KRISHNA CORIOLIS#4: Lord of Mathura (9 page)

No. 

Leaving the calf herd and mother cows behind was tantamount to slow suicide for the Vrishni clan. There were gopas and gopis. The herds were as much part of their lives as their own beloved families. They would literally pine to death without their calves and mother cows. 

They bandied about numerous different ideas and options, some ludicruous, others desperate, all quite impossible to implement successfully. Each time, Krishna was able to envisage all possible outcomes with his mind’s eye and prevent them from making unnecessary and dangerous efforts. 

‘Well then what
shall
we do?’ Balarama blurted at last. 

He was impatient and tired. The children were tired and growing restless too. They wanted to be home with their parents and families. Only the calves and mother cows were content to munch on the delicious grass all day, so long as Krishna was near. 

‘We have to do
something
, Krishna!’ Balarama said impatiently. 

‘No,’ Krishna said. ‘We cannot do anything. We must simply wait.’

‘
Wait
?’ Balarama asked, then frowned. ‘For how long?’

Krishna thought for a moment. ‘For one full year.’

Balarama stared at him, aghast. ‘One full year? What do you mean?’

Krishna put his hands on his brother’s forehead, showing him the vision he saw in his mind’s eye. Balarama stiffened momentarily as his mind was commandeered by Krishna then relaxed and saw the images his brother intended him to see. Together, they viewed the earth deep within the abyss shift and change position, great plates of rock and igneous formations shifting slowly, grinding with enormous force against each other, constantly moving this way then that, great rivers of lava flowing far beneath, great explosions and tectonic movements rippling through the body of Bhoo Devi, the mother deity of the mortal realm. They saw how, over the course of the next four seasons, the abyss itself closed of its own natural accord, suppressing the deadly vapours, bridging the gap to make that narrow ridge of land perfectly safe to cross or walk or stand on for millennia to come. 

Krishna removed his hands from Balarama’s head. 

Balarama stared at his brother. ‘You mean…We are to stay here in these pastures until…’

‘Until a year has passed.’

‘But why? How could this come to pass?’ Balarama started to say something more then hesitated. 

Krishna nodded, urging him to go on. 

‘How could you
let
this come to pass?’ Balarama asked. 

Krishna shrugged. ‘I did not. It was meant to be. Our stay here serves some larger purpose that even I do not fathom right now. All I can say with surety is that we, the children of Vrindavan, the calf herd and the mother cows, are meant to stay here in these new pastures until a full year has passed. After that time, we will be free to go home once again.’

‘But how—?’ Balarama started to ask, then stopped. ‘So you do not know the why or wherefore of this event?’

Krishna shook his head one final time. ‘There are some things even I must accept as given. This is the nature of the universe itself. Every being and event is governed by other beings and events. All things are interrelated. Not every mountain can be climbed, not every abyss bridged, not every problem resolved to one’s own satisfaction. Sometimes, one must simply wait.’

Balarama nodded slowly, almost sadly. ‘Then we wait.’

But there was no joy in his voice. 

12

The
sun was low in the evening sky. The cattle had been returned to their pens but were restless, missing their calves and the mother cows. The adult gopas and gopis of Vrindavan missed their children too, the more so because of the attack of the asura that morning. They worried that some harm might have befallen their child despite Krishna’s best efforts. Even if their child was safe and sound, they longed to have him or her in their presence, to see for themselves, to touch, hold, embrace, kiss. 

Everybody took their evening meals together and it was almost time to eat, so they worried that their children would be hungry, thirsty and tired. Every adult in the village was out of doors or on the thresholds of their houses, sitting, standing, waiting, watching. Their eyes kept looking at the dirt road that wound its way out of the village and over the hills that led to the northwoods, expecting at any moment to see those familiar faces come bobbing over the last rise, hear those playful voices shouting and calling out boisterously, see those little people come running up with their customary exuberance. 

Dogs lay listless, waiting for their little masters and mistresses, not touching their own food for they were habituated to eating scraps at the feet of their young owners, gobbling each morsel proudly and tilting their heads to listen intently to the laughter and teasing of the children, loyal eyes gleaming as they followed their little lords and ladies about all day long. Now, they could not understand why the day’s routine had changed, why their masters and mistresses had not returned home as usual. 

Nanda and Yashoda and Rohini waited together, along with the rest of their large extended family. All eyes were anxiously fixed on the road, all hearts heavy with concern, all stomachs empty for none had eaten a morsel all day long nor would they eat until their little precious gems were safely back in their treasure troves. 

Nanda’s parents Parjanya Maharaja and Variyasi Devi in particular were very anxious, kneading their palms and cracking their knuckles repeatedly. An air of tense anticipation hung over the entire village. Nobody was taking care of the evening chores nor were they making preparations for the festivities all had spoken of earlier to celebrate the safe return of the children. After all, when the children themselves had not yet returned safely, how could they celebrate their return? 

The sun slipped lower and soon sunset was imminent. Birds began to fly back to their nesting places, long shadows crept across the land, and the cattle began to low uneasily, sensing the unhappiness of their human caregivers. The happy hamlet, usually so joyous and filled with shouts and laughter and exuberant voices, was deathly quiet. A pallour of anxiety hung over every house and field. 

Suddenly a gopa sitting on a high forked branch of a tree shouted excitedly. ‘They are coming!’ 

At once, the entire tableau came to life. People began bustling about, cookfires were relit in haste, dogs leaped up from their supine positions and began barking and running about in excitement, cattle stopped lowing and turned their heads to the north, the direction from which their little masters and mistresses usually came home. 

And then, like a mirage resolving into reality, came the children, over the hillrise, down the last winding road and into the village. Parents ran, shouting, and embraced their little gopas and gopis. Children screamed in joy and sprinted to hug their parents, squeezing until their arm sockets ached. Dogs barked and leaped about joyfully. The calves trundling behind the children raised their tired heads and mooed as loudly as their little voices would allow, announcing their happiness at being home again. The mother cows settled for lowing sonorously then rubbing foreheads with their mates and fellow cows. 

Soon the tense atmosphere was completely dispelled and life seemed as normal again in Vrindavan hamlet. One by one, each family went indoors, settling down to eat their evening meal. At some point, someone mentioned something about the planned celebration, but as the evening progressed it was decided that everyone was too tired and needed a good night’s rest, so Nanda Maharaja declared that the next day would be a day of feasting. 

‘But cows will still need to be milked and sick calves still need to be nursed,’ he reminded everyone as he went about informing them. He always repeated the same words of caution, smiling broadly as he did so, reminding them that for those who lived off the land there were no holidays, but that did not mean they could not celebrate. 

Vrindavan went to sleep peacefully that night, relieved and content, and Nanda and Yashoda and the rest of their family took special pride and care in the feeding of their little Krishna and Balarama over the evening meal. For once, even Yashoda did not question how much dahi they consumed—and the quantity was prodigious even by their healthy standards!

* * * 

Back in the pasturelands, across the unbreachable rift, the young gopas and gopis had accepted Krishna’s explanation that they would be staying here for a while longer in order to let their herd graze and nourish themselves on the rich new feed. 

But as sunset fell, they began to long for their families. The younger ones were on the verge of crying for their mothers and fathers, the older ones for their siblings, and some even cried for their dogs and their homes. One young boy cried for a sparrow with a broken wing he had repaired and nursed back to health, thinking that the sparrow’s eggs were to hatch this very day and that he might have missed seeing them hatch. A mood of gloom and misery descended along with dusk. 

Then, to their surprise, their parents appeared, bearing bundles of food and gifts. 

Their dogs came bounding over the pastures, leaping through the tall grass, their tongues lolling joyfully. The parents of the boy who had nursed the sparrow even brought the entire sparrow nest, complete with eggs and mother bird, and they hatched as he watched in rapt amazement. It had been his dream to see baby birds hatching and that dream was fulfilled that evening. All the little ones were content by evening’s end, all their day’s desires fulfilled, every single family reunited. It hardly mattered that it was in the pasture fields and not at home. To the Vrishni, the fields
were
home in a sense. 

As night fell, the parents set up camp there itself and made their children comfortable for the night, singing lullabyes and putting them to sleep with affection. They regretted having to go away but promised to be back the next day and every day, as long as the children stayed here in the fresh pastures. They also explained, as Krishna had, how the calf herds and mother cows would benefit from feeding continually on this lush grass and by degrees, the children were soothed and lulled to sleep. 

They slept peacefully and happily that night, regarding the stay in the pastures now as a great adventure and responsibility, believing that they had to stay here for the sake of the herds, for it was true that the distance from the hamlet to here was too great to cover easily each day and the herds would benefit from a few days of rest. 

Only Balarama knew what they did not even suspect: 

It was Krishna who had partitioned his essence and taken the forms of all the grown up gopas and gopis, even the forms of the dogs and other creatures, in order placate the children. 

He had done the same in the village, presenting himself as the children and the calf herds and the mother cows, so that the parents would be at peace, believing their children were home safe, and the cattle would be relieved to have their mother cows and calves back safely as well. 

Krishna had promised he would bring the children home safe,
somehow
. 

He had kept his promise. 

And he kept it every day for the next year. 

KAAND
2

1

WHEN
the year was over, almost to the day, the crevice was fully closed and the surface of the ground restored to its earlier appearance. It was difficult to believe that such a great abyss had existed here at all. Krishna and Balarama led a joyful procession of young gopas and gopis and their herd homewards at last. Balarama looked around at the ground that had been blighted only a few weeks earlier and wondered aloud at how such a thing could have come to pass. 

‘Everything serves a purpose, my brother,’ Krishna said cheerfully, as if they had only been out for a day trip and were returning home at the end of the day. 

‘What possible purpose could be served by keeping us away from our families for a year?’

Krishna shrugged. ‘I do not know. And in the end, it hardly matters why. All that matters is the how. How we endure each new crisis and overcome it. For the only thing certain in life is that there shall always be crises.’

Balarama was not content by that response. But he accepted it. 

Radha was almost sad to part with Krishna. Her house came before Krishna’s and Balarama’s houses on the way home and she seemed loathe to go in, waiting by her threshold and waving to them until they went out of sight. Then she went in, seeming less happy to see her family again than to have spent the time with Krishna. Of course, she thought, as did all the other children, that they had seen their families only the previous evening! 

Yashoda was surprised when Krishna came running into the house and clasped her firmly. ‘Arrey!’ she exclaimed, smiling with maternal pleasure. ‘What happened? You act as if you have not seen me in months!’

‘One full year, mother,’ Krishna said. ‘I have missed you dearly.’

Yashoda swatted him playfully. ‘What nonsense are you talking? You went in the morning and came home in the evening! Only one day has passed.’

Krishna looked up at his mother with pure unadulterated love in his eyes. ‘Mother, one day apart from you is like a year to me.’