KRISHNA CORIOLIS#5: Rage of Jarasandha Page 3

  And before either Balarama or Krishna could act or speak, the being turned and reentered the slit. At once, the aperture closed behind him, leaving only a midnight blue sky once again.

  4

  VASUDEVA and Devaki had watched, mesmerized, as their son performed the feat that had been foretold decades earlier. Devaki cried out as Kamsa died. A few moments before his demise, before he had expanded his body and launched that final desperate bid to battle his nemesis, Kamsa’s eyes had sought out Devaki in the Vrishni pavilion. She had seen the light of life fade from his eyes and the expression within those fierce grey orbs change from its lifelong look of enraged fury to a peculiar melancholy resignation.

  It would be too much to expect that Kamsa, in his last dying instants, had sought out his sister and begged her forgiveness with his eyes—forgiveness for all the pain and suffering he had caused her and her husband, by humiliating them, imprisoning them, and most of all, by murdering their newborn children year after year in order to prevent this very child from being born. The prophesied Eighth Child. The Slayer of Kamsa. But that was as close to it as he could ever come. That was the nearest to an apology Kamsa had ever come—and yet, oddly enough, it had been enough. It was more than Devaki had ever expected to get in her lifetime. She sent up praises to Devi, praying for her brother’s lost soul, praying that Krishna would make his death quick and as merciful as possible under the circumstances.

  And now he was dead. His giant body shattered to pieces in the wilderness beyond the city. Unmourned and unmarked by anyone. Left to rot.

  The cruelest tyrant in Yadava history—perhaps even the cruelest in Bharat’s itihasa—was dead at last. Slain by the very boy who had been prophesied to slay him. Devaki’s own flesh-and-blood, her beautiful wonderful Krishna.

  As the bout ended and the crowd rose to its feet as one body, filling the air with their resounding cheers and cries of jubilation, Devaki remained seated. Beside her, Vasudeva stood instinctively, cheering with the rest, then realized that she was still seated and resumed his own seat as well. He had put an arm around her, comforting her. Of all people present here, only he truly understood what she felt, the conflicting emotions of a sister who had watched her brother slain by her own son, his own nephew, and the peculiar mingling of utter desolation and furious joy she now experienced. For it was so strange, so oddly wrong to exult in the death of one’s own blood-kin. And yet, when that blood-kin happened to be Kamsa, it felt so right.

  So necessary.

  ‘It is done,’ Vasudeva said softly to her, his voice a whisper afloat upon an storm of cheers. ‘The tyrant has fallen. Our son has fulfilled his promise. Our part in this is over now.’

  She leaned her face on his shoulder and wept softly. They were tears of catharsis, the anticipation and expectation of 23 years released in a single flood.

  Then came the strange light. And the phenomenon in the sky above the akhada field. And the appearance of the strange being who appeared to be a man in brahmin’s garb yet whose face remained inscrutable. The sound of his voice was like distant thunder: she could sense the vibrations and faint rumbling that indicated he was speaking but could hear not a single coherent word or syllable. Her Krishna’s voice was audible but only as a voice: he spoke too softly for her to make out the words.

  Then, even that odd exchange was over. And the man in the sky vanished, along with his akashvani missive.

  And only Krishna was left on the field, as before, Balarama beside him.

  The blue light remained though, as if the world were suspended in a strange limbo between past and future, as if something were yet to occur before normalcy could be restored.

  She sensed something just beyond the edge of understanding. She rose to her feet. ‘Devaki?’ Vasudeva asked. ‘What—?’

  ‘Come, my husband,’ she said. ‘We must go to him.’

  Moments later, they halted within speaking distance of Krishna and Balarama. The brothers were conversing softly, apparently discussing the appearance of the man in the sky and his akashvani message. The sound of bare feet slapping on the hard flat mud field approached rapidly and Devaki recognized the pretty young cowherd girl whom she had seen earlier talking to Krishna, cheering him on from the sidelines. The girl’s feelings for Krishna were more than evident. In this moment of heightened sensation, Devaki could not help but glance at her momentarily and found herself thinking: What a pretty young thing. And so energetic and vivacious. She would make such a good wife for our Krishna.

  Then Krishna was turning to her and Vasudeva and she put all other thoughts out of her mind.

  ‘Maatr,’ he said softly, ‘Pitr.’

  And he dropped down, clasped their feet to his head, touching his forehead to the soles of their feet. Beside him, Balarama did the same.

  ‘No, no,’ she protested. ‘It is we who should prostrate ourselves before you, before both of you. You are swayam bhagwan. God incarnate. Vishnu in mortal guise. It is our blessed fortune to have parented you into this world.’

  Krishna rose to his feet, tears brimming in his warm brown eyes. ‘No, maatr, the blessing is always mine and Balarama’s. Would that we could be born as your children a thousand times. What you have endured in order to fulfill these roles are a greater accomplishment than all that we can do, have done and will do in these mortal bodies.’

  Vasudeva embraced both his sons, kissing them on the foreheads. ‘Would that we endure the same suffering a thousand times, if only to be your parents each time. We are proud of you today. For you have done what you were sent here to do. You have accomplished what no other could accomplish. You have set our people free and ensured the survival of our race and civilization. Your names will be echoed throughout history. From now to the end of days, the names of Krishna and Balarama shall stand for freedom from tyranny and the ideal avatars of god upon earth.’

  Krishna and Balarama bowed to acknowledge these lavish yet well-deserved blessings. But as they did so, Devaki saw them exchange a glance that was as eloquent as anything Vasudeva had just said.

  ‘What did that being desire from you?’ she asked. ‘Was he not the same one who spoke the akashvani prophecy that foretold this very day’s events?’

  Krishna nodded. There was an aspect of sadness in his face, she saw. At once, she guessed that he had just received some tragic news.

  ‘What did he say, my son? Was it a new prophecy? For though we have lived these 23 years in anticipation of this very day, none of us know what to expect after this anticipated event. Did the saptarishi say what will happen next?’

  Krishna nodded once again. ‘He did, maatr.’

  She caught hold of his shoulder, feeling concern wash over her, tainting the joy and relief she felt in this moment of triumph. ‘What did he say? Tell us, Krishna. We are your parents. You can confide anything to us.’

  Krishna glanced at Balarama, then sighed deeply. He turned back to Devaki, then glanced at his father. ‘He told us that we must make you forget.’ He gestured at the crowd all around, at the city, and beyond. ‘All of you. All who regard Balarama and me as avatars of God incarnate on earth.’

  Devaki’s hand flew to her mouth. Beside her, Vasudeva frowned. ‘I don’t understand, son. What do you mean, make us forget? What are we supposed to forget?’

  Krishna glanced at Balarama again. Balarama nodded. Together, they raised their hands, Krishna his right, Balarama his left, and as Devaki watched, their hands merged to form a single hand, palm facing towards Devaki and Vasudeva, even as brilliant blue light exploded from that palm. The world went dark around her for a moment and she felt something pass across her mind, like a cloud across the sky—or a hand rippling calm waters. It caused something to happen within her brain.

  The last thing she heard and remembered was Krishna-Balarama saying with a single merged voice:

  ‘Everything.’

  PRARAMBH

  Reprise

  1

  MATHURA watched with bated breath as Krishna ste
pped onto the akhada field to face his next opponent. The future of every man, woman and child in that proud nation depended on the outcome of this bout. Rich or poor, brahmin or sudra, Yadava or pardesi, everyone’s attention was set intently upon that rectangular field in which the wrestling bout was taking place. Never before had this humble akhada attracted such attention. Never again would it host a match that rivaled this encounter in importance.

  Krishna himself felt nothing as he stepped forward to meet Kamsa’s first attack. Not fear, not doubt, not confidence, not anger…nothing. There was only a blankness in his mind that he felt certain nothing could possibly fill. An emptiness, a void, into which he could pour anything, create an entire world if he desired. This moment was a blank slate on which any future could be written.

  He sensed Kamsa’s great self-confidence. The Childslayer clearly felt certain of victory. It was writ large on his fair features, in the way he took his time stepping around the akhada, in no hurry to attack, yet showing no concern at the outcome. He grinned at Krishna and the grin was more a leer, promising pain and agony and a slow, tortuous humiliating death.

  Then Kamsa charged.

  It was exactly like the elephant’s charge.

  Krishna simply stood his ground.

  Kamsa slammed into the much slimmer, much more slender boy with enough force to quash a stone wall. Even Hathi-Yodha was nothing compared to Kamsa in his present state. The elephant was ultimately mortal, merely stronger and bigger and better armored than most of its kind. Kamsa, on the other hand, had been built into a juggernaut killing machine through decades of drug consumption and training. He was a finely honed murder machine.

  Yet when he charged at Krishna, it was like striking a stone wall mighty enough to withstand even his greatest force.

  The shoulder that had pulverized boulders the size of a house struck Krishna’s chest and chin and was shattered.

  The back that had provided power enough to lift entire quarries of stone and heave them scores of yards away now cracked and broke under the impact of that charge.

  The arms broke, the joints gave way, the heavy bones of the legs and hip shattered, the muscle that was harder than iron was pulped and turned to bloody mash.

  Kamsa bounced off Krishna and collapsed in a heap on the dusty ground of the akhada.

  A roar of exultation rose from the Vrishni ranks.

  On Kamsa’s side, everyone looked on in stunned silence.

  Kamsa moaned. For the first time in a decade or more, he felt pain. Not merely pain, but true agony. Blinding piercing shooting pain in every joint, bone and muscle group. So intense, he broke out sweating all over his body.

  Somehow, impossibly, he forced himself to regain his feet. He himself hardly knew how he accomplished it but he was aware that he could not remain supine. Staying down itself constituted defeat and he would not be defeated.

  He could not be defeated.

  He was Kamsa.

  Lord of Mathura.

  King today, emperor tomorrow.

  He rose to his feet, staggering and blinking at the shock of the pain coursing through his nerves. He had never thought such agony was even possible, let alone that he could experience it.

  He willed his injured bones to knit, his damaged flesh to heal, his body to grow even more denser than ever before. And he succeeded: the injuries reversed themselves, the healing was astonishingly rapid, and the body that was like iron now became even denser and stronger.

  He faced his opponent again. ‘I will—’ he began, snarling.

  Before he could finish the threat, Krishna came at him.

  The boy leaped at him, grabbing hold of his head in the triangular space of his left arm, throwing Kamsa backwards.

  Even though the boy was but a stripling and should not have been able to bring Kamsa’s much heavier, denser weight down, yet Kamsa was thrown back in a crashing fall, landing with a punishing thud on his back.

  Krishna’s arm was in a choke hold on Kamsa’s throat.

  Kamsa felt he could break free of the chokehold easily. All he had to do was—

  …was…

  …was…

  He felt the world fade, the day grow dark, all thought, vision, touch, smell, sound, recede to a distant point.

  Then he heard the sound of his own neck being broken. It was an impossible sound. Even the strongest wrestlers in the world, bodies enhanced just as his own, had tried and failed to break that neck. To break that neck would require a force greater than that required to move a mountain.

  Yet it broke.

  And he heard it distinctly.

  And felt the shameful, crushing humiliation of his own defeat.

  And then he died.

  ***

  The sound of Krishna breaking Kamsa’s neck was loud enough to carry to the ends of the crowd thronging the wrestling field, several score yards away. The thousands-strong audience watching the match were dead silent for another breathless moment, then, as one they rose to their feet and let forth a roar of such exultation that the entire city of Mathura heard it and responded with echoing cries and roars and cheers.

  Sitting astride his horse in the cantonment, General Bana heard the roar and knew that it was over at last. He signalled to his men to do what had been agreed. They did so without question: like himself, they had all seen too much bloodshed and suffering, much of it inflicted by themselves acting under Kamsa’s orders. They laid down their weapons gladly and with hearts filled with relief and hope. As one man, the entire Mathuran Imperial Army disbanded and disarmed itself. The people surged forth, no longer under curfew, no longer restricted. They danced in the streets. They sang the praises of Krishna. They celebrated.

  ***

  Krishna stood on the field, looking down at Kamsa’s prostate body. Balarama’s shadow approached and merged with Krishna’s shadow on the ground. His brother’s larger hand fell on his shoulder.

  ‘It is done,’ Balarama said. ‘Again!’

  ‘Yes,’ Krishna said.

  The sound of the crowd cheering and exulting in the triumph erupted across the field and across Mathura. Balarama glanced up and saw a familiar feminine form come sprinting barefooted across the sidelines, crying out, ‘Krishna! Krishna!’ as she came.

  ‘So now their memory is erased,’ Balarama said. ‘They remember nothing of what really happened. Only… this,’ he finished scornfully.

  ‘It is victory.’

  ‘It is nothing. We are more than mere wrestlers. You fought longer and harder and more ingeniously when battling Kaliya than in this bout. This was over before it even began.’ Balarama shook his head in disgust. ‘Like the killing of Ravana. A single arrow to the navel, and he just stood there and took it.’

  ‘That was ordained. We were given our instructions. As we were this time as well. We did as we had to, in order to maintain the balance of brahman.’

  ‘Phuaagh,’ Balarama said, hawking and spitting off to one side. ‘So we did. And now? We have to continue in this lifetime but as mortals? How are we supposed to do that when we possess the power to create and destroy entire universes! Are we supposed to go about masquerading as meek mild cowherd boys, assume alter egos to hide our true superhuman abilities?’

  ‘If we must, yes,’ Krishna said firmly. ‘I will not argue about this, Balarama. We did it last time because we had to, and we shall do it again. We serve a larger purpose, remember that.’

  ‘Yes, well, maybe I’m tired to serving the larger purpose. Maybe for once I just want the satisfaction of true victory.’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘Why is it that the rakshasas and asuras get to do whatever they desire, act out all their evil cruelties for so long—millennia in Ravana’s case, decades in Kamsa’s case—and yet, when it comes to us, we are denied even the satisfaction of showing the world who we truly are, what we are truly capable of? Why is that, Krishna?’

  ‘Because mortals are incapable of comprehending the truth about us, Balarama,’ Krishna answered patiently. ‘Even ou
r own parents would live in fear of us if we did not veil their minds in this fashion. No. Narada-muni’s instructions were for the best. If we are to continue in this lifetime then we had best do so as mortals, not gods. This veil of maya we cast over reality is necessary to protect the mortal mind. For to see reality as it truly is would drive almost all mortals insane beyond cure. Who could live knowing that gods and demons co-exist with them constantly, waging eternal wars in their own backyards? It is all for the best, Balarama. You know that as well as I do.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Balarama admitted bitterly. ‘But it doesn’t mean I accept it.’