KRISHNA CORIOLIS#4: Lord of Mathura (27 page)

But that was a matter for later. 

Right now, he had a fight to win. And a Slayer to slay. 

Kamsa slapped his own chest and stood up in his corner of the wrestling rectangle, taking up a stance, legs apart, arms open wide, welcoming. He felt better than he had in his entire life. He was stronger than he had ever imagined he could become. He felt indomitable, indestructible, invulnerable. He was certain of victory. All that remained were the details: how he would maim and make his opponent suffer before finally killing him. How he would deliver the ultimate killing blow. He had a myriad of ways thought out, any one of which would be agonizing and cause the strongest-willed men to die screaming and voiding their bowels as they departed this world. He had used every one of those holds and blows umpteen times. This would be the first time he did so to a god. 

He imagined it would not be very different. After all he was not much less than a god himself, Jarasandha had repeatedly assured him. Nobody could withstand him now. 

Certainly not this slip of a boy, his body so slender, his arms and legs so lean, no visible slabs of muscle, no excess padding, nothing to cushion the opponent’s blows or provide strength for the powerful holds and grips and blows that were essential to victory in this rectangle. 

Krishna looked so out of place in this wrestling ring, it was difficult to believe that this was the Slayer himself. The one Kamsa had been dreading for twenty three years. The prophecied Deliverer of the Yadava people!

He moved forward, ready to end the Prophecy and prove it wrong. 

***

Radha watched wide-eyed as Kamsa and his team took the field. ‘Dear Sri in Vaikunta,’ she said softly, pressing her hand to her mouth, ‘they are not men, they are giants made of stone and iron!’ 

As Canura, Mustika, Kamsa and the others took the field, their captain gave them terse instructions. 

‘Let’s make this quick and brutal,’ he said. ‘Mustika, you go for Balarama. Canura, you take care of Krishna.’

Mustika, who was not known for his agility of thought, frowned at the two boys on the far side of the playing field, his famous crooked jaw which had earned him his nickname jerking to and fro as he tried to guess. ‘Which one is which?’ 

Canura slapped him on the shoulder. The impact was loud enough to rival a small thunderclap. ‘The fair one’s Balarama, dark-skinned lad’s Krishna.’ 

‘Don’t worry, Crooked Jaw,’ Sala called out. ‘If you have difficulty grabbing hold of the slippery bugger, I’ll trip him over and sit on him till you come get him.’

Tosalaka snorted. ‘Sala, if you sit on him, there won’t be anything left for Mustika to get.’

‘Childslayer,’ said Kuta scornfully, ‘I thought you said this would be a fun fight. From the sight of these two children, it’ll be over before I have time to fart.’

Kamsa shook his head at the widest man imaginable, almost a full yard wide at the chest—and almost as wide the rest of his body. ‘Kuta, your farts alone are enough to kill them both. Maybe we should all retire and leave you to it, huh?’

Everyone laughed. 

‘All right, now let’s warm up,’ Kamsa said. 

‘What’s the point?’ Mustika asked. ‘This fight will be over in less time than the warm-up!’

‘Tradition,’ Kamsa said. ‘We have to give the crowd what it expects. We are champions of the world.’

Mustika shrugged. In the center of their side of the field, aides had set up chopping blocks. Each block was a solid yard thick chunk of lohitwood, the famed ironwood that grew in the forested region between Ayodhya and Mithila. Sharp axes could barely drive a crack in lohitwood. The aides had set three chopping blocks on top of each other. 

Mustika raised a hand and brought it down in a chopping action on the topmost block. 

It splintered with a sound like a twig snapping. 

All three blocks lay cracked and broken into pieces. 

Mustika raised the hand he had used, waving it sideways to show it was empty. The crowd roared with approval, cheering him on. While the rest of the city might have been filled with citizens eager to sight the Deliverer, there was little doubt about the composition of the crowd in the playing field itself—apart from the Vrishni contingent, they were all loyal to Kamsa. 

There were many other items ready for demonstrations of strength and power by Kamsa’s team. The Vrishni fighters had declined to give any such demonstration. 

Radha had heard most of the banter between Kamsa and his men and it  chilled her heart. Still, she could have dismissed at as mere man-talk. But when she saw the demonstrations, she knew that it was much more than just talk. 

She leaped over the side of the pavilion that kept spectators from the playing field and ran to the sidelines. Nobody bothered to stop her. Kamsa had seen no reason to place security around what was essentially a field of battle now. He had no reason to fear any attack on himself and his team—and if anyone wished to harm Krishna and Balarama in the brief time they had left before dying, they were quite welcome to do so! 

Radha stopped near Krishna’s position. He was standing in a relaxed posture, waiting for the first match to begin. 

‘Krishna,’ she said, trying to attract his attention. 

He turned and frowned at her. ‘Radhey? You should not be here. It is not safe for you.’

‘You must stop this fight. It is not a fair fight. Those men are superbeings of some sort. They mean to crush you and Balarama the way they are crushing those blocks and metal bars and other things now.’

Krishna nodded. ‘What you say is true.’

‘Then stop the fight. You have ample grounds for objection.’

‘Such as?’ Krishna asked. 

‘There are only two of you against so many of them.’

‘They have said that they will ensure that only one of their fighters engages one of our fighters in each round. It will be a man-on-man bout.’

Radha shook her head impatiently. ‘Even so, you are only boys. They are great big men, experienced fighters.’

Krishna smiled. ‘Balarama and I are grown me in terms of age. We are entitled to the same rights as any of them. Besides, Radha, we have fought our share of opponents too, remember? We can hardly claim lack of experience!’

‘Then say the truth: they are not merely men. They are demons. Beasts!’

Krishna shook his head. ‘All of Mathura saw me fighting and slaying one of the most feared animals in the land. The dreaded Hathi-Yodha himself. Single-handedly, unarmed. On what grounds can I make such a claim? Besides, this is what it is, Radha. Ever since time immemorial, this is how it has always been. Many against few. Strong against the apparently weak. Powerful against the disempowered. Rich against poor. High caste against low caste. Upper class against the uncultured. That is what society has always done: Separated, divided, put us into different categories and ranks. I wish to end that. And the only way is to do it by proving that even I, a boy, a cowherd, a Vrishni, can confront and best the most powerful demon king of our age. Go back to the pavilion, Radha. I have work to do now. This is my dharma.’

Radha stared at him for a long moment. The conch shells blew again, announcing the imminent start of the actual bout. 

She backed away wordlessly, then ran back to the pavilion and resumed her seat. Krishna had said everything there was to be said. All she could do now was watch and pray. 

15

The
tournament began with a tossing of dice to decide who would start first. Kamsa’s team won the toss and chose to defend. 

‘All right, Chanura,’ he said, ‘now remember, you are to take him alone. The rest of us have to stay out of the way. Those are the rules. Man-on-man.’

Chanura snorted. ‘You mean man-on-child! This isn’t a fight. It’s a massacre.’ 

The final conch shell signaling the start of the fight sounded. A hushed silence fell across the vast field. Outside the field, across Mathura, the crowds that still thronged the streets, filled the houses and courtyards and even camped by the riverbank waiting for word, all fell silent, waiting to hear what happened next. Even the birds of the sky hovered overhead, watching the field below, like carrion birds over a battlefield. The animals of the woods, the insects of the earth, the fish of the river, all seemed alert and expectant, awaiting the next several moments. 

Krishna started forward, crossing the line even as he said aloud, ‘Gokula!’ Then turned the word into a chant recited constantly in order to show that he was not taking a second breath. ‘Gokula-gokula-gokula-gokula-gokula,’ he went on as he entered the enemy side of the field. 

The quadrant was guarded by a full team of sixteen men. But as per the agreed-upon rules, only one man, Chanura, could engage Krishna. Therefore Krishna entered the chalk-marked rectangle in which Chanura stood waiting. Only if and when Krishna got past Chanura could the others engage him. Mustika was guarding the rectangle right behind Chanura’s, and from the snarl on his disjointed face, he looked as if he wished Krishna would somehow slip past and come to him. 

Chanura was wearing a garland of flowers that some woman had put around his neck. He was enjoying the cloying sweet scent of the flowers and thinking of the woman and how he could put his arms around her neck afterwards and make himself a garland for her! He watched Krishna approach with derision, unable to believe that this stripling of a boy even had the temerity to come face to face with him. 

Krishna approached Chanura, making no effort to sidestep, dodge, avoid, or any of the usual tactics employed by players in the sport. It was obvious that he had either never played the game before or did not care for its rules. All he did was walk right up to Chanura, muttering his chant softly. 

Under the rules of man-on-man, the players could stop chanting when they were physically engaged with each other: this was to permit the man-on-man bouts to continue until defeat, not merely depletion of breath. But until Krishna touched or otherwise engaged an opponent, he had to keep chanting or he would be disqualified. 

Chanura hoped the boy wasn’t careless enough to make such a mistake. He wanted to beat the boy, but not by a technical fault. 

He wanted to break him into two halves over his knee! 

As Krishna came within reach, Chanura spread his arms and grabbed hold of him. He had once uprooted a lohitwood tree this way, by grasping it and yanking upwards in a single motion. Then he had thrown it two score yards away, at an oncoming enemy battalion, wiping out most of the battalion with one blow. After that, he had used the uprooted tree as a club to smash the rest of the enemy. 

He grasped hold of Krishna and squeezed. 

‘Ho, boy,’ he said, grinning. ‘I hope you drank plenty of your mother’s breast-milk this morning, for I mean to squeeze every last drop out of you and drink it myself now!’ 

Krishna stared back at him impassively. ‘Really? In that case, you need to use more strength, don’t you? The force you’re using wouldn’t squeeze milk out of a pregnant cow’s teat!’

Chanura lost his smile. It was true he was exerting just a little force, barely sufficient to crush a body and make it spill its contents. That was because he wanted Krishna to suffer, to cry out in agony and scream as he died, not simply burst like a crushed grape. 

But Krishna’s body wasn’t yielding as most bodies did. This much force should have shattered even the most powerfully muscled man’s backbone and ribs and caused blood to spurt out of his mouth and other orifices with considerable force. 

Krishna was merely standing there, looking at Chanura. 

‘That’s a pretty garland you have there,’ he said conversationally. ‘Did you mean to give it to me after you’re done hugging?’

Chanura roared with anger and squeezed with all his force. He forgot about his intention to squeeze slowly and make Krishna scream in agony. He squeezed hard enough to crush a tree trunk into powder. 

Still, Krishna just stood there and looked unimpressed. 

Chanura blinked and released his hold. He opened his mouth, taking in a fresh breath himself. He stared at Krishna in disbelief. 

‘I used all my strength. You can’t still be standing! It’s impossible.’

Krishna cocked an eyebrow then waggled both eyebrows. ‘Really? Maybe you didn’t do it right. Here, let me show you how it’s done.’ 

He sang out gaily, ‘My turn!’ and took hold of Chanura in the exact same grip, squeezing hard. 

Chanura gasped. 

Then he screamed. 

Then he felt as if his spine was melding with his ribs, and his ribs were being forced inwards to pierce his lungs, and his arms bent to touch each other—through his torso. It was excruciating. He had never felt anything like this before. Was this how his opponents felt when he crushed them in this grip? Was this what it felt like for a tree to be crushed? It was unbelievably painful. 

He blacked out and lost consciousness for a moment. 

When he regained his senses, he was lying on the ground, in the dust, the afternoon sun piercing his eyes, a dull red thumping pain where his chest had been before. Krishna was grinning down at him. 

‘Enough?’ Krishna asked, chuckling. ‘Or would you like me to show you again?’