere soldiers. These were members of the Mohini Fauj. Prime specimens of Jarasandha’s eunuch gladiators, birthed, castrated, bred and trained for havoc. It had been a while since he had confronted them, and coming upon them unexpectedly brought home the extent to which he had changed since that fateful day many moons past when he had gone into the heart of Magadha, in search of Jarasandha, and had wrestled and slain that marauding king’s choicest champions without working up much of a sweat.
A hundred pairs of eyes turned to look at him – eyes that seemed as distant as the stars that were coldly fixed in their firmament and as unseeing of anything that might occur on earth. Blood spilled, muscle rent to shreds, bones cracked and marrow drawn, sinew and gristle bared, glistening and gristly innards strung out , babies speared and mothers butchered ... nothing would draw a response from these cold eyes. They were merely windows through which machine-like minds viewed the world in two stark extremes: Enemy and Potential Enemy. Black and Not-yet Black. Everything and everyone was black or a shade of grey.
Examined, identified and assessed, he was dismissed as roundly as if he were a stray cur that had wandered into the grazing grounds of a pride of lions – lions that yawned and carried on with their existence and did not deem it fit to dignify his entrance with their attention. That was how he was spurned by the Hijras now. They simply turned away, even those closest to him showing their backs to him, and continued whatever it was they were doing, which, judging by the eerie silence that pervaded the enclave and the relatively relaxed postures in which they stood around, appeared to be simply waiting. Even when resting or waiting idly, Jarasandha’s Mohinis did not simply lounge or sprawl sloppily; they remained at ease but in positions of preparedness, ready for any threat or command. This discipline of eternal readiness was partly what made them such formidable opponents.
Kamsa began moving through the close-packed press. It was hard going. Clad as they were in leather skirts and vests, with chain-link armour sown into the leather, Kamsa did not wish to brush against their garb and risk scraping the skin of his arms or legs. Yet they did not offer to move aside or even budge an inch from where they stood. Indeed, after that initial inspection, it was as if he had ceased to exist. The lions couldn’t care less what the cur did next: slunk away or stayed and risked his mangy life further.
He could have raised his voice and commanded them to move aside and make way for him. After all, he was Jarasandha’s son-in-law and as good as his heir and second-in-command. Or so he had believed. But that would have seemed unmanly to these half-men, who compensated for their lack of sexual identity by sheer willpower, discipline, training and mastery of martial skills.
Had he possessed his own supernatural powers, he would simply have batted, swatted, kicked and shunted them aside like so many clay puppets and barged through. But his powers were gone – he had reluctantly and with great frustration come to accept that fact – and all he had were his normal human strength and skill. He used them as best as he could, shouldering the Hijras aside and moving through slender gaps. The going was not easy, and often a casually distended javelin, or sword hilt, or even a leg or an arm, would be in his way and he would have to physically push it aside – yet not too forcefully for fear of starting a fight he could not possibly hope to finish successfully. By the time he reached the second courtyard, his shoulders were bruised, the backs of his forearms skinned and bleeding in several places, and his legs felt as if they had been rubbed raw on the outside.
He was hugely relieved to see a familiar face.
‘Pradyota!’ he croaked, seeing the captain of the guards in conversation with the chief of the Hijra Fauj battalion.
Neither the captain nor the Hijra paid heed to him; they were engrossed in their talk.
Someone snickered and a whisper as soft as wind rustled nearby, with a distinctly mocking tone that he knew well from the time he had spent with Jarasandha’s army and with his own Mohini Fauj contingent.
He cleared his throat and said in a louder, more commanding tone:‘Captain Pradyota?’
The captain frowned and looked around, forehead creased with irritation at being interrupted.
Kamsa was forced to wave a hand. He had to stand on tiptoe to be sure he was seen, because the Hijras around him were all
at least a foot or more taller than him.
‘Over here, Captain.’
Captain Pradyota saw him and reacted with a peculiar mixture of scorn and derision. Then he strode forward, somehow walking easily and without impediment through the same crush of Hijra soldiers. Kamsa knew then that the crowd of Mohinis he had passed through had deliberately obstructed him in subtle ways, just enough to skin and bruise him but not enough to provoke an all-out fight. He swallowed, glad that they hadn’t pressed for a skirmish. In his present state, there was no doubt who would have ended up the victor.
‘Prince Regent Kamsa,’ said the new captain of the guards, the one that Kamsa did not remember appointing yet Bahuka insisted he had. ‘What are you doing here, sire? You were expected in the sabha hall several hours earlier.’
He said it in the tone one would use when addressing a child who returns late from play: Where have you been? Didn’t you hear your maatr calling you? Supper was hours ago!
Kamsa tried hard to ignore Pradyota’s insulting tone and manner. ‘In that case, do your damned job. Kindly escort me to the sabha hall!’
If I had my powers, I would have crushed you between my thumb and forefinger like a little rodent, you fool! How dare you speak to me thus?
Captain Pradyota nodded laconically, the sneer still lingering on his face.‘Certainly, sire.’ He glanced at Kamsa’s shoulders and arms.‘Did you have difficulty making your way on your own through the courtyard?’
Kamsa resisted the impulse to smash his fist into the man’s face.
‘You did say I was expected, did you not? Let us waste no more time then.’ He wanted that to come out fierce and threatening, and was somewhat disappointed that it merely sounded curt.
The captain chuckled brazenly. He inclined his head towards the Mohini chief who nodded back. Kamsa recognized the chief. He had ridden with him and they had slaughtered together, burnt homes, eaten in each other’s company, bedded beside one another, and the Hijra had treated him with utmost respect as was warranted by one so close to Emperor Jarasandha himself, even before Kamsa married Jarasandha’s daughters. But now, when Kamsa was at a position where he ought to be saluted, bowed to and indeed be given a formal salutation from the whole contingent, he was being treated like some mlechcha! It was infuriating and humiliating but there was little he could do about it.
The Hijra chief glanced at him coldly as he passed by. Not so much as a flicker of recognition or acknowledgement on the lout’s face! Kamsa trembled with suppressed fury but walked on. He had almost reached the façade of the royal entrance when a particularly large Mohini strolled casually across his path, jostling him without even glancing aside. The giant was over seven feet tall and bulky enough to weigh two hundred kilos with a third more weight from his armour and sheathed weapons; the jolt was hard enough to send Kamsa sprawling, but he was anticipating some further mischief and took it on his shoulder, gritting his teeth. His shoulder was wrenched agonizingly with the force but he did not cry out or let the pain show. He merely walked on without even a backward glance, went up the marbled stairs and entered the palace of his ancestors where he now ruled as king in name only.
The crowd in the sabha hall surprised him. This was a full- session court! Only he as king could summon such an assembly and preside over it. Kamsa caught sight of Bahuka on the royal dais and strode forward, determined to put the man in his place once and for all. This was going too far! It was one thing to undermine his authority on a daily basis and to virtually use him as a puppet crown-figure, but to exclude him from the administration of his own kingdom was unacceptable!
He was almost at the dais when he noticed that a figure was seated on the Andhaka throne as well. That was treason! No one was permitted to even approach the empty throne! Who dared actually sit on it in full assembly? Whoever it was, the person had made a fatal error. Kamsa had taken enough humiliation for one day – for an entire lifetime, in fact – and he knew that this transgression needed no soldierly display of manliness. He had but to command and the fool who had sat on the seat of Andhaka governance would be food for the kitchen dogs.
He raised his arm and opened his mouth to shout, to bellow, to set the entire sabha ablaze with fear and intimidation, as he had done so often before. He needed no giant form, nor supernatural strength to do this, merely his authority as king of the Andhaka Sura nation.
Then he saw who it was that sat on the throne.
And all his bluster, anger and frustration were capped as quickly as the flame of a candle is extinguished by a brass snuffing cap.
And were replaced by stark, naked terror.
seventeen
After the last man arrived, was discreetly checked by the diligent sentries and permitted to enter the barn, the enormous wooden door was shut and bolted, and uks carts rolled before it. A few bales of hay, an uks or two put to munching on soft green shoots, and it appeared as if the barn had never been opened or entered that day. The sentries pretended to lounge on the hay and the cart, chatting endlessly in the loquacious way of Yadavas, while secretly alert and watchful of any stranger’s approach.
The last man to enter heard the bolting of the barn doors and knew that the place was now secure. He undid the turban cloth he had wound tightly around his head and which covered most of his face as well, ostensibly to keep him warm from the chilly spring breeze on the journey by uks cart. The others gathered around the large hay-strewn barn did likewise, untying scarves and headcloths to reveal their faces. In turn, each one nodded to the last arrival, greeting him with the respect and awe reserved for the very great or very noble. To use the Sanskrit word, arya. The highest of the high. Truly, the dark complexioned, gracefully maturing man who stood inside the barn doors was arya indeed.
Vasudeva nodded back, glad to see those familiar faces. It had been so long since he had been able to set eyes on them, he had almost feared he might never do so. He inhaled the odours of stale feed and fresh cow manure and sighed. His days of being a simple cowherd were far back in the past now, yet he sometimes wished he had never been called to do anything but tend to cows. He knew that Devaki felt the same way. Nothing would give them both greater joy than to leave behind the luxury and comfort of palace and city living and reside in rustic quietude. I’m no king, he thought, nor do I want to be one. Let my sons rule. I am content to be let out to pasture even now.
But as some great ancient Kusalavya bard had once sung, life was what happened to you when you were busy making other plans.
And so here he was again. Presiding over the Yadava Sangha.
‘Well met, old friends,’ he said quietly. ‘You cannot imagine how much it pleases me to see each one of your faces today. Simply to be alive and to inhale this sweet scent of cow patties.’
Uddhava chuckled softly. Vasudeva noted that his old friend had streaks of grey in his hair and a beard that had not been there the last time they had met. Then again, that occasion had been over a decade ago.
‘Would you like to sniff them a little closer, Vasu? That can be arranged!’ Uddhava’s eyes twinkled mischievously. The others laughed softly. Gopas were known to have cow patty fights at times, and each of them had flung and received his share of freshly patted cow dung in his youth.
Vasudeva laughed loudly, the sound surprising him as it echoed among the high rafters. ‘I think our age for supping on such things has passed, would you not agree, old Kratha?’ He addressed the question to an ageing man who leaned on a shepherd’s crook as if his life depended on it: which it probably did.
Kratha surprised him by raising his bald head and waggling a shaky forefinger in the air.‘Speak for yourself, Vasu. Old you may be. I’m ready to take on any man in a cow patty fight. Right here. Right now!’
That brought laughter to everyone’s lips. Even serious Chitraketu’s mouth cracked open to reveal his teeth. It made Vasudeva realize how long it had been since he had jested and shared such rough good-natured humour with his fellow Yadavas and caused him to curse the re
ign of Kamsa for the umpteenth time.
At least today we shall finally be able to do something to end that reign, he thought grimly as he went around embracing his clansmen in turn. Tears filled his eyes by the time he was done and he had to swipe at his face more than once. The strongest emotion came when he faced a young man whom he recognized at once owing to the strong resemblance he bore to his father.
‘Brihadbala the Younger,’ he said, gripping the young man’s shoulders.
Brihadbala nodded slowly and bowed his head to Vasudeva. ‘Bhagwan, show us the way. For too long have I told myself that my father did not die in vain. That Kamsa the Usurper did not murder my sire and so many other blameless Vrishnis for no cause at all. Now lead us forward to our salvation from this menace, lord.’
Vasudeva wiped the tears from his eyes.‘Would that I could, my child. But that honour does not fall on me. It falls on the Slayer.’
Many heads nodded. Several exclaimed quietly, reverentially. The legend of the Slayer was a formidable one, albeit not spoken of aloud in public. It was the sole source of hope and inspiration to a troubled nation. Many lived only for the day when the Slayer would finally destroy the Usurper and not merely restore the Yadavas to their once-proud glory but take them beyond into a new age of milk and honey wine, as the prophecy claimed.
KRISHNA CORIOLIS#2: Dance of Govinda Page 10
