KRISHNA CORIOLIS#1: Slayer of Kamsa Page 5

  But Vasudeva’s mind was made up. He shook his head firmly.‘It is out of the question. Violence is never a means to lasting peace.’

  She looked up at him. She was on the verge of bursting into tears, yet fought them back. She did not want him to see how hopeless she thought his cause was. She tried to make herself feel hopeful, even confident, about his ability. Words had deserted her.

  Ever sensitive to her feelings, he put his arm around her and comforted her. ‘We are people of dharma, Devaki. Taking up arms to defend ourselves is something we do only as a last resort. Violence only begets more violence. Ahimsa is the only way to peaceful coexistence.’

  She wanted to say, Kamsa will not let us coexist, he is a monster. He seeks only violence and nothing but violence. Ahimsa is a word unknown to him. Instead, she looked at him, wiping an errant tear from her cheek.

  ‘You are truly a deva, my Vasu. I pray that you do not underestimate my brother’s capacity for evil.’

  eight

  Kamsa rode grinning through the smoke and chaos of a burning village.

  His henchmen were busy ransacking the remaining houses for anything of value before setting them ablaze. He would give them time to enjoy themselves and relish the spoils of war. Stopping on a high verge, he watched with satisfaction as the settlement was razed to the ground. It amused him that the Yadavas could be so easy to kill, their villages so vulnerable, their women and children so unprotected ...

  A high-pitched scream ripped the air. He turned to see a young boy in a coloured dhoti tied in the Vrajvasi style charging at him with a shepherd’s crook, of all things!

  Kamsa laughed and deflected the point of the crook with his sword. A twist of the reins drew the bit tightly enough into his horse’s mouth to make the beast sidestep, causing the boy to overshoot his aim and fall sprawling to the ground. His turban, the same bright saffron colour as his dhoti, fell into a muddy puddle and was sullied.

  Kamsa sheathed his sword and pulled the reins up short, making the horse rear. There were specks of blood on its mouth as he had a habit of whipping his mounts on their mouths if they failed to respond quickly, but he hardly noticed it.

  The boy was moaning and struggling to his elbows. As he turned and looked up, he froze at the sight of the massive Bhoja mare rearing up before him. Kamsa brought the forehooves of the horse down with a loud thud. The boy cried aloud and moved his legs out of the way, just in time to avoid them being smashed.

  A gust of breeze from the village carried the voice of a woman screaming pitifully for her children to be spared, followed by three short, sharp cries that cut off abruptly as each of her wretched offspring were despatched by Kamsa’s efficient soldiers. The boy turned his head to listen; his pain and empathy marking him out as either the woman’s son or a close relative. In a moment, the desperate woman’s voice rose again, now launching into wailing cries of grief and pity for her own plight as the soldiers turned their attention to her.

  The boy glared up at Kamsa with hot brown eyes filled with hatred. ‘Rakshasa!’ he cried. ‘Only a rakshasa would attack unarmed gokulas protected under a peace treaty!’

  Kamsa grinned.‘Then why don’t you call upon your devas to protect you? What good are they if they can’t defend their own bhaktas?’

  The boy shook his fist.‘They will come. Our devas always hear the prayers of the righteous. Lord Vishnu himself will come down to earth and make you pay for your crimes!’

  Kamsa roared with laughter.‘Lord Vishnu himself? I must be very important to attract his attention!’

  While talking, the boy had managed to get hold of a fist-sized rock. Now, he flung it hard at his aggressor, his aim good enough to hit Kamsa a glancing blow on the temple. Kamsa’s right ear rang and warm wetness instantly poured down the side of his head. He stopped laughing and grinned down at the boy who was scrabbling around in search of more missiles to throw.

  ‘It’s a helpless deva who arms his devotees with just stones to defend themselves,’ he said, blood trickling down his neck.

  The grin stayed on his face as he yanked back on the reins and forced the horse to rear, bringing down both forehooves on his intended target with a bone-crunching impact – again, and again, and yet again – until what remained on the ground was no more than a crumpled bundle of shattered bones and leaking flesh.

  ‘Lord Vishnu can’t be here today to help you,’ he said to the remains of the child. ‘He has more important things to attend to than saving weak, pathetic cowherds in remote Vraj villages.’

  A contingent of riders approached at a brisk canter, slowing as they neared him.

  Bana was leading the group, Canura beside him. Both exclaimed as they saw Kamsa’s head streaming with blood.

  ‘Lord Kamsa, you are injured,’ said Bana, dismounting and jogging to Kamsa’s side to examine the injury more closely. ‘Canura, call for our lord’s vaids at once.’

  Canura barked an order, sending two riders back to the Andhaka camp a mile or two upstream. Kamsa and his ravagers tended to ride much ahead of the main force, leaving the sluggish supply caravans trailing in their wake.

  ‘It’s just a scratch,’ Kamsa said absently, gazing out across the village. The woman’s screams had stopped, although other equally terrible cries could be heard across the ruined settlement as other women and victims suffered at the hands of the Andhakas. To Kamsa, the screams were like sweet music, acknowledging his superiority as a military commander and soldier.

  ‘ Tell me,’ he said to Bana, who knew at once what he wished to know.

  Bana began recounting the tally of the dead. The ratio of ‘enemy’ dead to their own dead was ludicrous. They had killed or left for dead some two hundred and lost only three men.

  ‘Because we take them by surprise and after the treaty many have returned to herding and farming, they rarely have weapons close at hand,’ smirked Bana, licking his lips.‘And the women and children are almost always alone and defenceless in their homes.’

  Bana then proceeded to recount the spoils of private treasures they had appropriated as tax – Kamsa had forbiddentheuseoftheterm‘looted’–measuringup to a substantial amount.

  Bana chuckled as he finished the tally.‘A good day’s work, My Lord. These herders and farmers make for easy prey. Almost too easy. We roll across the landscape like chariots across millet, crushing them underfoot like crisp grain.’

  ‘Yes, well, that won’t continue much longer,’Kamsa said. ‘Word must be spreading already about our campaign.We should expect to meet some resistance soon.’ He raised a clenched fist, adding,‘I pray we do. I am tired of hacking down feeble herders caught unawares and boys with sheep crooks!’

  Canura grinned slyly. ‘It has its advantages.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the village where the screams of dying women rent the air and the crackling of burning straw-and-mud huts filled it with smoke. ‘The men enjoy it too.’

  Kamsa didn’t respond. He stared into the distance. Bana and Canura exchanged a glance. Kamsa often had these phases when he would just stare into the horizon, brooding. Such periods almost always preceded some new plan or strategy.

  Finally, he said, ‘We shall swing north and east. Towards Vrindavan.’

  ‘Vrindavan?’ Bana repeated. Even Canura gaped. ‘But My Lord, that is the heart of Sura territory. King Vasudeva will not brook an assault on his heartland silently.’

  ‘Bhraatr Bana speaks the truth,’ Canura added cautiously. Kamsa did not always appreciate being corrected or having his plans questioned. A scar on Canura’s cheek testified to that fact, as did the rotting corpses of two of Kamsa’s previous advisors. ‘Until now, we have only, uh, taxed outlying villages and border territories of the three nations. Our actions could be defended as legitimate policy against border crossings and water or cattle thefts. But if we ride that far into Vraj heartland, it would be a total violation of the peace treaty and a declaration of open war against Vasudeva himself. The Sura nation might respond with an all-out
war. And the Bhoja Yadav as might feel outraged enough to get involved as well.’

  Bana cleared his throat, also careful to couch his suggestions in cautious terms. ‘Besides which, Vasudeva does happen to be the betrothed of your sister Lady Devaki, My Lord. The wedding is set to take place in—’

  Kamsa gestured them both to be silent. They subsided at once. The wind changed, bringing a heavy odour of smoke and the stench of burning corpses along with the fading screams of the last suffering victims.

  ‘I am sick of this peace treaty,’ Kamsa said. ‘My father did not consult me, the crown prince, before signing it. Why should I be compelled to uphold it?’ At the mention of his father, Kamsa’s eyes glinted – both Bana and Canura noted this with growing nervousness – and a gleam of naked rebellion shone there. ‘It is time to put it to the test. Let us see how long Vasudeva upholds his end of the treaty when I come galloping into his lands and lay waste his townships.’

  Being Kamsa’s friends and advisors, the pair glanced at each other, increasingly uneasy. Yet none dared speak a word. It was one thing to offer a suggestion or two, but quite another to defy his gesture ordering them to be silent; if either one spoke now, he would find his own corpse piled upon one of the several dozen burning heaps that were all that remained of the village they had just pillaged.

  ‘They call me a rakshasa,’ Kamsa said, unmindful of the blood still streaming down the side of his head. ‘They call upon Lord Vishnu to protect them from me. Let me see if Vishnu has the courage to descend to prithviloka in yet another avatar, this time to confront Kamsa. It will be good to have a worthy opponent to sink my sword into for a change. I am tired of stabbing cowherd flesh and slaughtering hairless boys.’

  He raised his head towards the smoke-filled sky and bellowed: ‘YOU TOOK AN AVATAR ON EARTH TO BATTLE RAVANA. THEY SAY WHENEVER YOUR PEOPLE ARE UNABLE TO DEFEND THEMSELVES, YOU DESCEND TO PROTECT THEM. NOW DESCEND TO FACE ME, KAMSA OF MATHURA! I CHALLENGE YOU!’

  Bana and Canura exchanged startled glances. Even the soldiers accompanying them looked shocked at Kamsa’s bold, blasphemous challenge.

  As if in response, a deep rumbling roar came from the smoke-stained sky, followed by an angry crash of thunder. Canura winced, his horse neighing. The smell of imminent rain filled the air, along with a damp coldness. Thunder crashed again, far away in the distant horizon.

  Kamsa listened, head cocked to one side like a curious hound, then threw his head back and laughed long and hard. The laughter echoed across the razed settlement, silencing the last desperate cries of the hopeless and the dying.

  nine

  Queen Padmavati listened with mounting horror as her spasa, a personal guard specially deputed to collect intelligence discreetly, recounted the many atrocities and war crimes perpetrated by her son. At last, she shuddered and interrupted him mid-sentence.

  ‘Enough! Enough! I can hear no more.’

  She rose from her lavender seat and went to the casement, fanning herself. Summer had come down upon Mathura like a hot brand and even the coolest chambers in the palace were barely endurable. The whiff of wind from the window felt like steam off a boiling kettle.

  She turned around to see maids watering down the flagstone floors to cool them. Her spasa waited, head bowed. The sight of him made her stomach churn. If she had not already heard rumours and other snatches of news corroborating parts of his report, she might have ordered her guard to drag him away to be executed instantly. As it was, she was tempted to give the command, if only to prevent him from recounting the same horrific tales to others in the palace. But, she reasoned with herself, what good would that do if these things were already known! In fact, it appeared that she was the last to learn of her son’s misdeeds – at least the extent and severity and sheer volume of those misdeeds. No, it was no fault of the spasa; the poor man had only done his job as she had commanded.

  Even the fragrance of the water being sprinkled on the floors, drawn from the deepest well and made fragrant with the scent of roses from the royal gardens, could not calm her nerves. Her son? Doing such terrible things? How had things come to such a pass? Oh, that she should have lived to see such a day!

  Suddenly, she lost her patience. Trembling, she shouted at the maids, the spasa, even at her personal guards standing at the doorway.

  ‘Out! Everyone out! I wish to be alone.’

  A moment later, sitting in the privacy of her chamber, she broke down, sobbing her heart out. She thought of little Kamsa, a pudgy, fair boy with curly hair and a fondness for young animals of any breed. He had always had a kitten, a pup, a fawn, a cub, or some other youngling in his chubby arms, cradled close to his chest.

  She remembered calling out to him on numerous occasions:‘Kaamu, my son, give the poor thing room to breathe. You’ll smother it with your love!’ And both Ugrasena and she laughing as Kamsa blushed, his milky-fair face turning red in the same splotched pattern every time as he ran away in that shambling hip-swinging toddler’s gait, his latest acquisition clutched close to his little chest.

  She smiled, wet-eyed, remembering how adorable he had been, how proud Ugrasena and she had been of their son, their heir. What dreams they had spun, what plans, what ambitions ...

  But then she recalled something she had almost forgotten, a seemingly insignificant fact suddenly made significant by the spasa’s report.

  All those tiny kittens, puppies, fawns, squirrels, calves and other younglings ... where had they gone?

  Kamsa had always had a different pet every few days or weeks. At first, they had stayed for longer periods, she thought, with one or two even growing noticeably larger and older. But over time, they seemed to change with increasing rapidity. Until finally, by the time he was old enough to play boys’ games and outgrew the toddler phase, he seemed to have a different pet every time she turned around, at least one every day, until it had become a matter of great amusement to his parents. She even recalled Ugrasena’s joke about Kamsa being an avatar of Pashupati, the amsa of Shiva who ruled over the animal kingdom.

  What had happened to the earlier pets? Where did they go once Kamsa finished playing with them? Where did the new ones go each day?

  A cold sword probed her heart, piercing painfully deep, her feverish blood steaming as it washed upon the icy tip.

  Where indeed!

  And there, with a lurch and a start, her memory threw up the recollection of a day when she had found Kamsa crouching in that peculiar toddlers’ way at something in a corner, something wet and furry and broken that had once been a kitten, or perhaps a whelp. Kamsa standing over a pile of burning rags and a tiny, charred carcass in the back corridor, eyes shining in the reflected light of the flames ... Kamsa carrying a stick with a sharpened tip sticky with fresh blood.

  There were more memories. Many, many more.

  She had dismissed all those incidents as accidents or merely the passing phase of a young boy’s normal growth pangs. But now, they sent the tip of that icy sword deep into her bowels, raking up terrible guilt and regret.

  There had been signs. Kamsa had never been quite like other boys, other princes. Even when older, he had not made friends easily, had gotten into fights that ended with terrible consequences for at least some of the participants – almost always those who defied or refused to side with him – and there had been incidents with servants, serving girls, maids, a cook’s daughter ... A minor scandal over a young girl found dead and horribly mutilated in the royal gardens, last seen walking hand in hand with Kamsa the day before, which was his twelfth naming day.

  Yes,signs.

  Many signs.

  But nothing that had prepared her for this.

  A mass murderer? A leader of marauders, ravagers, rapists, slaughterers of innocent women and children?

  Her Kamsa?

  Her little boy with the fair, pudgy face and curls grown up to be the Rakshasa of Mathura, as they were calling him now?

  It wasn’t possible! There had to be some mistake.


  She stormed out of the chamber and went striding through the palace, her guards and serving ladies in tow. Curious courtiers and ministers’ aides watched her sweep imperiously through the wide corridors with the marbled statuary, brocaded walls and art- adorned walls.

  She stopped outside the sabha hall only long enough to ask the startled guards if the king was alone or in session.

  A dhoot had just arrived bearing news and the king was in private session, they replied with bowed heads, not daring to meet her agitated eyes.

  She cut them off abruptly, ordering the sabha hall doors to be opened to let her in. They obeyed at once, without protest. Like most traditional Arya societies, the Yadava nations had long had a matriarchal culture. Women owned all property, from land to livestock, right down to even the garments on everyone’s back. Inheritance was by the matriarchal line, as was lineage. Every stone, brick and beam in Mathura was quite literally the property of Queen Padmavati.

  She strode into the sabha hall, past the startled guards and surprised courtiers. There were not very many. Inside, Ugrasena and a few of his closest advisors and ministers sat listening keenly to a road- dusty courier – a dhoot – who broke off and peered fearfully over his shoulder at her unexpected entrance, as if afraid it might be someone else.

  Padmavati strode up to the royal dais. Ugrasena frowned down at her, openly surprised.

  ‘Padma?’ he said, lapsing into informality.

  ‘My Lord,’ she said,‘I have urgent private business to discuss with thee. Kindly send away these honourable gentlepersons of the court.’

  Ugrasena looked at her for a long moment. In the flickering light of the mashaals, she saw how he had appeared to age in the past few weeks. The peace treaty had taken a greater toll on him than the troubles of the preceding years, was what the wags were saying around court.

  No, not the peace treaty. Our son’s devilry.