KRISHNA CORIOLIS#4: Lord of Mathura (24 page)

The day the Deliverer had escaped Kamsa’s grasp was as fresh in Bana’s memory as if it had happened this very day. For that was also the day that Kamsa had compelled Bana to put his own newborn twin sons to death, before his pleading sobbing wife. 

And then, because he knew she would never forgive him and, more importantly, he would never forgive himself so long as she lived to remind him of his unforgivable crime, he had killed her as well. Slaughtered his own family with the same sword he still carried in his sheath even today. 

All for what? To serve a master who was more rakshasa than human? Who cared for nobody, respected nothing? For dharma? He could almost spit into the dust of the street at the sound of that word spoken. Dharma! It was not his dharma to slay his own loved ones. If that was dharma then the concept of dharma itself was wrong, twisted, insane. No act of violence could be justified or condoned by dharma or any religious precept, however rigorous the argument. Murder was murder, plain and simple, no exceptions, and he had murdered his family only because he feared Kamsa’s wrath. 

And it had all been for nothing. All those newborns slain, other children slaughtered, so many more innocents killed…for what? To slake the bloodlust of a demon king. To protect a powerful rakshasa from the  divine vengeance that was due to him. To try to delay the judgement the gods had pronounced on Kamsa for his many, many crimes on earth. 

And he, Bana, was a part of those crimes. 

He deserved the punishment of the gods almost as much as Kamsa did. For he had done the evil overlord’s bidding. And in doing so, he shared equal blame and responsibility. 

But perhaps today, he would find some way to redress that long history of wrongdoing. If not redeem himself entirely, at least he might seek to balance the scales a little. 

He turned his horse into a side alley. The roaring of the crowds were muffled by the close walls of the two houses that stood next to one another. Waiting in the alley was a man with his face cloaked, despite the warmth of the day. He watched as Bana approached and dismounted at the point where the houses stood too close together to ride through. 

Bana walked the rest of the way, admiring the choice of location for this tryst. Only one man could pass through here at a time, that too slowly or else he might dislocate both shoulders. But then, Akrura was a clever man. Years of leading the Yadava rebellion against the Usurper had seasoned him into a shrewd and effective leader of men. In a way, Bana understood men like Akrura better than men like Vasudeva. He could never fathom Vasudeva’s principles of self-denial and pacificism. How could you fight beings like Kamsa and Jarasandha without resorting to violence? He respected Vasudeva greatly but he felt that such times demanded men like Akrura. 

He stopped at the place where the houses grew too close together to pass through. Akrura stood on the other side. Between them was a narrow gap large enough to see one another, but not enough for a grown man to pass through, even slipping sideways. Bana wondered idly if the house builders had deliberately designed these two residences to serve this very purpose. Why else would these walls curve this way?

‘It is arranged,’ he said curtly. ‘All the men loyal to me in the Mathura army will lay down their arms and surrender to Krishna if he defeats Kamsa in the tournament. It will be upto you and your supporters to ask for Krishna to be declared king.’

Akrura nodded. ‘We will take care of our part. You take care of your’s. What of those not loyal to you?’

Bana shrugged. ‘Who can say? There may be some fighting. I’m sure you have the stomach for that.’

Akrura was silent a moment. ‘If it is the only way, yes. How will my people know which soldiers are loyal to Krishna and which are not?’

‘They will not. You will just have to wait and see the outcome.’

‘What of the Mohini Fauj? There are few of them but they are each deadlier than a dozen of your men.’

Bana bristled at the comparison but knew he could not argue the point. ‘I cannot speak for them. Or for the Magadhan forces encamped within a day’s ride from Mathura. If Jarasandha chooses to make his move and assert his claim on the city as an imperial holding, even our army and your militia combined will not be able to hold him back.’

Akrura frowned. Now it seemed it was his turn to bristle at the comparison. ‘I think you over-estimate the power of Magadha…’ he began. 

‘I think you under-estimate it,’ Bana said curtly. He glanced back. ‘I must return to my post. The procession will come this way very shortly. May our great ancestor Yadu look over you.’

Akrura said something that Bana ignored as he sidled carefully through the narrow gap, then strode back more confidently to where he had left his horse. He mounted the animal and turned its head, riding back to the street. From the approaching cacophony of dhol drums and trumpets and singing and chanting, he estimated that the procession would reach this place shortly. 

It was then that he registered what Akrura had said at the last. 

Yadu is dead.
 

What had he meant by that? Yadu, their ancestor, founder of the Yadava nation, was dead? But surely he had died long ago, centuries earlier? Perhaps Bana was referring to the legend that Yadu was immortal, cursed with immortality in fact, because he had refused his suffering father Yayati’s request to exchange bodies with him. And that he could choose the day and time and place of his death. Did Bana mean that the real Yadu was here somewhere in Mathura and had chosen today itself to die? How…strange! That was the only word that came to mind. He did not know if it could be called auspicious, for Yadu was a Pitr. But the choosing of this day and time suggested a larger meaning. Perhaps it was auspicious after all, or ominous. Only by the end of the day would he know for sure. 

Bana sighed and returned the way he had come for the assignation, using his thighs to urge the horse up the sloping street.  

It was time to ring in the Age of Krishna and ring out the Age of Kamsa. No matter what that transition might cost. 

He gritted his teeth, remember the look on his sons’ faces when he had killed them…and the look on his beloved wife’s face…He hoped to see a look akin to that when Kamsa died today. 

For Kamsa would die,
must
die. 

Or else all Mathura would die. 

9

THEY
came walking at a steady pace up the avenue. Soldiers in full battle armor lined both sides of the raj-marg, keeping back the swelling crowds. At first, nobody recognized the two young men on foot. Nobody in Mathura knew what the Deliverer looked like in person. And they had all been expecting a grand procession, a great chariot or carriage drawn by a magnificent horse team, festooned with jewels and bearing colorful krtha-dvaaj. Not two young adolescent boys walking briskly barefoot on the dusty road, clad in the simple vastras of Gokul govindas! 

For this reason, they entered the city without any fanfare. It was only after they passed that the word rippled down through the crowd. ‘Akrura said they were coming on foot. That must be them!’ 

At once, the crowds ahead were alerted: ‘Krishna and Balarama have entered Mathura! They are coming up the king’s avenue now!’ 

The crowd was enormous, the mood jubilant, the atmosphere electric with anticipation.

As Krishna and Balarama came around a curve in the road and were seen by the first groups of people who actually understood them to be the Deliverer and his brother, the response was immediate. A great roar went up, heard all across the city. 

‘KRISHNA!’ shouted the people. 

The soldiers fought to keep back the crowds. Only the presence of elephants, horses, and an unwavering line of cruelly pointed spears and shields prevented the populace from surging forward. But for once, there was no eager wielding of spears or clubbing of heads as was usual: General Bana’s instructions had been clear. Today would in all probability witness a change of regime. The Imperial Army needed to prove that it was not hostile to this change. Or else civil war would be a certainty and the army itself the first casualty of that war. 

Krishna and Balarama continued up the broad avenue, dust flying in their wake as they walked faster, not anxious about the crowds, merely eager to reach their destination and face their nemesis. They had come here to settle a score and were eager to get to it. 

Out of the press of people, a young man with a hunchbacked older woman came forward, clearly eager to have closer contact with Krishna. The hunchbacked woman was too stooped over to even look over the heads of the people in front. She might never have even seen Krishna, let alone come close to him, had someone in the crowd not started a scuffle with a guard. The scuffle caused a horse to panic and the beast lashed out and kicked at a soldier, knocking him down and injuring another soldier’s shoulder. The guards beside them were forced to move aside and help in securing the panicked horse before it ran amok and excited the other animals. 

As a result, for a few scant moments, a small gap in the line of spears was left unguarded. Just enough for an old woman to slip through—and she did. 

She ran out onto the road, raising her hands in supplication. At once, an officer on horseback spotted her and barked an order. Immediately, half a dozen ready soldiers raised their weapons, prepared to wound the woman in order to force her to return to the crowd. 

The old lady sensed the danger and cried out in alarm, raising her withered hands in despair. ‘Krishna, help me!’ 

Krishna saw her plight and diverted his direction. He strode to where the lady stood bent over and took her by the shoulders gently. 

‘Maa,’ he said, ‘you called for me?’

The soldiers on foot and the officer on horseback approached at once, ready to do whatever was needed to punish the woman for breaking the ranks of the crowd and set an example. But Krishna raised a hand, not even bothering to look up, and they hesitated at once. 

The legend of the Deliverer was a powerful one. And even Kamsa’s orders had been clear: The visitors were not to be touched or harmed in any way. They were to be brought directly to him, unmolested. 

The officer barked a curt order and the soldiers kept their distance, watchful but making no further aggressive moves. 

Krishna took the old woman’s shoulders and raised her up gently. 

Slowly, by degrees, the woman straightened up, up, up until she was standing normally, her back upright, her hunch dissipated. She looked around, feeling for her hunch with her hands by reaching around. 

From behind her in the crowd, a younger man who had been accompanying her, exclaimed and reacted. ‘It is a miracle! My mother’s hunchback is gone!’ Others around him agreed and shouted their amazement. 

At once the cry rose from the crowd. ‘Krishna cured the old woman’s hunch.’

Tears were streaming down the woman’s face. ‘My life ambition is fulfilled,’ she said. ‘I have seen Hari with my own eyes.’

Krishna embraced her warmly. ‘And he has embraced you, mother. Go in peace.’

A great roar of approval rose from the crowd. The news rippled through the city. ‘The Deliverer has come and he has performed his first Miracle at Mathura!’ 

Suddenly, the mood changed. From ecstatic joy and cheering, the sounds of the crowd died away momentarily as everyone grew aware of some significant change or imminent threat. 

Slowly, as the crowd sounds faded away, a new sound replaced them: the pounding of heavy feet, approaching at a relentless pace. 

It was accompanied by a shrill terrible shrieking sound that only vaguely resembled an elephant’s normal trumpeting. 

Another officer of the guard came galloping down the avenue, shouting to his fellow soldiers as he came. 

‘Airavata!’ he cried. ‘He is on the rampage.’

The crowd reacted at once. 

‘Hathi-Yodha!’ they shouted. ‘He has gone mad at last. He will kill us all.’

A loud roar of dismay rose from the crowd. People began to turn to one another, unable to decide what to do. None wished to leave the sight of the Deliverer yet all feared the dreaded mount of Kamsa, the bloodthirsty killer of so many of their own brethren over the years. The battle elephant’s kill score was only matched by that of his master, Kamsa. 

Krishna raised his arms and spoke to the crowd, projecting his voice: ‘Stay where you are. I shall deal with this threat.’

At once the crowd subsided. Everyone grew quiet as the pounding sound increased in volume and the mad elephant approached. Even the guards and their command officers stayed as far back as possible, one with the crowd in their fear of the dreaded elephant. For once maddened, Airavata did not care whether he crushed friendly or enemy skulls and bones. It was all the same to him. 

Krishna spoke softly to Balarama who sighed but nodded and stepped aside. 

Krishna stood alone in the center of the wide open avenue in the morning sunshine, awaiting the arrival of his first challenger in Mathura. 

10

Radha
was running alongside Nanda Maharaja’s wagon when she saw Krishna standing in the middle of the avenue. She had been too excited to ride once they entered Mathura and had run from wagon to wagon, greeting each family and passing on messages. The crowds and buildings were overwhelming. Nothing in her rustic life in Gokul-dham or Vrindavan hamlet had prepared her for such an experience. So many people all gathered together in one place! Such magnificent buildings. She had been certain the very first building she saw was the palace itself; it had been a shock to learn that it was only the gatehouse of the city! Since then, she had been seeing one extraordinary sight after another.