KRISHNA CORIOLIS#1: Slayer of Kamsa (11 page)

Kamsa rode forward, striking these men down, crushing them under his horse’s hooves.

He whipped others, roared again and again. ‘ATTACK! I COMMAND IT. ATTACK!’

But not one man of the thousand moved to obey.

Kamsa rode around in a red rage, killing and maiming his own men. Unable to get them to respond to his commands, he took a fresh sword and hacked them down where they stood. He killed at random, not bothering to check if the man was dead, leaving many mortally wounded. None cried out, none protested. All gazed at Vasudeva and joined their palms in awe, dying without argument.

sixteen

Finally, with dozens of his own soldiers lying in bloody splotches on the field, Kamsa’s anger dissipated.

He leaned over the mane of his horse, pressing his hand down on its neck, the blade of his sword dripping blood. He was more exhausted than after a battle.

He looked up at Vasudeva at last.

‘I accept,’ he said in a voice unlike himself. ‘I will respect the terms of the treaty.’

He gave the command to break camp and return to Mathura. His soldiers obeyed with evident relief, glancing back with fearful respect at the uks cart as they gathered their implements and weapons, and prepared for the journey home. The men spoke in hushed voices of the miracle they had witnessed, of the will of the devas, of the great hand of Vishnu that had protected Vasudeva from Kamsa’s adharmic attack. For Vasudeva’s devotion to dharma was legendary, and while Yama was Lord of Death and Dharma, it was Vishnu, in his many avatars, who was the ultimate upholder of dharma. The Sword of Dharma, as some called him. There were many who whispered that Vasudeva was no less than Vishnu’s amsa on prithviloka, descended to restore dharma on the earth.

A little later, Kamsa’s battalion was riding homewards.

Vasudeva and Akrur sat in the centre of the empty field, scarcely able to believe what they had accomplished.

The last stragglers disappeared from sight, their passing lit by the fading saffron glow of the setting sun.

Vasudeva turned to Akrur.‘When we set out this morning ...’ he began. Then stopped.

Akrur was looking at Vasudeva with brimming eyes. They shone in the sunset like golden orbs. He joined his palms in namaskar and bowed his head. He touched Vasudeva’s feet.

‘My Lord,’ he said,‘forgive me for having doubted you. I did not recognize you in this mortal guise.’

Vasudeva clicked his tongue impatiently. ‘Come now, Akrur. You have known me since we were both boys with snotty noses. I am no amsa of Vishnu. I am merely a mortal man, like you.’

Akrur shook his head. ‘No mortal man could accomplish what I witnessed today.’

Vasudeva nodded.‘I confess I cannot explain how or why this happened. But even so, I would credit this miracle to my conviction in the power of dharma and my belief in ahimsa. I came here determined to convince Kamsa without resorting to violence, and I succeeded. Today’s victory is a triumph of dharma and pacifism.’

‘Whatever name you give to it, Bhaiya, it was a miracle. Call it a miracle of dharma or Vishnu’s hand intervening. Either way, you are a deva among men. Of that, there is no doubt at all.’

Vasudeva smiled ruefully. ‘I am a deva only by name. But if my sense of dharma pleases the gods and helps me serve my people, so be it.’ He looked around at the empty field. ‘At least, I think Kamsa will not come again to
these
parts to do his wicked work.’

Akrur made a sound of disgust. ‘Rakshasa. The way he butchered his own men! I wish you had killed him.’

Vasudeva had taken the reins from Akrur. He clucked his tongue, driving the uksan forward, starting the journey back home. ‘Had I done so, I would have been no better than he. Nay, Akrur. I think what transpired today was a shining example of the power of peace over the path of violence. Violence only begets more violence. Peace ends violence. Had I slain Kamsa today, his people would still have had just cause in attacking my people again, and yet again, the cycle continuing endlessly. By not raising a weapon or causing anyone harm, I proved my point more effectively than a dozen battles could ever have done.’

‘This is true,’ Akrur acknowledged.‘I do not think we shall see Prince Kamsa again on this side of the river!’ He laughed.‘Who knows, he may even have to
retire from warmongering forever. I don’t think his men will follow him with any modicum of respect from now on; what do you say?’

Vasudeva smiled. ‘He might have some difficulty in that regard.’

Their laughter rose above the treetops as the uks cart clattered and rattled down the bumpy path, mingling with the cries of birds seeking their nests for the night. The news they carried back that night would occasion celebrations across the Sura nation, jubilation at the departure of Kamsa and his plundering army and the prevention of what had seemed to be certain war with the Andhakas.

Sadly, they were mistaken in their assumptions, their confidence misplaced.

The worst was yet to come.

seventeen

Kamsa eethed on the ride homewards.

He could not believe he had been bested by a gowala, a mere
govinda,
a milk-sodden cowherd armed with nothing more than a crook. His head still spun from what had transpired. He rode alone, even his fellow marauders avoiding him for fear that he might take out his frustration and bitterness on them: he tended to be harshest on those he was closest to at such times. The rows upon rows of cavalry and foot-soldiers straggled on towards Mathura, attempting to keep their voices low to avoid incurring their commander’s wrath, but not wholly succeeding.

Kamsa heard snatches of talk everywhere, always about Vasudeva and the ‘chamatkar’ they had witnessed. He knew that the incident would become a great legend over time, and that it had already damaged his leadership badly. He had held his army together by brute force and fear of his own viciousness. They obeyed him because he was their lord and because they believed that none other could stand up to his brutal belligerence in battle. Now that someone had stood up to him, and triumphed so successfully, they
had no reason to fear him any more.Yadavas were too independent minded to enjoy the rugged discipline and command structure of a standing army; if he could not hold these men together, they would soon drift back into their traditional occupations. And if he could not keep his core contingent together, the army at large would lose morale as well.

What had happened was an unmitigated disaster. There was no other way to look at it. He was still badly shaken by it. Outwardly, he succeeded in keeping up appearances. Inwardly, he was trembling with shock. How had Vasudeva done it? It was impossible! Yet it had happened in front of his very eyes. He had tested it every which way he could think of, and found no trickery, nothing to indicate maya or sorcery.

But if not sorcery, then what?

The other explanation, the one his soldiers were bandying about, was too preposterous to consider for even a moment. Hand of Vishnu indeed! As if almighty Vishnu would reach down from vaikunthaloka and protect a simple Vrishni clan- chieftain!

But what else could have accomplished such a feat?

He was still lost in his own morose thoughts when his horse whickered and came to a halt, stamping its feet.

Kamsa looked up to see what was obstructing hisway.

A sadhu. A penitent hermit clad in trademark tattered ochre robes, resting his weight on a rough
staff. But unlike most tapasvis, he had no flowing white beard or the stick-thin body of one who had wasted away through prolonged fasting and self- deprivation.

Kamsa’s horse whinnied uneasily and shied away from the man. Kamsa tightened his already strong grip on the reins, pulling the horse’s head down, yanking the bit hard enough to cut its mouth to remind it of the consequences of acting up. It settled reluctantly, but he could see its eyes looking off to one side, rolling to show their whites, as if afraid of the man who stood in its path.

Kamsa frowned down at the sadhu.‘Old Brahmin,’ he said impatiently, ‘get out of my way. Do you know who I am?’

The sadhu looked up at him imperiously with that supremely arrogant Brahminical look of superiority that Kamsa had loathed ever since he was a boy.

Ugrasena-putra, Padmavati-putra, your end is nigh.

Kamsa’s horse reacted before he did, bucking hard. It took a few sharp applications of the stick and some forceful twisting of its mouth to keep it from bolting. Only then did Kamsa allow himself to feel the shock that had struck him the instant that booming bass voice had resounded in his ear.

It’s the same voice, the one that spoke to me on the field before I attacked Vasudeva.

He was overcome by a powerful urge to spur his mount on and run the Brahmin over. But the horse was acting very strangely now; it persisted in shying and whickering incessantly despite his repeated warnings to it. It was trying desperately to twist its head away from the old Brahmin. Kamsa raised his stick and was about to administer a harsh reminder of his mastery when he saw something that further chilled his heart.

The old man cast no shadow!

The sun was off to their front and to the right, low in the sky, casting long shadows behind them. The old Brahmin’s shadow ought to have stretched from where he stood, down towards Kamsa, leaning diagonally to the left. That was how the shadows of the trees and passing soldiers on either side were falling, moving and distorting as they intermingled. But where the old man stood, with everyone leaving a clear berth for Kamsa to ride along, there was not so much as a whisper of a shadow.

‘What are you?’Kamsa cried out, suddenlyf eeling more apprehensive than he had felt at any other time. The encounter with Vasudeva had shaken him to the core, disturbing him more deeply than he had realized. He understood that this was no ordinary being because he had seen his horse’s reaction, the lack of a shadow and the obvious way his soldiers were paying no attention to the old man standing just a few yards ahead – as if they did not see any old man standing there at all.

He suddenly wished he were anywhere but here.

I am Narada,
said the Brahmin,
one of the original saptarishis, the Brahmarishis who walked the mortal realm when it was newly created; we were here before men and asuras and amsas and avatars and all other manner of beings. We were giants then and we lived inside the earth.

Kamsa found himself unable to speak.

The old rishi peered up at his face and nodded, his ancient face creasing in what might have once passed for a look of amusement.

You are not as feeble-minded as some think. You have already fathomed that I am here only in spirit, not flesh.

‘Bhoot,’ Kamsa said, the word emerging as a croak from his throat,‘preth.’

Narada-muni’s face wrinkled in that almost-a- smile again, taking on an almost sinister cast.

Neither ghost nor ghoul. Merely traversing between planes on an errand. Usually, I would use a vortal to pass from one world to the next. But today’s errand required a different means.

‘Vortal,’Kamsa repeated mechanically. He seemed incapable of saying anything original. A band of his marauders passed on the left, their chatter dying out as they registered their lord standing in the middle of the clearing, staring and speaking to..apparently no one.

A kind of portal that enables one to travel between worlds. But vortals require a physical movement from one universe to the other. They also have specific laws governing them, such as the Law of the Balance.

‘Balance,’Kamsa croaked. His horse had subsided and now hung its head to one side, eyes white, mouth frothing. It seemed to have resigned itself to certain death or perhaps even some far worse fate.

So I used a mirror.

‘Mirror,’ Kamsa whispered, barely audible.

What you see here is merely a reflection of my physical form. That is why I cast no shadow and why, if you were to ride forward now, you would pass through this image of me as easily as through a cloud of smoke. My voice is projected astrally into your brain, which is why you hear me.

‘Astrally,’ Kamsa said, starting to feel afraid. Very, very afraid.

Suddenly, Narada-muni’s face grew sombre.

Enough preamble. The reason I am here, Kamsa, son of Ugrasena and Padmavati, is to impart valuable knowledge and advice to you. I know of your failure against Vasudeva, despite my exhortations to kill him. That is why I have resorted to this method to relay my message to you. Heed my words well, for what I am about to say will serve you well in the days and years to
come. It may even save your life and enable you to accomplish the great ambition you harbour in your heart. The ambition to be the emperor of the entire world. That is what you desire, is it not?

This time, Kamsa could not speak even a single word. He merely nodded vigorously.

Narada dipped his ancient visage in response.

So heed me well. I shall tell you that which will change your life and make the impossible possible. Pay attention to every word I say now, for I am about to hand you your future on a golden tray. The world shall unfold before you like a lotus in water, offering itself freely. You shall be the king of all prithviloka as you desire. Every dream shall be realized, every enemy destroyed, every ambition fulfilled.

Kamsa was surprised to hear his voice ask hoarsely: ‘Why?’

Narada looked just as surprised.

He raised his head, frowning, turning his vast, sloping forehead into an ancient crumpled leather map that had been folded too small too many times.

Why, you ask, impudent fool! I am about to gift you the secret by which you will rule the world and you question why I do so?

He seemed about to lose his temper, the legendary temper of Brahmarishis. Both Kamsa and his horse cringed, but Narada visibly regained control of himself.