KRISHNA CORIOLIS#4: Lord of Mathura (21 page)

The internal campaign had been led by Akrura who functioned as a militia commander as well as ambassador of sorts. Over time, politics makes bedfellows of everyone and even Kamsa had dealings with Akrura, sometimes to resolve disputes to achieve a mutual interest, at other times to parley settlements. Over time, Kamsa had acquired the art of diplomacy from Jarasandha, knowing when to use words rather than swords—and vice versa. He used Akrura when it was worth his while, never making the mistake of trusting the friend of Vasudeva, nor expecting trust in return. 

Once Vasudeva and Devaki had embarked on their pilgrimage, it was easy enough to extend it indefinitely. There was no shortage of sacred sites to visit and without labelling their absence ‘exile’ they nonetheless managed to stay away from Mathura and out of their tormentor’s reach. More than once, Devaki wished to return if only to be within visiting distance of her beloved Krishna and his brother Balarama. But Akrura convinced her that it would be too dangerous. Not only might Kamsa harm her and Vasudeva directly, Jarasandha would certainly use them as pawns in his larger game of empire building. Besides, once the Vrishni themselves went into exile, there was no way Krishna could risk leaving Vrindavan to meet her, nor could Vasudeva and she chance going to Vrindavan themselves. Kamsa’s spasas were everywhere, watching and reporting back to Mathura, and so were Jarasandha’s spasas, watching and reporting back to Magadha. It was a dangerous era and alliances were constantly being made and unmade. 

Complicating matters further were the growing disputes over ascencion in the great empire of the Kurus, the ancestral home of Yadu, son of Yayati, forebear of the Yadava line. Hastinapura, the legendary capital, was the prized epicenter of a great game of thrones raging between two lines of the Kuru dynasty. Both lines claimed their own birthright over the throne and dynasty, both disputed the other one’s right. The issue was complex and required an understanding of Kuru history but the basic facts were simple enough: One hundred and one Kurus or Kauravas as they were better known, versus five sons of Pandu, or Pandavas as they were better known. The great patriarch of the dynasty, Bhishma Pitama and the aging matron Satyavati were both said to be silent on the issue—although other rumours claimed that each had their own favourite and it was with their backing that the dispute was being fuelled. As with all such matters, rumours and gossip dominated over hard truths, and all news was to be instantly distrusted and preferably discarded. 

The one thing that seemed certain was that war was inevitable. It was only a matter of time before the dispute spiralled into open civil war between the forces of the Pandavas and the Kauravas. 

Vasudeva’s relationship with the Kurus ranged back decades, stemming from the fact that his own sister Pritha, or Kunti as she was known after marriage, had married the fair-skinned “Pandu” the White, which made the five Pandava boys his nephews. Naturally, his loyalty lay with his sister’s son and if and when Vasudeva returned to the throne of Mathura as everyone assumed would happen inevitably, then there was little doubt that Yadava forces would fight on the side of the Pandavas. 

For this very reason, Kamsa’s resentment of his sister’s husband drove him to show hostility towards the Pandava cause and espouse the Kaurava claim instead. A warmonger to the core, Kamsa actively encouraged Duryodhana the eldest Kaurava, and assured him of full military support in the event of a civil war. Interestingly, Jarasandha remained aloof in this matter, biding his time. Observers of politics compared his role to that of the carrion crow who waited for the battle to end to pick at the spoils. It mattered little to Jarasandha who won, only how it affected his own plan of empirical expansion. 

But on the day of the great wrestling tournament, even mighty Hastinapura was less concerned with their own internecine disputes than with the events unfolding in distant Mathura. Across the length and breadth of the civilized world, people debated the possible outcomes of the day. Many favoured Kamsa’s chances of survival over all other options. The son of Ugrasena had surprised many by his longevity and unexpected ability to change from a demoniac tyrant into a ruthless but efficient ruler. A rakshasa he was, no doubt, and tales of his legendary appetites for violence and cruelty sent shivers up everyone’s spine, but many believed that sometimes it was better to have a rakshasa as ruler than a weakling. Besides, war was a way of life to most and Kamsa never shied away from war or from settling his disputes through violence, as even his success and fame at the sport of Yadava-style wrestling had demonstrated. Ugrasena had been old and too weak to go to war any more, and Vasudeva was regarded as too ineffectual to rule. People were loathe to respect any king who permitted his own new born infants to be slain rather than fight back. 

But these were the politicians speaking. 

The people loved Vasudeva, missed Ugrasena, hated Kamsa, and longed for Krishna to save them. 

Krishna, the Eighth Child of the Prophecy. 

The Deliverer of the Yadava people. 

Savior of the Vrishni. 

Slayer of Kamsa. 

Everytime a new wave of atrocities had swept across the land, the people had consoled themselves with the knowledge that one day the Deliverer would rise and avenge them. 

And finally, after twenty three long years of suffering and faith, that day had come at last. 

2

NOT
since the day of the peace accord of Ugrasena and Vasudeva had Mathura seen such a turnout. Every citizen came out of doors to view the arrival of the Deliverer. People who had been in exile returned home, preferring to risk their lives rather than miss this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Wanted men, entire factions of banned political groups, armed militia and civil rebels, outlaws and fringe collectives, every imaginable group in the Yadava nation drifted into Mathura to view the long-awaited conclusion of the Prophecy. 

Kamsa enlisted the aid of Jarasandha’s Mohini Fauj to help maintain law and order and the bald gleaming pates shone at every street corner, as wickedly curved weapons and armour warned against any attempt to turn the day’s sporting event into a political uprising. The Mathuran army was out in full force as well, the soldiers helmed and armoured as if for full battle, armoured elephants and horses and chariots arrayed at every square. 

Mathura had grown accustomed to being a military state but where there had been simmering resentment or outright hostility towards the oppressor’s army before, today there was an atmosphere of ridicule and laughter. Even little children made funny faces and boldly knocked on armourplates, warning, ‘The Deliverer is coming to get you!’ Even more unusual, the soldiers themselves seemed reluctant to suppress this insolence and seemed willing to tolerate even the most humiliating insults and behavior rather than resort to their usual crowd control methods. 

Kamsa woke early that morning. He was in a good mood. He had slept well, better than he had slept in weeks. He was in excellent form physically, and he thought he might have achieved the peak of his abilities. 

He could not see how he could be more powerful or destructive. He was now able to turn himself into the human equivalent of a solid iron ramrod, and there was nothing made of flesh that could withstand his combination of power and technique. He was the undisputed master of the wrestling field and his team comprised the most dreaded champions across the civilized world. 

He had spent the night enjoying the company of both his wives at once and felt confident that either or both would conceive from that joining. It was about time too. Jarasandha was impatient for a grandchild and Kamsa himself now felt the need for an heir. Not because he desired a son or daughter. But because it was politically useful. Such was the game of kings. 

He was leaving his chambers when he noticed the old minister Pralamba waiting silently outside. The aging mantri was keeping ill health and seemed half decrepit already. He jerked to alertness as Kamsa emerged. 

‘Sire.’

‘What is it?’ Kamsa asked, less sharply than usual. It was a fine day and he was feeling fine too. 

‘My Lord,’ the Minister said, somehow always managing to avoid using the word King when addressing Kamsa, ‘The old syce is dead.’

Kamsa frowned. ‘Who?’

Pralamba looked startled. ‘The old master of stables. I believe he was your friend and guru for a while. I thought you would want to be informed.’

Kamsa realized whom he meant. ‘Oh, that old relic.’

‘Aye, sire. His name was Yadu. Nobody seems to know exactly how old he was and for some reason, nobody knows of any immediate family or relatives he left behind. The rumour is that he migrated here from another country a long time ago and outlived all his immediate family.’

Kamsa shrugged. ‘Why tell me all this?’

‘Would you like to pay for his last rites, sire?’ Pralamba asked nervously. 

Kamsa laughed. ‘Burn him and throw the ashes into the nearest ditch.’

He walked away without bothering to glance back at Pralamba. The nerve of the fellow, expecting him to care about some old idiot. Even if the man was
the
Yadu, actual forebear of the Yadava dynasty, Kamsa couldn’t care less how he was cremated. As far as he was concerned, the Yadava line began with his reign and he would father a new dynasty, one that would take his people to supremacy over all others in Bharat-varsha, then the world. 

3

Akrura
drove the horse team the last few yards to the top of the rise and stopped them. They whinnied with relief, their flanks steaming, nostrils flared, dewlaps white with froth and foam. Akrura had driven them hard all night in order to reach Mathura by morning. Now, he paused and leaned on the railing of the chariot, looking down at the view from the last hill on this side of the river. 

Mother Yamuna was painted deep blue by the dim luminescence of dawn. The river flowed gently at this time of year, neither swollen with the full burden of the monsoons nor with glacial melt. The scene was peaceful and calm, the road winding its way downhill to the ferry crossing, then continuing on the far bank up the sloping approach to…Mathura. 

Krishna stood beside Akrura, Balarama behind them. Together, they looked out at the sight of the capital city of their nation, admiring her towering structures and facades, the great house of the Yadava people built with the blood, sweat and tears of countless generations. 

Finally, Akrura sighed and said, ‘My Lord, grant me leave to pause awhile and perform sandhyavandana in the river.’

Krishna said, ‘We shall perform the morning ablutions together, good Akrura.’ 

Akrura started the chariot. The horses neighed once in protest, already nuzzling at the grass that grew by the roadside, but trotted forward resignedly once they saw that the path ahead lay downhill. The royal chariot was heavy and festooned with more precious ornamentation than required in order to proclaim the king’s ownership, and it was with great relief that the weary horse team slowed by the banks of the river a few moments later. Akrura leaped off the chariot and was about to tie the reins to a tree trunk when Krishna stopped him. 

‘Free the horses,’ Krishna said. ‘They deserve a reprieve for rest and refreshment as much as we do.’

Akrura looked at the horses, white-eyed and foaming with exhaustion. ‘My Lord Vasudeva, if I release them now, it will be impossible to get them yoked and ready to ride again in time. There is not sufficient time.’

‘I understand,’ Krishna agreed. ‘That is why we shall walk from this point on.’

Akrura stared at him then looked towards the river, at the distant roofs of Mathura. ‘The palace grounds where I am to take you are a good mile away, sire. They are on the far side of the city, in the military cantonment.’

‘A mile is a hop, skip and jump to a gopa, good Akrura. Fret not, we shall walk and it shall be an enjoyable walk. Besides, it will give father and mother and the rest of our people time to catch up with us. They cannot be far behind but our broken-back uksan cannot ride as swiftly as your Marut steeds.’ 

Akrura shrugged. ‘If you say so, my lord. But they are not my steeds. They are Kamsa’s horses.’

Krishna grinned as Balarama and he began removing the elaborate and oppressive leather harnessing of the royal chariot’s horse team. ‘In that case, all the more reason to free them from the Usurper’s yoke!’

The horses stamped their feet and tossed their manes, turning their heads to look back down the length of their backs. It took them a moment to realize they were truly free. They whinnied with delight. Proud, magnificent creatures each of them, they looked around with unbridled joy at the lush green grass of the Yamuna riverbank, the fresh water collected in numerous ponds around, and neighed loudly to show their appreciation. 

The leader, a beautiful dark chestnut brown stallion, turned around once, then stopped before Krishna. Bowing down his head, he dipped it to touch Krishna’s feet and licked them once in gratitude. 

Krishna rubbed the soft fur between the horse’s eyes and scratched his mane affectionately. ‘Go in peace, good Marut. Bid the Ashwins my best regards.’ 

The stallion neighed meaningfully, then cantered off to lead its fellows down to the nearest pond. They splashed into the water with such abandon, the water splashed tens of yards away, startling a clutch of black ducks that rose from a dense patch of grass and took to the air, complaining loudly.