KRISHNA CORIOLIS#4: Lord of Mathura (8 page)

Yet all its struggles were of no avail. The blue light only seemed to glow stronger than before, bursting through from more and more places along the demon’s enormous length. Holes began to appear all along the beast’s hide, starting as small pinpricks through which the blue glow leaked at first, then expanding steadily to larger and larger wounds, until the creature was bleeding and oozing life from a hundred different places. 

From the hilltop overlooking the woods, Nanda, Yashoda and the adult gopas and gopis watched, keeping their precious herds in check to avoid a panic stampede. From the pastures, the children of Vrindavan and their calf herds and mother cattle watched as well. All Vrindavan watched. Even the birds in the sky hovered and stared down, eyes round with amazement at the sight of a worm so enormous struggling and suffering for its life. A few of the larger ones opened their beaks and longed for a taste of such a worm, imagining how rich and dense its flesh must be, packed with nutrients. How early would a bird have to rise to catch such a worm? None dared attempt to find out!

Slowly, with great heart-rending sounds of agony, Aghasura began to die. In great torment, the worm beast thrashed and tossed for the last several times, finally shuddering to a collapse. It slapped down on the grass one last time, shattering more trees and sending splinters of fresh timber flying hundreds of yards away as its great length came to a final resting place near one of the many subterranean holes made by its own passage. Here it quivered and trembled in its death throes, life slipping away from its tortured flesh as the power of brahman exuded from a thousand places on its body, blue light bleeding forth to illuminate the dark woods, bright enough to be visible from yojanas away. 

Balarama started running almost as soon as the worm subsided. Radha and the other children followed, eager to see for themselves that Krishna was safe and well. It was one thing to know that he was god incarnate and would always triumph, it was another thing to see for themselves that their childhood friend and playmate was unharmed and well. 

The ground was torn up, swathes of earth layers ripped up and piled helter skelter, raw dark earth from a hundred yards down mixed with topsoil and flora and vegetation. Trees lay scattered like fallen warriors after a battle. Flowerbeds were crushed to smidgens of colour. Radha recognized the beautiful bed of marigolds she had spotted earlier and pointed it out to Balarama as they ran past. Closer to the spot where Aghasura had fallen, the earth was ruffled and brindled like a wild dog’s fur. The children had to pick their way carefully to avoid falling or breaking their feet. The calf herd had been left behind in the pasture for the time being. They would be safe enough there: they were too afraid to move away and the mother cows would ensure the calves stayed together. 

Finally the children reached the site of the fallen asura. Even in death, the demon worm was a terrifying sight: enormous as a hillock turned on its side, maw gaping open, oozing putrid purple unguent, its seemingly endless body winding in labyrinthine coils across the countryside before finally disappearing into the ground where it continued for who knew how many more miles. It was hard to believe such a creature could co-exist in the same world as ordinary mortals. Yet here it was, proof that demons lived among us freely once and many still did, albeit in secret now. 

Krishna stood before the gaping maw of the creature, facing it, his body glowing with the same blue light they had seen exuding from Aghasura at the end. As Radha and Balarama approached, Krishna raised his arms and incantated a mantra they could not hear—in fact, it was not intended to be heard by human ears, not then and not ever—and the result was incredible. 

Aghasura’s corpse, putried and decrepit, began to burn with the same blue light, catching aflame with tongues of blue fire that rippled down the creature’s length at the speed of wind. In seconds, the entire yojanas-long body of the asura was blazing then crackling sharply in the noonday sun then sizzling and scorching and spitting, relentless blue fire turning the enormous winding body into instant ash. Within moments, the gargantuan was consumed entirely, like a long wick coated with phosphor. Only ash remained, drifting down in the wind. A breeze sprang up out of nowhere, catching the ash flakes, and bore them away into the sky where they passed beyond the limits of vision. 

10

NANDa
and Yashoda stared down into the abyss. It was hard to believe that a living creature could have burrowed so deep into the ground. Had they not seen Aghasura with their own eyes they might not have believed such a thing was possible. Apparently, the demon worm, in its last desperate throes, had broken the surface here hard enough to leave a crack in the ground that descended for several hundred yards and was over two score yards wide. The tunneling of its passage must have come close to some subterranean cavern or crevice below, breaking through that underground cavern to leave this great ditch. The ditch cut across the only access to the woods—and to the pastures beyond. 

Briefly Nanda wondered if perhaps the demon had
intended
to do this and had managed to wreak this last act of vengeance upon the people whom his Slayer protected. He dismissed the thought as moot. The demon itself was dead, slain by their little Krishna in a magnificent display of his supreme powers. What did it matter how or why this ravine had been produced: the fact of its existence made it impossible for the Vrishni to take their herds and cross to the new pastures. 

He looked around at the others. They had already ascertained for themselves the lay of the land. Nothing needed to be said. Their faces were sombre. He knew that none of them were concerned any longer about fresh feed for their cattle. Right now there was only one question on all their minds.

‘How will our children return home across this abyss, Nanda-Maharaj?’ asked a gopa. 

Nanda looked at Yashoda. She was staring up at him, round-eyed, her anxious face asking the same question silently. 

He looked around. Everyone was looking to him for leadership. 

‘Krishna will bring them home,’ he said, sounding more confident than he felt. 

‘But how?’

He spread his hands. ‘He will find a way. He defeated that great beast. We all saw him do it. What is a mere abyss crossing after accomplishing such a feat?’

‘Even so, we are worried. Krishna is super-human, he is invulnerable. He can battle asuras and leap mountains. But our children are merely mortal. What if harm befalls them? Who knows what other asuras lurk in those northwoods?’

‘Yes!’ echoed another gopi. ‘We want our children home safe with us.’

‘Right now!’

Yashoda looked at her husband then turned to the crowd of agitated Vrishni and raised her hands. ‘My husband has answered you already. Krishna will bring them home safe, somehow.’

‘But how?’ asked a gopi, her eyes glinting with emotion. ‘How can we simply take your word for it? The lives of our children are at stake.’

Yashoda gestured at the devastation left after the battle with Aghasura. ‘Did he not just save your children today? Did you mean to stop him midway and demand to know how he was saving them? Does it even matter?’

There was an embarrassed silence in which she heard several whispers and caught more than a few sharply exchanged glances. 

‘Krishna will bring our children home,’ she said firmly. ‘All we need do is have faith in him.’

Many heads nodded approvingly in response. After a moment’s thought, even the gopi who had demanded to know ‘how’ nodded as well, looking a little shamefaced at her outburst. Nanda did not take offense at their emotional outburst: when it came to their children, parents could resort to any words or means. 

Nanda cleared his throat, glancing at Yashoda with a telling glance to indicate his appreciation to her for stepping in at the right time. She squeezed his arm as he spoke. ‘It would be pointless standing around here. I suggest we all return to the village with our herds and return to our day’s chores as usual, until Krishna’s return with the children and the calf herds.’

Everybody made sounds of approval and turned to go, starting the laborious process of getting the herd turned around and moving back homewards. The cattle lowed and mooed, disappointed at not getting the new feed they had been promised but obeying their caretakers diligently. 

As Nanda glanced back in the direction of the devastation wrought by Aghasura, he had a brief moment of misgiving. It was that very misgiving that had delayed his response when confronted by the angry parents of the children across the abyss. He had not wanted them to see his doubt hence had not replied at the time. Fortunately, Yashoda had not shared his doubt and had answered confidently and reassured their troubled minds. For his part, he still had doubts. 

What if Krishna cannot bring them home safely? What if he cannot bring them home
at all
?

That was a possibility too terrible to contemplate. 

He put the thought aside and followed his wife and clansmen home, trying not to think about it further. 

Krishna will find a way. 

He must. 

11

KRISHNA
and Balarama stepped aside from the main group of children. Radha and the other young gopas and gopis were still jubilant, celebrating their near-death experience and subsequent survival as a result of Krishna’s heroism by chanting harvest songs. Even the cattle seemed relaxed, chewing the fresh green grass with lazy ease. They had stopped briefly in the woods at Krishna’s request, a request Krishna had made after seeing Balarama’s face when he returned from scouting out the way ahead. 

‘What is it, bhai?’ Krishna asked now, speaking softly to avoid being heard by the others. It was evident from Balarama’s face that something was amiss. ‘Where are our parents?’

Balarama spoke softly as well, keeping his face turned toward Krishna and away from the others. ‘They must have returned home. There is no way for them to cross over to us. The demon created a great rift before dying. It is impossible to cross such a great abyss.’

Krishna looked into Balarama’s eyes, then shut his own eyes, seeing Balarama’s visual memory of the rift. He saw the yawning ravine, the darkness deep below, the devastation wrought by the dying worm, the ragged sheer cliff-like sides of the drop, and accepted the impossibility of anyone making such a crossing, leave alone young children with calves and mother cows in tow. He continued to view the surrounding area through Balarama’s eyes and saw that there was no other way across. They were effectively cut off from the village, the abyss too wide to bridge by any natural or man-made method, too wide to cross via rope or sling or anything else. 

‘What shall we do now?’ Balarama asked. 

Krishna was silent for a moment, contemplating the larger meaning of this occurrence. 

‘Perhaps if we both use our strength we can throw rocks into the crevice to fill it up?’ Balarama suggested. 

Krishna shook his head, still silent. He saw that action taken in his mind’s eye, saw every last detail of it vividly: Balarama and he heaving great boulders and rocks and flinging them down into the abyss, working for days, then weeks, then months, without success. The abyss was deep beyond measure and the more they tried to fill it, the deeper the crack would grow. It would take more than a year to fill it and even then it might not be safe to cross. The crevice was so deep, it had opened up veins in the earth’s crust that exuded dangerous vapours. The vapours themselves were toxic to breathe in. 

Besides, the upheaval that such a great landfill would create would endanger the children and calf herds. After all, this was pasture land. To fill such a great crevice would mean tearing up miles of pasture fields and could well provoke further seismic unsettling. 

Balarama nodded, reaching the same conclusion that his brother had drawn through their shared spiritual link. 

‘What if we build a bridge using tree trunks?’ Balarama said. ‘That way we would only have to cover the gap, not fill in the whole crevice.’

Krishna envisaged that course of action too: The vapours rising from the crevice would rot the trunks before the bridge was completed, rendering the bridge unstable and even more dangerous than a rock fill-in. And the danger from the vapours themselves would still remain. He shook his head again. 

‘Then maybe we can each take hold of a child or calf in each arm and leap the divide?’ Balarama asked, his face crinkling as he realized the folly of such a suggestion even before he finished speaking it. 

Krishna almost smiled as he envisaged this option: Balarama taking hold of calves and cows and children and leaping across. No, it was much too dangerous, apart from the fact that the mere act of leaping such a dangerous abyss might permanently disturb the mother cows or calves. The same went for the children, even without taking the vapours into consideration. If they had not been facing such a dire crisis, he would have smiled at the image itself. As it was, he settled for another regretful shake of his head. 

‘Or we leave the herd behind and take our friends across somehow?’

Krishna shook his head at once this time. He didn’t have to think about it. The herds could not be left behind here in this place. They would pine for their keepers, for their fellow cattle, and most of all, for Krishna himself. He knew—and everyone in Vrindavan knew too—that it was his flute playing which soothed and eased the herds, kept them healthy and safe from sickness and disease, caused them to give such rich nourishing milk that in turn kept the denizens of the hamlet healthy and strong as well.