Because he was so studiously ignored and neglected, it was easy for Kamsa to enter the city and leave as he pleased. Rarely did anyone actually ask after him or bother about his whereabouts. He suspected that Jarasandha’s spasas watched him closely enough to know he rode out and back each day, but he was shrewd enough to float a rumour that he was visiting a woman. Another man’s wife. From the old syce, Yadu, he learned that they had bought the rumour without question, even laughing at the foolish prince wasting his time on dalliances while Jarasandha ruled Mathura as he pleased. Kamsa gritted his teeth as the old man told him these things in his laconic devil-may-care way, but knew that so long as they laughed at him, they would not suspect him.
The old man knew, though. Kamsa could see it in his eyes.
‘Will there be anything further, my lord?’ he asked as he took the frothing horse by the bit. Kamsa had practised increasing his weight while riding the horse today, to judge from the horse’s reactions how heavy he became. When the beast began to snort and whinny in panic, he had stopped, but the animal had never trusted after that, especially since he tried the same thing several more times. Now, it reared white-eyed as Kamsa walked past, pulling away from him.
Kamsa paused and glanced at the horse which was still bucking in the syce’s hands. Yadu seemed unperturbed by the beast. Most men would have been at least a little nervous when a half-ton animal grew thus agitated and began lashing out with those deadly hooves. The syce appeared as calm as ever, and not for the first time, Kamsa wondered just how old the man really was, and what role he had played in his father’s coterie before he retired to this menial job.
‘A fresh horse tomorrow,’ he said and turned away without waiting for a response. There would be none in any case. Yadu only spoke when absolutely necessary. It was one of the reasons Kamsa trusted the old man to keep his part of the secret.
He was startled to see Mohini sentries at the perimeter of his palace. They did not deign to give him even the dignity of a sideward glance and merely continued their inscrutable watchfulness of their area of scrutiny, but he sensed their derision and scorn and felt the urge to lash out and crush them like flies. That would get them to notice him again! But he reminded himself how hard it had been to regain even this measure of strength, and what Narada had said when he told him how to achieve it, and knew he must keep his strength a secret until the right time and day.
There were Hijras lined up along his corridors too, a full force. That could mean only one thing: someone very important had come to see him in his private chambers. Uninvited.
He brushed past the Hijras and strode up to his chambers with deliberate ease. He was pulling off his gloves and whistling when he entered his private bedchamber.
Jarasandha was waiting. And with him were his usual cronies: Hansa and Dimvaka on either side; Bana and Canura off in the corners, skulking and still avoiding Kamsa’s gaze; Bahuka, Agha, Baka, Dhenu, Trnavarta, Vatsa, and with them Putana as well. Pralamba and Pradyota were there too, but from their positions relative to Jarasandha, it was evident that they did not enjoy the same favour as the others within the cherished circle of trust. And finally, there were four of the familiar Hijra Fauj, the toughest and most ruthless of the lot. Kamsa knew them from his days with Jarasandha. They had always been the first to go into battle and the last to leave a field; their death count was greater than that of entire regiments. The very fact that they were still alive, despite their many years of service, was testimony to their ability to kill and survive against all odds. They barely glanced at Kamsa; he was nothing to them, not even a hint of a possible future threat. That infuriated him more than anything else, but he kept his self-control. He had gained too much ground with too much effort to lose it only because of his temper.
Leaning back like an emperor upon his throne, legs crossed casually, Jarasandha was seated on Kamsa’s bed. Hansa and Dimvaka lounged on either side, as still as bedposts.
‘Come, come, Kamsa. We have much to discuss.’
And behind him, Kamsa heard the sound of the chamber doors being shut and bolted.
seven
‘Kamsa, dear Kamsa,’ said Jarasandha, then clicked his tongue sympathetically several times. ‘It seems there is a revolution brewing behind your back that you are blissfully unaware of, my son.’
He paused and glanced at his cronies. ‘Although, judging from the way you have been these past months, almost anything could be brewing behind your back and you would hardly know it!’ A round of derisive laughter greeted this quip. Even Putana twitched in a sardonic imitation of a smile.
Kamsa stood impassively, not reacting in any way. Jarasandha looked at him, chin lowered in his usual way so that his eyes and brow seemed to merge. Like all natural predators, his eyes were close set and intense, and were most accustomed to focussing on the middle distance. His lips were slightly parted and the tips of his split tongue rested on his lower teeth, barely visible. He flicked it out, licked at his left cheek, then withdrew it into his mouth.‘My spasas tell me that your Yadavas are trying to forge an alliance with the Kurus as well as other nations. They will not succeed, of course. The Kurus are far too wise to align themselves with the wrong faction, but the very fact that they make this attempt is an affront to my sovereignty. This kind of rebelliousness cannot be permitted to continue. It undermines the Yadava republic and the power of Mathura.’
Kamsa asked quietly, so quietly that Jarasandha heard only part of what he said,‘What do you propose to do?’
Jarasandha frowned.
Kamsa knew Jarasandha could not have heard him clearly, but he also knew that the ‘god emperor’ was too proud to ask Kamsa to repeat himself. As he had intended, the Magadhan heard enough to presume to have understood him.
Jarasandha shrugged.‘I propose that you quell this rebellion at once, of course! Find the guilty parties, bring them to book, and mete out such punishment as seems—’
Kamsa held up his hand, palm outwards, fingers splayed, interrupting Jarasandha. In a slightly louder but still calm tone, he said,‘I did not ask you what I should do. I hardly need advice on how to manage my kingdom. I asked you what you propose to do.’
There was a moment of shocked silence. For a brief instant, even Jarasandha seemed at a loss for words. Out of the corner of his eyes, Kamsa saw Putana turn her head a fraction and look directly at him. He did not return her gaze or look at anyone else, but kept his eyes fixed on Jarasandha.
The Magadhan leaned forward on Kamsa’s bed, slowly uncrossing his legs.‘I see. So you think you know how to manage your kingdom, do you? Interesting.’
Jarasandha stood up, now facing Kamsa directly. He came forward one step at a time, pacing his movement with his words as precisely as ever to produce the exact effect he desired. ‘In that case, could you explain to me how these rebels have taken matters this far already? Why haven’t you done anything about it yet? Instead of standing here and asking me – me – what I propose to do to help you! Why must you always look to me for help and advice? You are not the young green-eared boy who came to me a decade ago, Kamsa. You are a prince regent now. It’s time you started learning to behave like one!’
He stopped less than two yards short of Kamsa.
Kamsa chuckled. He permitted himself merely to make the sound, but not to hold the chuckle more than a second. It was for effect too.
‘I do not seem to be able to make you understand me, Jarasandha,’ he said. ‘I am neither asking for advice nor for help. I need neither from you. I was asking what you intend to do personally! About your own problems! As I said before, I can handle my matters on my own. You’re right in saying that I’m not the young boy who came to you a decade ago seeking alliance and military backing to implement the coup which I felt was needed to replace my father’s senile administration with a more robust and hard-dealing one of my own. I’m a man now. A king, in fact. I was a prince regent, it’s true. But I have already made the necessary declarations to proclaim myself king officiall
y at the tribal councils as is the age-old custom. With my father still absent, there will be no opposition. I expect your support, of course, as you have already offered it. And your military resources and aid, which you have officially placed at Mathura’s disposal as per the treaties we have signed. But other than those things, I was merely asking about you personally, Jarasandha. Since your presence here is brewing restlessness and rebellion amongst my people, surely you do realize that it’s time you moved on from here. After all, it’s you they want to depose, not me. The Yadavas have never accepted an outsider governing them and never will. So what I was asking, to put it quite clearly this time in order to avoid any further confusion on your part—’
‘How dare you!’ said Bahuka, stepping forward, whip in hand, ready to lash out, his face red with anger.‘Nobody speaks to our lord in such a manner!’
Jarasandha’s hand shot out, surprising Bahuka. Jarasandha waved Bahuka back, without taking his eyes off Kamsa.
‘But my lord, he—’
Jarasandha gestured a second time. Everyone who knew him knew there would not be a third time. Bahuka restrained himself with a visible effort and stepped back, lowering his whip but keeping it in hand, ready to use again, and his eyes glowered at Kamsa.
‘—to repeat it one final time,’ Kamsa went on, as if he had never been interrupted, ‘is when do you plan to remove your imperial presence from my capital city and kingdom? That is the question I asked you.’
Jarasandha put his hands behind his back and continued to examine Kamsa. His head tilted slightly, his gaze unwavering, he remained as still as a coiled cobra, but this very absence of motion was fraught with violence. There was powerful threat and aggression in the very lowering of his brows, the narrowing of his eyes, the pursing of his thin lips. Nobody else in the chamber moved either, and the gathering was frozen in time and space, awaiting the next course of action of its leader. The air held the promise of bloodshed and brutality, unmitigated cruelty meted out without hesitation or mercy.
‘So,’ Jarasandha said at last,‘Kumbhakarna awakes.’
From the frowns on the faces of the others, Kamsa gathered that none of them understood the reference. He might have missed it too, had he not overheard the old stablehand Yadu telling the other stable boys the story of Rama and his epic tragedy just the night before. Kamsa had put his horse into its box as usual and was leaving the stables when he heard the old Yadava’s voice, cracked and rough with age and living, speaking over the chirring of crickets and cicadas in the dusk. Kamsa had paused, leaning against the worn wooden boards of the stable wall, sweat drying on his body, and listened with a fascination he could not explain.
‘To awaken,’ he said slowly,‘one has to first be asleep.’
Eyes narrowing to pinpoints in his straight, perfectly symmetrical face, Jarasandha stared at Kamsa intently. Then he suddenly relaxed his scrutiny.‘Indeed,’ he said, then flashed an unexpected smile.‘Indeed!’
He barked orders in a foreign tongue at his men, prompting them into action with startling speed.
The language was Magadhan. Kamsa had learnt enough of it during his time with Jarasandha to know that it was a command to attack and kill him, Kamsa, at once. Or else he, Jarasandha, would kill each one of them and then proceed to kill Kamsa himself.
The last part was totally unnecessary. Bahuka was the first to move. Trnavarta, Baka, Agha, Vatsa and Dhenu spread out to avoid conflict with each other’s lines of attack. Even Pralamba and Pradyota moved forward, eyes flicking apologetically at Kamsa. Hansa and Dimvaka stayed back, smiling openly now: they hardly expected their services to be required. Bana and Canura glowered, their faces revealing the long-festering resentment and pent-up hatred they had kept hidden this past year, but waited their turn. Putana hung back to one side, neither committing to action nor avoiding it. She kept her eyes studiously averted from Kamsa, though he knew better than to look at her directly anyway.
But the first to attack were the four Hijras who were closest to Kamsa.
Kamsa had known that would be the case from the very beginning. And every step he had taken while speaking, every gesture he had made, apart from serving its purpose as part of his delivery of speech, also served to position himself most favourably to counter their attack.
He had also been focussing his attention on increasing his body’s density as he spoke, extending his words to give himself time.
And now, when the four Hijras moved in to kill him, he was ready to take them on.
Not moving or turning an inch, he remained where he was and was exactly where he wished to be. If they wanted him, they would have to come to him.
He was standing with the closed door to the bedchamber behind him and the verandah to his right. To approach him, they would have to come from his left, his fore, and his right, and that is exactly what they did.
One Mohini slipped out onto the verandah, around a pillar, approaching from the extreme right, his blind spot. Two others came at him from the front and left, with the fourth staying just between and behind them both, but approaching at the same pace.
He had seen quads of Hijras work in the battlefield using similar formations. The first two would attack together, just wide apart enough to make it hard for the target to defend against both attacks simultaneously. Their movements were characterized by perfect coordination and devastating speed of attack. The first duo would strike a blow that would force the target to leap back, or miss a step, bend, twist, turn or otherwise deflect. That was when the Mohini on the extreme right (or, in an open field attack, the one coming from behind the target) would lunge forward, strike a single blow, then fall back instantly, and the first two would move aside unexpectedly, leaving room for the fourth Hijra to come forward and deal the death blow.
The entire manoeuvre barely lasted more than a few moments, and it was rare for the Hijra quad to need more than two strikes to kill the target. Even as the first two Hijras (front and left) finished their action, they would move on to the next target. And so on. Kamsa had witnessed such quads cutting a swathe through entire armies, slaughtering with such precision that the enemy camp often dropped its weapons and ran helter- skelter in panic. Armies or forces that attempted to fight were slaughtered to the last man.
There was a brief pause as the other men watching the Hijras move in glanced at one another knowingly. Kamsa was using his peripheral vision to watch all four Hijras at once, and his frontal vision happened to be looking at the space that Bahuka occupied. In a lupine threat, the grizzled veteran snarled and showed his teeth.
Kamsa offered no response. Later, he was proud of that single action more than anything else he did in that chamber that day. The fact that he had not let Bahuka provoke him at that crucial moment – which, of course, was precisely what the old dog had intended to do.
When he didn’t respond, Bahuka instantly lost his snarl and frowned. This was not on his list of possible reactions from Kamsa and it disturbed him. He turned to look in Jarasandha’s direction.
Kamsa did not see how Jarasandha responded to Bahuka’s look, because Jarasandha was out of his frame of view and he was now focussing his entire body and being on one thing and one thing only: arming himself.
As everyone else in the bedchamber assumed, Kamsa was unarmed.
But there was a bigger truth about which only Kamsa was aware.
He didn’t need a weapon.
He was the weapon.
The first two Hijras made their move, their short, curved swords blurring through the air with numbing speed as they yelled their high-pitched shrieks, blood-curdling cries that unnerved and startled most opponents when they issued forth from throats that had been deathly silent until that instant.
eight
The most dangerous thing about the Hijras was not their speed, or their unnerving high-pitched shrieks – shrieks which no mature man could duplicate – or even their razor-sharp, short, curved swords. It was their footwork. The reason why most battlefield combat
broke up into small units was because warriors attacking together could easily get tangled up with one another. Even a regiment seeking to slaughter a single man would need to come at him one or two at a time, and the moment there were two attacking at the same time, they were more likely to get in each other’s way rather than finish off the solitary man. This was the reason why most gurus of combat cautioned their overzealous shishyas: two against one means double the chance of success – for the solo warrior! Unless the attackers worked in perfect tandem, like dancers in an elaborately rehearsed performance, pairs, trios and quads against a single man rarely had any significant advantage to offer. As the same wise gurus also cautioned: the only way to best a
single champion is to send a superior champion against him. But the Hijras had turned this basic notion of Arya warcraft upon its head. Bonded together since birth in a way that ordinary Kshatriyas never could be, these wilfully emasculated eunuchs followed only the code of the comrade. When two Hijras were put together, both succeeded or failed. There was no third option; Jarasandha made sure of that. If your partner was cut down, you were cut down as well, end of story. The same applied if you were put in a trimurti: three for one, and one for all. And so on through quads, pentads, sextets, and more. Until finally, the entire Mohini Fauj functioned as one organic unit, an army that breathed and lived and died as a single man.
While the logistics of defeating such an army were mind- boggling, the chances of facing even a pair, trimurti or quad and simply surviving were almost nil.
And in Kamsa’s case, with not just the quad of Hijras but so many other champions also poised against him, he had only one chance. He had to take the upper hand from the outset, or the fight would be over in a moment, with him the loser.
Kamsa watched their feet as the first two Hijras came at him, shrieking and whirling like dust-devils. As always, their attack was designed to disorient, confuse, misdirect and maim a standing opponent who was whipping around to try and be able to see both his attackers at once. Their entire strategy was based on that. The shrieks were coordinated in a rising and falling pattern so that the opponent was unconsciously compelled to look at the one on the left, then the one in the centre, then back again, until he was so confused and misdirected that his weapon was poised neither to attack nor defend against either one.
KRISHNA CORIOLIS#2: Dance of Govinda Page 17
