KRISHNA CORIOLIS#2: Dance of Govinda Read online

  Which made her wonder: What had happened to Devaki and Vasudeva’s next child? There was some uncertainty about whether this one constituted the seventh or the eighth, the confusion being set off by the apparent miscarriage of their seventh child last year. Rumour had it that it had been no miscarriage, that a deliberate samkarsana procedure had been performed to remove the baby intact and alive from the womb, to be transported to an unknown destination. If that was true, Devaki’s present pregnancy would be the eighth. The prophesied one. The long-awaited Slayer of Kamsa.

  Yashoda knew that Devaki and her own pregnancy had proceeded apace, which meant that Devaki had either delivered by now or would deliver any day. She shuddered at the thought of the fate that awaited that unfortunate eighth child. No wonder all Vrajbhoomi had collected outside her house today; the Yadavas were here to celebrate the birth of their son–and to ensure his survival. The long arm of Kamsa reached every corner of the kingdom, as so many had learnt to their dismay; but they were determined to celebrate this and save this child.

  The baby touched her arm.

  Yashoda looked down.

  Two dark black eyes looked up at her, as bright as shiny purple grapes. Tiny teeth flashed. It was surprising that the child had been born with a full head of hair, as well as with some teeth. And the way he looked – the way he was looking at her right now, this instant – it was quite something. She almost believed he was actually looking at her. Seeing her. Sensing her thoughts and feelings. And that he had touched her at that precise moment to comfort her, to assure her that nothing would happen to him, that he would never suffer the fate intended for the unfortunate son of Devaki and Vasudeva.

  You will never lose me, Mother.

  She could almost hear his voice in her mind, speaking with a chuckling light-heartedness that indicated he knew all there was to know and had seen everything there was to see.

  She smiled and caressed his tiny fist lovingly. ‘If only you could speak, my little calf. If you could only understand what I am saying. You would know that your father and I would never let any harm come to you.’

  Nor would I let any harm come to both of you, Maatr.

  Shesmiled.‘Yes,ofcourse,myson.Someday,youshallbebig and strong and protect us all. But until then, your father shall ensure your safety. You need fear nothing and no one.’

  I do not fear anything or anyone, Maatr.

  ‘Of course you don’t, my little gopa. Listen, all who love you are present around us, ready to defend you with their lives if need be.’

  Yes, Maatr. I sense their love and fierce loyalty. It is very reassuring. I am indeed fortunate to be born into such a loyal and loving family.

  Yashoda almost laughed. Here she was, talking aloud to her newborn son–and believing he was speaking to her mind! She must be really tired. Perhaps she should call out to her sisters and friends to come in now. They had volunteered to leave her alone for some respite as well as to help greet and attend to the never-ending stream of relatives and well-wishers; she had only to call out loud enough and they would come at once. Or perhaps she ought to call for her maatr and aunts, or even her maatr-in-law. She ought to change her garb before greeting the guests, after all.

  Do not be concerned, Maatr. You are quite well. This is not your imagination. I am indeed speaking to you within your mind.

  ‘Devi, protect us!’ exclaimed Yashoda.

  She stared down at the tightly wrapped bundle on the cot beside her.

  He gurgled happily, kicking his feet free of the swaddling cloth, and put a tiny fist into his mouth, sucking on it.

  You will pardon me but I only wish to get to know you and our family better. After all, I am now a part of the family too, am I not?

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said, then thought: Am I really having a conversation with my day-old infant son? How can that be?

  Please remain calm. I would like to use your mind to see them through your memories and senses. At the same time, you shall also be able to see them through my senses. It shall only take a moment ...

  ‘What—?’ she began to ask what he meant.

  Then suddenly she felt him inside her mind – not just his voice, but his presence itself, like a warm glow in the centre of her brain, emanating outwards, filling her entire being with great calm and quietude, a sense that she was the universe and the universe was her and nothing and nobody could deny her anything she desired.

  And then she felt her consciousness spreading, widening to encompass the room, the house itself, then moving outwards beyond the walls of the house, outside the dwelling itself, and into the crowd of assembled people waiting outside ...

  eight

  So many people!

  ‘Yes, my son, we have a big family!’ she said, then realized she wasn’t actually speaking. Her body was still inside the house, but her consciousness, somehow connected to his, was soaring free of bodily restraints, hovering above the crowd now, then swooping down, moving into ... the mind of a laughing adolescent boy with his mouth open ...

  Sucaru!

  ‘Yes, he’s my cousin, my uncle Carumukha’s son ...’

  A flurry of images, thoughts, sensations, feelings, memories, words and inchoate pieces of consciousness whipped past like odours and scents on a dancing wind. Yashoda realized that her son was reading Sucaru’s mind, absorbing his every memory, sensation, imbibing his entire life in the wink of an eye.

  He is a nice fellow, said Krishna, chuckling with delight. I like him!

  Before Yashoda could say anything, he was off again, whipping out of Sucaru’s mind and into another’s consciousness. This time it was Carumukha, Sucaru’s father, Yashoda’s uncle. The sensation was quite different: the father was naturally more mature, serious, yet the same light-hearted spirit pervaded his mind as well. And the manner in which they perceived the world was so similar, it was quite extraordinary. Yashoda laughed aloud with delight – although she suspected her laughter was silent rather than truly out loud – to see herself among her uncle’s memories, as seen through his eyes over time.

  Another nice person; I like him very much. I shall learn much from him!

  There was no need to speak further, and no time either, as the child whisked them both out of Uncle Carumukha’s mind and onward to the next.

  Yashodevi, my aunt! Your sister! She is so like you!

  The glee was so infectious that Yashoda found herself smiling, laughing, if only metaphorically, as she saw her sister through her child’s pure, innocent mind. It was almost like being inside her own consciousness but of course with substantial differences, for the two had different experiences.

  She likes to be known as Dadhisara rather than Yashodevi since too many people confuse Yashodevi with Yashoda-devi, which is what they call you out of respect.

  And he gurgled with laughter as if he had discovered a wonderful secret.

  The next one was Yasasvini, Yashoda’s other sister. She also preferred to be known as Havihsara, but for a different reason.

  I love my aunts and they love me very much – even though they have yet to know me! How wonderful!

  Next came Catu and Batuka, Yashodevi and Yasasvini’s husbands respectively. There were slightly embarrassing memories in their minds but her Krishna’s innocence meant that he merely absorbed the overall amalgam of sensation and adjudged the essence of the person – Good! Wonderful! I love him! Such a nice fellow! Good man! – which, as she learned quickly, was almost always positive.

  They seemed to move faster as he went along, almost as if Krishna was learning to use Yashoda’s consciousness more efficiently, riffling through the metaphorical leaves of memory faster and faster, until he was literally dancing from one mind to another to yet another – hopping, skipping, laughing, gurgling – like a butterfly from flower to flower to flower. There also seemed to be a pattern to his movements; he went from one mind to the one closest to it in consciousness, then to the next relevant one, and so on.

  Aindavi and Kirtida – her be
st friends – were followed in blurring succession by Bhogini, Sarika, Vatsala, Tarangaksi and Taralika, Medura, Masrna, Krpa, Sankini, Tusti, Anjana, Bimbini, Mitra, Subhaga, Niti, Kusala, Tali, Paksati, Pataka, Pundi, Sutunda, Subhada, Kapila, Prabha, Malika, Angada, Visala, Sallaki, Vena, Vartika, Dhamanidhara, Hingula ... all her remaining friends!

  Whee!

  Whee indeed. It was breathtaking in the most literal sense of the word. But there was no time to catch breath – or whatever the mental equivalent of that may be – for Krishna was off again, to another group of minds, this time riffling through a dozen at the same rate as he had riffled through a single mind at first. He was getting faster, no doubt about it. Yashoda didn’t know whether to be awed by her child’s ability or by the encyclopaedia of memories, images and sensations that she was being exposed to. At any rate, it was overwhelming. The child also began to learn the relationships and interrelationships with enviable ease. It seemed incredible that he could do so, but she was already far past the point of suspending disbelief and was merely riding along involuntarily, which made her an entertained spectator.

  Sumuka! My grandfather, your father!

  And then followed Patala-devi, her mother and his grandmother. And Sumuka’s friends and colleagues: Vararoha, Karanda, Kallota, Kila, Antakela, Gonda, Tarisana, Visaroha, Varisana, Purata, Tilata and Krpita.

  And then there was Patala-devi’s brother Gola who was, of course, her uncle and his great-uncle. Gola’s wife Jatila-devi. Gola’s sons Yashodhara, Yashodeva and Sudeva. Then her mother’s closest friends Danka, Damani, Dindima, Cakkini, Tundi, Sughantika, Ghanta, Ghargara, Bhela, Bharunda, Karala, Mukhara, Ghoni, Dhvankarunti, Dingima, Condika, Pundavanika, Dambi, Cundi, Manjuranika, Handi, Ghora, Karabalika, Jatila and also Patala’s closest, dearest friend of all, Mukahara-gopi.

  Such sweet, lovely grandaunties I have!

  ‘Krishna—’ she began, hoping for a respite. But he was off again, now tearing through memories like a gale-force wind through a row of ashoka trees. All she could do was marvel at his capacity to absorb.

  Parjanya Maharaj, her father-in-law. Variyasi-devi, her mother-in-law. Parjanya Maharaj’s brothers Urjanya and Rajanya, and sister Suverjana with her husband Gunavira, the last just arrived that minute from Suryakunja, tired but very excited.

  Then Anakadundhubi himself as he was known to Yashoda and those closest to him, Nanda Mahajaraja to the world at large, Krishna’s father, her husband. Her brothers-in-law Upananda, Abhinanda, Sannanda and Nandana. Upananda’s wife was the only one not present, but the other wives were: Pivari-devi, Kuvalaya-devi and Atulya-devi. Her sisters-in- law, Sananda-devi and Nandini-devi. Sananda-devi’s husband Mahanila, and Nandini-devi’s husband Sunila. Upananda the widower’s sons Kandava and Dandava and their friend Subala who was like an adopted son to Upananda. Nanda’s Kshatriya cousins Catu and Batuka, with their respective wives Dadhisara and Havihsara.

  Nanda’s friends by definition would include the whole of Vrajbhoomi but his closest friends were gathered close by and Krishna swooped through the gathering. Pinga, Pattisa, Bhrngaq, Saragha, Kedara, Ankura, Cakranga, Kambala, Harita, Upananda, Harikesa, Supaksa, Maskara, Dhurina, Sauabheya, Pathira, Ghrni, Sankara, Mathura, Mangala, Pingala, Pitha, Sangara, Ghatika, Dandi, Kala, Dhurva, Utpala, Saudha and Hara.

  It went on that way, seemingly endlessly, until Yashoda lost sense of time and place and even self-awareness. The world became a blur of minds and memories, and Krishna’s infectious gurgle seemed to fill the whole world, echoing across prithviloka and bouncing off the silvery round face of Chandamama, the moon itself, which beamed back like a doting uncle.

  nine

  Devaki felt as if the moon himself was mocking her. Chandamama seemed bright and cheerful this cloudy Sravan day, beaming down in broad daylight as if taking advantage of the sun’s concealment behind a brooding cloudbank. She could almost hear him laughing down at her, chuckling with infantile delight. She sighed and passed a hand across her face. She was tired and heartbroken and beginning to imagine things. She wished Vasudeva were there with her.

  His presence comforted her.

  Mathura was in the grip of insanity. Kamsa’s vendetta had

  grown out of bounds. All morning, the screams of the dying had filled the city. Even in the spot that was the most secluded from the general population – the heart of the royal enclave – Devaki could hear the faint howls of anguish and cries of distress. She shuddered at the very thought. How many infants had died in place of her own son! How many other innocent fathers, mothers, and other proud Yadavas had lost their lives standing up to Kamsa’s unjust diktat! It was a pogrom such as theYadavanationshadneverwitnessedbefore.Andoverseeing it all, ensuring that his orders were complied with to the letter, Kamsa himself strode from time to time across the kingdom, his shadow casting a giant pall across the once-great nation. Like the shadow of Yama-deva, Lord of Death himself, she thought.

  Kamsa was not about at present at least, which was something to be thankful for. He had been sequestered in his palace for hours, doing god knew what. She had heard that the senior-most Brahmins in the kingdom had been summoned by her brother that morning to attend some conference or feast. What there was to celebrate on such a grisly day, she had no idea. But Kamsa’s calendar was his own; he seemed to live on a different plane than his fellow Yadavas – if they could even be called his fellow Yadavas any more, that is.’ She hardly knew whether to think of him as her brother after every thing that had transfiring . It was evident that he had never truly been her brother except in name.

  But thinking about him only brought the darkness back to her heart. It reminded her of her parents, locked in that sunless dungeon for so many long years. The occasional reports that came to her from time to time assured her that they were alive, but what sort of living was that, buried in a suffocating dungeon without basic facilities or even proper food? How did they survive?

  She could barely stand to think of it, or of Kamsa’s other atrocities over these past years, not least among which were the heartless slayings of her own offspring. Six children had she delivered from her womb into the world. Six newborn infants, precious and pure, had Vasudeva carried, weeping each time, only to see them grasped roughly by the tyrant and their brains smashed against the wall of Kamsa’s chambers. Even now, the very thought threatened to stop her heart, to blind her, to make her want to drop to the ground and never rise again.

  But then had come the seventh child. And the eighth. And both had survived. Both lived. And that was what gave her hope. Gave her strength to stand now. To look out from her balcony and attempt to gaze out at the city, or what little of it she could see from her secluded palace. Now that the eighth child had been born, that part of the prophecy fulfilled, Kamsa had permitted Vasudeva and Devaki to move back to her official residence. In any case, the temporary residence where they had been incarcerated over the past decade was virtually obliterated, destroyed by Kamsa’s men in that last frantic search for any trace of the Slayer. Her lips curled scornfully. As if I would have hidden my son in my own home, only to be found eventually and destroyed!

  A sound akin to thunder drew her attention skywards. She glanced up and saw a dark, fearsome cloud rolling her way, seething and churning in the sky, as if about to give birth to some nameless god. She drew back instinctively. Something about the shape of the cloud, the intensity with which it rolled and seethed, attracted her gaze. She found herself unable to take her eyes off it.

  As she watched, the cloud drew closer, approaching the Yamuna which she knew was just beyond that hill flanking the city’s north road. It continued to roll and seethe with greater intensity than any cloud she had seen before, until she began to wonder if it was indeed a cloud or something quite different.

  She glanced around. There was no wind to speak of, nor was even a leaf stirring in sight. The eastern sky was dense with clouds, blocking the sun momentarily, and those were utterly still.

  Yet this cloud, the one coming f
rom across the Yamuna – from the direction of Vrajbhoomi – was seething and boiling like a living thing!

  How was that possible?

  It wasn’t, of course.

  Even allowing for some unique wind which served to blow that single cloud in this opposing direction to the rest, there was still something highly unusual about the mass approaching her.

  It wasn’t white, of course. But neither was it black. Or even some shade of grey, as monsoon clouds usually were.

  It was a shade of blue. So dark it was almost black, but not quite.

  She could see light within its centre as it approached steadily, rolling over and over itself like a curling wave. The radiance was intense, deep blue, like a flame within a black-skinned pot.

  And like a bolt of lightning out of a clear sky, it came to her.

  Ghana, such clouds were called. Dense. Thick.

  Shyam-rang was the shade. The colour of dusk. Not day- white, nor night-black, but twilight-blue.

  Black with a heart of blue. Ghana-shyam. Dense, deep blue. Again, that gurgling sound in her mind – like a baby’s.

  The cloud crossed the Yamuna and approached the palace

  enclave of Mathura. Coming within a kite’s flying length of her own palace.

  Then, when it was positioned precisely where she could see it perfectly, it stood still in the sky, remaining motionless for several moments.

  And gurgled.

  Yes, gurgled.

  Not thundered. Or boomed. Or gnashed. As monsoon clouds are wont to do.

  This cloud gurgled. Like a babe. Like a newborn infant. And as she watched, disbelieving, yet seeing with her own eyes what she could not deny, the cloud shaped itself, like clay moulding its own contours, assuming a figure that was unmistakable in its shape and curves and features.

  The cloud took the shape of a baby.

  Not just any baby. Her son. Her eighth child!

  Maatr, I am well. I have found a wonderful family. They are very nice people. I shall take very good care of them, each and every one of them; you don’t need to worry any more.