Do not fret, Maatr. Remember, because of who I am, you need never fear any harm. Even while I am gone to Mathura, no one dare harm you in any way.
‘Me?’ she said. Then continued mentally: It is not I who fear I might come to harm, my little gopa! It is you I am concerned about. You as well as your brother Balarama.
He chuckled. Balarama is quite capable of looking after himself as well as me, his kid brother. After all, he is Shesha, you know.
She had no idea what he meant. Shesha? Wasn’t that the great serpent in the ocean of milk upon which sat some great deva ... was it Vishnu?
Krishna gurgled and burped noisily beneath her working hands. And he followed it up with a sharp exudation that made her wrinkle her nose. She slapped his oiled bottoms again, affectionately. Don’t get cheeky with me, little fellow. You may be the Slayer of Kamsa, but you’re still my little Krishna.
Yes, Maatr, he said in a suspiciously serious tone.
The ceremony ended soon after, and Yashoda had to see to the rest of the ritual formalities. Her sisters told her to lay Krishna down and assured her that they would watch over him. She didn’t want to put the babe down in the open because the sun was too strong, and so decided to place him with his blanket and toys beneath an un-yoked uks cart that was resting nearby. She positioned him securely in the shadow of the cart and surrounded him with cushions on all sides so that he would not roll over and bang his head or injure himself in any way. Fortunately, he had not begun to sit up yet, so there was no question of him hitting the underside of the cart. She tucked him in firmly so that he would not kick out and hurt his feet on the wagon wheels. The cart was loaded down with metal pots containing various liquid items of nourishment needed for the feast, and its wheels had been chocked with stones to prevent it from budging even an inch. So she didn’t have to worry about the vehicle moving while Krishna was under it. She finished tucking him in and kissed him gently on the cheek.
Too tight, he complained. But his voice was already sleepy.
‘Tight is safe,’ she said, leaning over and kissing him on his forehead. He smelt of oil and milk and something else that she could not put a name to – a smell he always had and which she had never smelt on any babe before. Nobody was around just then, and so she could speak to him normally. ‘I will be right here in this field. I will check on you at all times. Don’t worry. And don’t go anywhere.’
I might decide to take a walk to Mathura, he replied cheekily.
‘I doubt that very much,’ she said, looking at him solemnly. ‘You haven’t had your late morning feed of milk yet.’
He chuckled sleepily, then sighed, yawned big and wide, and turned his head away, into the cosy darkness of the underside of the cart.
She smiled and left him.
It was a while later, when she was busy ensuring that every last Brahmin, guest and relative had been fed full to bursting, that she heard the sound. It was customary among Yadavas to not simply feed their guests on formal occasions but to ensure that they were incapable of ingesting a single morsel more or taking a single sip of water for several hours. Nobody knew how this tradition had begun, but it had its origins in some ancient puranic tale of the pitrs, the mythic ancestors about whom there always seemed to be an appropriate story to illustrate every moral and regale every gathering. No doubt some ancient pitr had once eaten his fill at a ceremonial feast, but not more than his fill, and not long after, on his way home, he had met a friend on the road and that friend had invited him to come to his home to celebrate some occasion. And when he had done so, and returned home much later that same day or night, his wife or brother or mother or uncle had asked him if he had eaten yet and he had replied,‘Yes, twice, in fact. Once at so-and-so’s feast, the second time at such-and-such’s celebration.’ And the wife (or brother, mother, uncle, etc.) had thought, So-and-so’s feast can’t have been very good if he was still hungry enough to eat afterwards! And soon, word got around that so-and-so’s feast hadn’t been enough to fill that pitr’s belly, so much so that he had to go to a friend’s house later to satiate his hunger. And of course, the story had then grown swiftly into an entire legend about how little food there was at so-and-so’s feast and how people went home hungry and had to knock at their friends’ doors to ask to be fed since they hadn’t prepared any food at home that day on account of the feast. And over time, nobody would deign it wise to attend a feast at so-and-so’s place, of course!
Whatever the reason, the fact was that Yadavas had to be fed to the gills. It was even considered preferable that a guest throw up from overindulgence – provided that he be fed yet again before leaving!
Yashoda was handing out the sweet dish herself to make sure that every Brahmin got more than enough. She knew how much Brahmins loved their sweets, and had prepared the ones to be served at the feast herself. They were sweet potatoes, cooked in her special preparation designed to bring out the flavour of the yam, soften the tender flesh, and enhance the sweetness. As each Brahmin unwrapped his portion of sweet potato from its enclosing banana leaf and popped it in his mouth, she had the satisfaction of seeing his face alter dramatically in response. She glanced down the row and saw a whole range of similar expressions as each purohit rolled his eyes and head as he mashed the delectable sweet between his palate and tongue. Even her own mouth watered at the sight. As the maatr of the boy whose bathing ritual was being conducted, she had had to fast since the previous night. She would eat only after the last guest had departed after being fed to bursting.
It was then that she heard the sound. It resonated in the field like a loud THWACK!
For a moment, she mistook it for the sound of children playing the danda game. The one where they took a short, thick cudgel-like stick and a smaller piece of wood, laid the small piece on the ground and rapped it hard in such a way that it rose up in the air – and then they hit it sideways, sending it flying to the point of their choice. The aim was to hit the piece into a certain spot each time. It tended to be played mostly by boys, who seemed to love cracking and hitting sticks, and she had seen a group of them playing on the south end of the field. The thought that the sound might have something to do with her Krishna didn’t even occur to her. But she did look up and marvel at the loudness of the sound. That must be a very big stick, or a very powerful hitter.
Then she remembered that some of the men had finished eating and they loved playing danda just as much as the boys. No doubt they had started a game of their own and someone had just cracked the thickest danda in half, causing that sound. She saw her sisters and friends looking around quizzically too. Nobody seemed to know what had caused the loud report, but none seemed too worried either. They went back to doing what they were doing.
Eager to be done and to eat her own food, Yashoda bent to place another portion of sweet potato upon the last purohit’s banana-leaf plate. Krishna would awaken any time and want to be fed, if he wasn’t already awake, that is. And it would be nice if she could eat before feeding him. It enriched the milk, she knew.
A moment later, another sound echoed across the field. This one was even louder than the first, and wholly different. Not merely wood striking wood, but a distinctly metallic thud, as if some firm metal object was being crumpled under a great impact. Then a screaming, screeching metallic sound as if the same metal object were being struck again and again, on an anvil. There were other sounds mingled in this as well, wet sounds, wooden cracking sounds and a third kind of noise that she could not easily decipher, but which made her heart race and her eyes widen.
Everyone was looking around, alert and afraid. The noise was loud enough to be heard through the length and breadth of the field, and hundreds of people had stopped whatever they had been doing to look in the direction ... of the south field!
That’s where I left my Krishna!
And with that thought, Yashoda needed to hear no further sounds, noises or urging.
She dropped the metal platter of sweet potatoes, letting the precious sw
eets tumble into the dirt and not caring, and raced towards the place where she had left her sleeping son.
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Yashoda reached the south end of the field to find a great commotion. Most of the guests who had finished eating were lounging about there, sitting around in groups and talking, some singing folk songs, others playing games, a few flirting and romancing in the time-honoured way of light- hearted Yadavas. When she came running from the north end, the crowd had taken to its feet and was peering in the direction of the sound – The place where I left my baby under the cart! – and the invitees to the feast were chattering anxiously amongst themselves as if some calamity had befallen.
She had to push her way through the crowd, requesting to be let through.‘Please let me pass; my Krishna is there.’
But as the crowd grew denser and the babble louder, she had to resort to shouting,‘Let me through, please!’
Once the gathering saw that it was Yashoda-devi, the hostess herself, it parted at once, but it still took several agonizing moments for her to pass through the throng, moments during which all sorts of awful images flashed through her mind. Her anxiety made her take in her breath at a faster rate and she felt herself growing light-headed with fear.
Finally, she broke through and stumbled into the open patch at the southern end of the field. The crowd had formed a rough semicircle there, as if held back behind an invisible line. Her sisters were among the crowd, looking as dazed as everyone else.
Yashoda looked around and saw that there was a reason why they were reluctant to go beyond that point. There were things lying around in the way: pieces of wood, shattered blocks, what looked like a mangled piece of metal, and other odd objects that she gradually began to associate as parts of what had once been ...
‘The cart!’ she shrieked, clapping her hands to her cheeks.
She looked at the spot where she had left Krishna, where the uks cart had been stationed, near the sala tree.
There was no cart there any more.
She ran the last few yards, passing the unmistakeable remains of the cart’s axle, apparently shattered to fragments, two half- broken wheels, and other assorted debris.
In the midst of the wreckage, scattered about were the garments in which she had wrapped Krishna and tucked him in so carefully.
Of Krishna himself, there was no sight at all.
Her heart threatened to freeze with fear.
Her first and only thought was that Kamsa or his demoniacal minions had somehow found her boy – had learnt that one newborn boy who had begun life that fateful night of the prophecy had somehow escaped the spear points of his soldiers – and he or his child-murdering men had come and killed her baby. She didn’t understand how the cart had been shattered, or why; only that such destruction could only be the work of a malevolent agent. And who else would attack a child so viciously but the Childslayer himself? Yes, it had to have been Kamsa! And from the appearance of the debris strewn all around her and Krishna’s garments, it was evident that he had slain her beloved infant.
‘No!’ she whispered.‘Not my baby. Please, Lord!’
Maatr.
The single word was a drop of water into a calm pool. It rippled in her consciousness, spreading outwards. As it spread, it quenched the fires of fear and doubt and anger that were brewing in her mind and senses, and replaced those fiery emotions with soothing calm assurance. But she was very troubled and resisted.
I am well. Why do you cry? You have no reason to fear for my well-being. Calm thyself.
‘Krishna?’ she cried out, in her mind as well as with her lips. ‘Where are you, my son? Show yourself!’
Here, Maatr.
She spun around. The watching crowd stepped back, uncertain of what was possessing Yashoda in this moment of anguish. The people had leapt to the same inevitable conclusion: that somehow the agents of Kamsa had found the infant and had killed him in some demoniacal fashion. They didn’t need to know or guess at anything further – Kamsa’s men had killed children regardless of their birthdate at times, and though the killings had ceased a while ago, nobody trusted the apparent period of peace that had followed the season of mayhem and slaughter. Kamsa was capable of anything.
‘Where?’ she all but screamed.‘I cannot see you, my son!’
As she uttered this, she saw the expressions on the faces of the watching guests who were staring at her with a mixture of pity, sorrow and sympathy. Several even offered their hands to her, asking her to come to them, speaking words of solace for her loss.
‘No, you don’t understand,’ she said in agitation,‘my Krishna is fine. I just have to find him. Where are you, my son! Show yourself !’
At this, the looks of sympathy intensified and several in the gathering began shaking their heads and clicking their tongues in commiseration. She saw her sisters, mother and friends all approaching, concern writ large on their faces. And off to the other side, she glimpsed Nanda’s head bobbing as he made his way through the crowd, his brothers and other associates following him as well.
Krishna giggled. The sound echoed in Yashoda’s ears, as clear as a brass temple bell. But she still could not spot him anywhere. There was nothing but debris to be seen for several dozen yards in every direction.
‘Krishna! Stop teasing me and show yourself this very minute!’ she said sternly, not caring that everyone could hear her. She was growing desperate with anxiety.
I am right here, in front of you, Maatr, keep walking this way ...
‘Here?’ she asked, moving carefully through the bits and pieces of the cart and its contents lying around, stepping with extra caution as she scoured every square inch. She could see no sign of her boy.
A little to your right, further this way, now turn partly to your left. Yes, look down now ... no, under the big cross-shaped piece of wood stuck in the ground. Yes, Maatr. Can you see me now?
She knelt down on the ground which was churned up a bit in that area as if worked over unevenly by a plough. A ragged block of wood and metal was embedded in the ground. She realized that it was part of the cart’s axle, broken off by some great impact and stuck in the ground at a tilt. She could not imagine what force could have shattered something that sturdy, for she knew something about carts and ploughs herself, but she did not care about that just now. It was what lay behind it that concerned her. She peered carefully over the jagged metal-and-wood shard sticking out of the ground and her heart leapt with joy as she saw the familiar cherubic face of her baby.
‘Krishna!’
He was sitting on a remnant of the blanket in which she had wrapped him, playing with a toy cart with a plough fixed behind it. Studying the way the plough churned up the ground with rapt interest, the infant was bending over and pushing it back and forth in the ground. Nanda had made the toy with his own hands; he had a talent for whittling wood and making toys and decorative objects. Their house was filled with such curiosities, some quite elaborate and ingenious.
Yashoda scooped her baby in her arms, clenching him to her breast tightly enough to stop her own breath.
Maatr! You spoiled the field I was ploughing!
Tears spilled copiously from her eyes as she hugged and kissed and stroked and caressed her child, reassuring herself that he was indeed alive and well. She could not believe it, so frightening the sight of the strewn debris had been, and so certain had she been that something awful had happened to him.
Do not cry, Maatr. It makes me feel like crying as well. And if I cry, it will bring rain and spoil your lovely feast.
She almost laughed out loud. Spoil the feast? She didn’t care about the feast. It was only a ritual ceremonial feeding to celebrate his bathing ceremony. It was he that she cared about. ‘You, and only you, my beloved son!’
I understand, Maatr. But you are crushing me! Kindly let go of me and put me down.
She heard sounds and voices behind her, approaching cautiously. Nanda’s voice was among them. She could hear the puzzlement in his tone.
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‘What happened here, my little Shyam-rang? How was the cart broken? Did someone come and do this? Did they have elephants with them?’
Elephants? Ah, I would like to have elephants to play with, Maatr. May I? Please say yes!
‘Krishna, answer my question. How did all this destruction happen? What was that terrible cracking sound I heard earlier?’
I like elephants, Maatr. They remind me of Vakratunda. I wish I could see Vakratunda as well. I recall visiting him to bless him – at his naming ceremony on Mount Kailasa and on other such occasions. I could not frolic with him as it would seem unseemly at my age. But he would make a fine playmate for me now! I wish I could summon him here.
‘Krishna! Answer me!’
It is nothing, really. The cart broke, that’s all. I didn’t mean for it to break. But it did.
Yashoda heard Nanda’s voice say from close by: ‘Oh, thank the devas, he is alive and well! It is a miracle.’
‘But how did it break, Krishna? Who broke it?’
If I tell you who did it, Maatr, will you be cross with me?
‘No, my baby, I just want to know who did this to you. Was it Kamsa and his men?’
Kams-mama? No, he has nothing to do with this! It was just me, Maatr. I kicked the cart.
‘You?’ She stared at the child, holding him a little away from her body so she could see him better.
Yes, Maatr. I only meant to push it away a little, that’s all. But it cracked and broke and everything started to fall down and all those pots would have spilled on me and I didn’t want that, so the second time I kicked it a little harder to push the whole thing away, and everything went flying. I didn’t mean to destroy anything, Maatr. I just wanted a little more space so I could sit up to play with my little plough-cart.
Unable to take in the full import of what he was saying, she blinked rapidly.‘I don’t understand. How could you have broken the whole cart? That’s impossible!’
Behind her, she heard Nanda speak gently: ‘Yashoda, my dearest, is he quite well, our little Krishna?’
KRISHNA CORIOLIS#2: Dance of Govinda Page 13
