KRISHNA CORIOLIS#6: Fortress of Dwarka Page 5

  “And yet, things went against them, and so they roved abroad for centuries, changing their ways, their language, their customs, who knows what else?”

  “And now they return seeking vengeance,” Krishna said, “spurred no doubt by the saptarishis themselves to serve some larger purpose.”

  “What purpose?” Balarama asked. There was still much about this grand game of Vortals and repeating Tuesdays that he did not understand.

  Krishna shrugged. “Right now, it does not matter,” Krishna said. “All that counts is that they are here and by being here, they serve Jarasandha’s purpose. For he doesn’t care if we are destroyed by his soldiers or yavanas. All that matters to him is that we lose, even if someone else wins.”

  Balarama nodded, sobered by the recollection of that endless river of horse riders bearing arms. “We cannot win this war, that is certain. No matter what we do, Mathura will lose. The Yadava nations will suffer great, terrible losses. Yet what other choice do we have, Krishna? We will fight to the end, to the death!”

  Krishna shook his head. “No, my brother. We shall not. We shall run and hide for now. And live to fight another day. It is the only way to protect our people and ensure their survival. This is not about you and I and our fighting ability, it is about protecting the people of Mathura. Let the city fall. We cannot save it now. But we will save the people themselves. Every single last one of them. That is our dharma.”

  Balarama frowned. He could not fathom Krishna’s meaning. “But how? Where would we go? The yavana would only follow us. So would Jarasandha. We would only delay the inevitable. Is it not better to stay and fight now on familiar ground, holy ground?”

  Krishna reached across the space between the chariots and placed a hand on Balarama’s shoulder. “The place we shall take our people will be familiar and holy too. It will be beyond the reach of the yavana and Jarasandha and any other enemy who threatens the Yadava nations.”

  Balarama stared at his brother. He could see that Krishna already had a plan chalked out in his mind, down to the last detail. That was Krishna’s brilliance: to see the whole future mapped out perfectly in a flash of insight. He nodded. “May I ask the name of this fabulous place where you intend us to go? Is it someplace I know perhaps?” He was about to suggest Gokuldham and Vrindavan but knew that they were not the places Krishna had in mind. For one thing, they were hardly out of reach. Any army that could invade Mathura could invade even the innermost glens of Vrindavan easily. This wasn’t Kamsa’s so-called Empirical army any longer, it was a whole different enemy, far vaster in size and more powerful.

  Krishna gazed out in a southwesterly direction. Balarama knew that the ocean lay that way. “It is a place that does not exist yet. A city fortress greater than any ever built before. It shall be impregnable from all sides, capable of withstanding any siege, surviving any calamity.”

  Balarama raised both eyebrows. “Such a place does not exist because nobody has ever been able to build it yet. How long will it take to build?”

  Krishna smiled at his brother. Balarama frowned back at him. He knew that smile well.

  “It is not how long it will take you should be asking, brother, but how much time do we have.”

  Balarama shrugged. “How much?”

  Krishna held the same smile. “Between the 17th and 18th day? How much is that?”

  Balarama felt his own jaw drop. “A single day? To build an entire city?”

  Krishna clapped Balarama’s shoulder hard. “Not a city, bhai. A fortress. The Fortress of Dwarka.”

  10

  The Palace Complex was filled beyond capacity. People filled every hall, every public chamber, every corridor, even the stairways and terraces, sitting on ledges, windowsills, the rims of wells, atop granaries and storage sheds. The compound and passageways were crowded with people, the streets leading to and from the palace, the ramparts, the walls overlooking the city streets, and beyond, spilling into the streets. Yet every soul sat quietly, even the youngest making no fuss, babes in arms suckling quietly or staring wide-eyed and listening raptly. Krishna’s voice was only heard directly by those within the main palace sabha hall, but his words were passed on from group to group, repeated swiftly and silently with precision, until every last individual knew what he said down to the last detail.

  Not only all of Mathura, all the Yadava nations were listening as well, for the tribal chieftains of all the major tribes—or kings as they were now called in these modern times—had been summoned urgently, and they listened with bristling beards and grave mustaches for the present crisis concerned their future as well. The future of the entire Yadava race was at stake here. And all knew that only Krishna, Slayer of Kamsa, Lord of Dharma, Flute of Vrindavan, and Savior of Mathura could save them yet again. Word and description of the great Yavana force making its way steadily towards Mathura had reached everywhere.

  At first, those hearing of the great incursion had assumed that such a huge invading army could only be coming to challenge one of three great forces: Magadha, Hastinapura or the South. Magadha of course meant the Empire of Magadha, helmed by Jarasandha and ruled with his hand-picked allies, together making up the most hated group in all Bharat-varsha. Hastinapura, or the Puru Dynasty, premier race of the Bharata Aryas and the only force in the sub-continent that even Magadha did not dare confront; aggressive battle, the Purus did not attack their own allies or betray trusts and were known for their high regard for dharma. The third power was the alliance of Southern kingdoms known variously by the names of their individual tribes and which some believed were the original true Aryas, their crow-black skin, cultural richness and spiritual beauty marking them apart from some of their coarser northern brethren.

  Yet it was now clear that the Yavana were coming to Mathura, the capital city and beating heart of the Yadava nations. Why? What was their enmity with Mathura? Nobody knew. And as Krishna pointed out, it did not matter at present. With a lesser foe at the gates, even one as powerful as Magadha, one could consider a parley, or offer a surrender under the rules of war and kshatriya dharma. But with regard to foreign races such as Yavanas, mlecchas, firangis, or the dreaded white-skinned barbarians of the frozen north, one could not even hope let alone depend on civility or civilized dialogue. The act of asking to speak could itself be construed as weakness and an invitation to slaughter. Besides, with such a great force threatening Mathura, what could the Yadavas offer? The Yavanas could roll over them in an hour, leaving nothing but dust and debris and broken bodies.

  And there was the matter of Jarasandha’s complicity in this invasion. Thirty million Yavana did not choose this particular time to invade without good reason. Krishna believed he knew that reason now: Jarasandha had provoked them, inciting them to invade and to time their incursion in such a way that Mathura would still be recovering from the battle with his forces the day before. Even if Mathura succeeded in repelling his forces successfully—thanks to Krishna and Balarama’s abilities—it was quite impossible to defend the entire city and collective nations of their race against such a massive force. The Yavana were numerous enough to spread like wildfire across the country, to wipe out the Yadavas from the face of the earth if that was what they desired.

  And the very fact that they had brought such a great force strongly suggested that it was precisely what they desired. To stamp out the Yadavas forever.

  Which was why every man, woman and child now listened raptly to Krishna’s every word, knowing that he was their only chance. Nobody else could save them.

  “Exile,” said Krishna, his young and handsome face seeming wan and old in the harsh top light of the sabha hall. So crowded was the hall that the mashaals on the walls had to be doused to avoid hot oil dripping onto heads and necks, leaving only the perpetually illuminated lamp above the throne dais to light the room. Long dark shadows fled in every direction, and Krishna stood beneath that molten light like a study in hope and despair. Hope for what he represented, despair for the certain end of the exist
ing way of life. “Exile,” he repeated, keeping his words slow and clear to give those passing them on sufficient time to convey his every nuance.”

  “It is the only way,” he went on. “We must leave Mathura, abandon all our cities and towns and villages, and retreat to a new abode.”

  There were expressions of disbelief, shock, horror. But nobody argued or debated. They were already past all that: the heated dialogues had been played out earlier in the presence of the combined chiefs—kings, rather—and the court of Mathura. The conclusion had been unanimous: there were literally nothing they could do to avoid the certain annihilation that now awaited them.

  Not even surrendering would help: the Yavanas were a riding culture. They had no fixed homestead or permanent houses. They took no slaves or prisoners, barring a few choice women to be used as mates and child-bearers. They had no place to keep slaves or servants, no use for them. They were a proud independent people perpetually at war. To take a servant or a slave would be an insult to their own abilities. Nor did they spare their own. Once a Yavana grew too old or sick to ride, he or she was left on the vast rolling plains, horse-less, to fend for himself or herself as long as possible. There was no mercy to be had from such an enemy.

  “But where will we go?” asked someone. It did not matter who spoke the words. They were on everyone’s lips, in their hearts and minds. Where would they go indeed? Many had fled their homeland during the worst years of Kamsa’s regime, seeking refuge in Bhoja and other friendly neighboring kingdoms. Krishna’s own aunt, Vasudeva’s sister Pritha, better known as Kunti, had not returned home to her parents’ house for over a decade for the same reason. But in the past weeks, most had drifted back, hailing the end of the tyranny and the dawn of a new era. To be told now that their very homeland was under threat and that they had no choice but to leave en masse was a great, terrible shock. Naturally the question everyone wished to ask was: “Where will we go?”

  Krishna told them. In calm words he described briefly the new house of their entire race, the place where all the Yadava nations would reside together in harmony. His words were mesmerizing. Even as he spoke, they began to see it in their minds, a great shining city-state that accommodated all the diverse tribes and nations of the Yadava race where they lived in peace for generations to come. It was an ideal and an idyll. A dream. A paradise on earth. And yet, because Krishna promised it, they believed it was possible.

  And their belief was all he needed to build it.

  11

  Tvasta looked uncertainly at the golden chariot. The young Shilpi had heard of the fabled celestial vehicles of Krishna and Balarama and had even glimpsed them from afar, flashing by like golden streaks of lightning. But this was the first time he had seen them from up close. They were beautiful. Their lines flowed in undulating waves like liquid rather than solid gold. The whorls and patterns inscribed on the sides of the well were intricate to the point where even his keen eyes could not quite discern the micro-patterns within those patterns, as if the designer had inscribed details so microscopic that no matter how keenly you examined them you would always continue to find more and more patterns within the patterns. He started as the pattern he was viewing rippled suddenly, like a person standing behind a waterfall might suddenly move, and began to undulate again, settling into new whorls and patterns.

  “The designs change every now and then,” Daruka said, smiling reassuringly. “It is a marvel to watch. I feel privileged merely to serve our Lord aboard this miraculous vehicle.”

  Tvasta nodded in greeting to the charioteer. They were still awaiting Krishna and Balarama who were within the palace. The courtyard was emptied of people now, the long talk over. People across Mathura were preparing themselves for departure. Tvasta knew that Krishna had given specific instructions not to pack anything as they were making a great journey and it would be impossible to carry any belongings with them, but he knew that his own wife was carefully binding a few of her most treasured possessions in an old garment, unable to part from them. He was quite certain that the rest of Mathura’s populace was doing the same. It was near impossible to leave one’s house, the domicile that had sheltered one’s family for generations, without taking some prized object along, if only for memory’s sake. He tried to put the sadness of the migration out of his mind and focussed on the task at hand, using the chariot to occupy his thoughts.

  “And you fly this horseless chariot?” Tvasta asked.

  Daruka beamed proudly. The sarathi’s cheeks tended to bulge on either side, lending him a chubby appearance which was belied by his slender body. The only chubbiness on him was in those cheeks which only made them all the more endearing. “It is my pride and privilege,” he said. “Although I do not claim to understand it. And no matter how well I master its controls, I am no match for our Lord. He maneuvers it as if it were molded to his mind.”

  “And indeed it was,” said Krishna coming down the steps of the palace, Balarama beside him. Both brothers looked weary, reminding Tvasta of the same look he had seen on countless warriors returning home after a long campaign. But the battle with Jarasandha or the Yavana army had not yet been fought—indeed, it was to avoid that battle that they were undertaking this migration. Yet Krishna and Balarama both seemed war-weary in aspect and movement. Tvasta shrugged it off mentally, no doubt he was misinterpreting their tiredness. They were probably burdened by responsibilities of state.

  “The chariot was in fact molded to my brother’s and my own thought patterns,” Krishna said, “and bearing that in mind, your ability to control it is nothing short of godlike, Daruka. Do not underrate your own excellence.”

  Daruka blushed and smiled, his chubby cheeks flowering with embarrassment. “My Lord, you shower me with flowers too sweet to smell.”

  Balarama laughed. “That’s a nice way of saying that you just embarrassed him, Krishna!” Balarama clapped the charioteer on his back lightly, yet the clap was almost hard enough to send the poor fellow flying across the courtyard. Tvasta caught him in time, smiling at the famed strength of Krishna’s brother. “Krishna’s right, Daruka. You certainly fly the pushpakas better than I do!”

  Krishna greeted Tvasta warmly. “Good shilpi, thank you for honoring us with your presence.”

  Tvasta bowered low, joining his hands reverentially before Krishna. “My Lord, it is my honor to serve you in any way I can. Even to sweep the dust from your feet would give me great pride.”

  Krishna smiled and raised Tvasta up by his shoulder. “It is not your skill as a sweeper I desire, good Tvasta. It is your skill as a master of the Shilpi texts that can serve all Mathura today.”

  Tvasta bowed. “Whatever you say, my Lord. Although I do not understand how my humble knowledge of the arts of shaping forms could serve Mathura, I shall do whatever you command.”

  Krishna smiled. “You shall do much more than that, good sculptor. You shall build us a city today.”

  Tvasta stared at him in dumb shock. Balarama chuckled at his expression and patted him gently on his back, then climbed aboard his own chariot.

  Krishna gestured to the other chariot where Daruka had already taken his place at the reins. “Come aboard now, good Tvasta. We have a great distance to cover and a great deal of work ahead to be done, and barely a day in which to do it.”

  Tvasta clambered aboard the chariot, swallowing nervously. “I have never been upon such a craft before, sire.”

  “Well,” Krishna said genially. “You have been aboard chariots before? It’s much the same thing.”

  Tvasta was about to answer that he had not had much occasion to climb aboard chariots, being a sculptor and not a warrior-lord. But just then the celestial vehicle rose up suddenly into the air and he found the palace roof falling below them at a pace as rapid as a heavy rock sinking into clear water. He gripped the edges of the chariot wheel with white-knuckled intensity, holding on for dear life. A sensation of vertigo overwhelmed him. He shut his eyes until the sensation passed.

  Kri
shna’s hand on his shoulder caused him to open his eyes again. He looked up into the smiling eyes of his lord. “Do not fear, my good man. No harm will come to you. Any sensation you experience is due to your own fear. The celestial vehicle causes no change to human beings, no matter how high it rises or how rapidly it flies. You have my assurance on that. Here, take my hand.” And he held out his hand.