KRISHNA CORIOLIS#4: Lord of Mathura (26 page)

12

MATHURA
held its breath as Krishna entered the wrestling grounds on foot. Even now, after the news of his defeat of Hathi-Yodha, the miraculous cure of old Ambavati the hunchback, and numerous other stories of his fantastical feats in Vrindavan, Vraj and even earlier, there were many who still wondered if this slight short dark-skinned cowherd could in fact be the Slayer of Kamsa. How was it possible? This slip of a boy who had never held anything but a govinda’s crook, was weaned on curds and buttermilk and had spent his youthful years idling in the hills and fields, romancing gopis and playing at ras-lila? Could he truly be the Deliverer? The one to end Kamsa’s long tyranny and free Mathura of the yoke of formidable foreign powers like Jarasandha? It seemed unlikely and the skeptical could be forgiven for doubting. 

Yet there was no mistaking the easy confident gait with which the boy from Gokul-dham walked into the wrestling field. He did not have the over-confident muscled swagger of the typical mud-wrestler. Nor the cocky belligerence of the soldier bully, accustomed to using his strength and force to get his own way. In fact, he was a type never seen before: a young slender lover with a sweet smile that he flashed readily, even directing it at the royal tent where Jarasandha and Kamsa and their allies and champions sat in shaded luxury, sauntering in as if he was here for a game of marbles rather than a champion bout with the most fearsome demonlord of this part of the world. 

The lad even had the audacity to raise his hand, wave and grin at Kamsa’s tent! Titters of nervous laughter broke out when he did this, some within the royal tent itself. Nobody had ever seen a wrestler with such a carefree attitude. It was unheard of. And clearly, it was no act, for the boy continued to wave and grin at all assembled in the field, the pick and crop of Mathuran nobility and powerbrokers, the rich, beautiful, powerful and privileged. This ill-clad little boy with the dusty feet, waving at them as if he was their prince returned to claim this crown! 

And what was that tucked into the waistband of his dhoti? Could it possible be…a flute? 

Yes. A shepherd’s flute. The kind that govindas played in the wide sprawling meadows of Vraj so that their herds would not stray too far away, the sound itself shepherding them homewards at dusk. 

What sort of wrestler carried a flute? 

The crowd assembled in the arena did not know what to make of this purported Deliverer, the legendary Slayer of Kamsa, the alleged Eighth Child of Devaki and Vasudeva, raised in secret in the distant rural village of Gokul by Nanda and Yashoda. But in their hearts, each and everyone of them hoped and prayed that they were wrong, that this flute-playing, slender-hipped cowherd was everything the prophecy said he would be, that he would be able to somehow face and fight Kamsa and by some miraculous means, overcome him. 

For the alternative was too terrible to contemplate. 

To the Vrishni, assembling now in the large roped pavilion of space reserved for them, the mood was more sombre. They did not doubt or question Krishna’s ability, merely that of his opponent. For word of Kamsa’s great powers was well-known by one and all. And those who had witnessed first-hand the encounters between Krishna and some of the deadlier asuras who had come to assassinate him knew that while his spirit was certainly divine, his body was still flesh and blood and subject to the vagaries of mortal failings. He could be destroyed, perhaps even defeated. 

And today, if he died, he would not die alone. The Vrishni would all die as well. Nobody doubted that. The very manner in which they were placed, seated prominently with an excellent view of the wrestling akhada, but also surrounded on all sides by enemy champions, wrestlers, Magadha’s Mohini Fauj hijras. Cleverly hemmed in. 

They had no doubt that the instant the fight ended, if the outcome was against their interest, they would be massacred without hesitation. They had been compelled to leave all weapons and potential weapons outside the gates of the city, on the pretext that it was a friendly match. But they saw now that everyone else appeared to be carrying arms, some discretely, others openly. No doubt, the pretext was that Magadhans had to carry arms to protect themselves from potential attackers, or that Kamsa’s guard had to bear arms to defend their king in case of assault. 

Whatever the flimsy reasons, the fact was that the Vrishni were boxed in, unarmed, and defenseless against attack. Even knowing that the Imperial Army would aid them in the transition as much as possible was no comfort. For the Imperial Army was spread throughout the city, while they were alone in here. If they were attacked by Kamsa and his allies, even General Bana and his soldiers could not reach them in time to save them. 

To add further fuel to the fire, all the leaders and chiefs of all the main tribes and clans in the Vrishni line were present, including several who were banished, banned or exiled. There were Vasudeva and his wife Devaki who were seated beside Nanda and Yashoda in the front row, as were Akrura and the rest of his captains of the once-secret rebellion: Brihadbala, now the spitting image of his father, Chitraketu, Kannar chief of the Kannars, Uddhava, Satvata and even the old and decrepit Kratha, leaning heavily on his crook, peering through rheumy eyes yet determined to be present with the rest of the Sangha to witness the most fateful event in the history of their race to date. 

The only chance they had lay with Krishna and Balarama. Only those boys could save them now. By fighting and laying down their own lives, or by triumphing and defeating Kamsa and his champions. 

The conch shells sounded, announcing the imminent start of the first bout. Soon, the judgement would be pronounced on all the Vrishni. Live. Or Die. It was out of their hands now. 

13

Kamsa
laughed as Krishna strolled about the field, smiling and waving at everyone. ‘I will crush him before he knows what has happened,’ he said to Jarasandha conversationally as his aides massaged his body with oil. 

Jarasandha affected a hint of a smile. ‘I wish you would,’ he said. ‘But do not underestimate him. He did despatch all our assassins, starting with your great hope, Putana.’ 

At the mention of Putana in such a tone, Kamsa’s smile vanished. Had it been anyone else other than Jarasandha, he would have killed the man instantly for daring to speak thus of his lost friend. Because it was Jarasandha, he only let his pique show in the tartness of his response: ‘I think it’s you who underestimate me, father dearest. As you always have.’

Jarasandha turned and glanced at Kamsa. He had a gleam in his eye. The tip of his tongue flickered briefly between his lips. ‘That, I do not deny. But you’ve mostly given me cause to do so. I am hoping that today, you will prove me wrong once and for all. Defeat the great Deliverer of the Vrishni, and I will declare you Emperor-in-Waiting of all my domains.’

Kamsa was struck silent. He had not expected such an offer. Jarasandha was not a generous man. For him to offer such a proposal meant that he was deadly serious. It also meant that he wanted Kamsa to win very badly, or he would not dangle such an enticing reward. ‘Emperor-in-Waiting,’ he said slowly. ‘That means that after you die—’

Jarasandha chuckled. ‘In the
event
, unlikely as it may be, of my demise, yes, you will be crowned Emperor in my stead. That is precisely what it means.’

Kamsa stared at Jarasandha. Nobody had ever showed such generosity to him. He took hold of Jarasandha’s hand and kissed it. ‘I will not fail you today, father. You will be proud of me.’

Jarasandha nodded. ‘It would give me great pleasure to see you break the back of that little cowherd. Nothing else would give me such great pleasure, I have to admit.’ He hesitated, glancing across the field at the slightly figure still making its way around the pavilions. ‘Something about the very sight of him turns my stomach. For the first time in my life, I find I have no appetite. He makes me sick, this so-called Deliverer! Crush him, break him, twist him like a rope, tear him apart into shreds, crack him open like a betelnut, grind him like a whetstone, cut him like a rusty blade…do what you will, but do not let him walk off that akhada alive. And in return, you will have of me whatever you desire, for as long as you desire it. All that I possess shall be your’s.’

Kamsa nodded grimly. ‘It shall be done.’

He was about to say something else when suddenly all those assembled in his pavilion began to mutter and laugh. 

‘What is it?’ he asked, looking around. He saw Jarasandha staring too, his thin eyes narrowing to slits as he saw something that did not please him. 

Then he heard the sound of the music. A simple reed instrument.  

Krishna was playing his flute. 

***

Akrura shook his head in embarrassed delight as Krishna played his flute, walking around the field as if he owned it, then took up a stance with one foot crossed over the other one, arms crossed as well, head tilted just so, flute applied to the side of his mouth, a perpetual smile playing on his handsome dark face, and played a song sweeter than any that had been heard before. 

‘Truly he is the Lord of Lords,’ he said to himself. ‘Who else would dare come to a house of swords armed with only a flute.’ 

He saw the reaction in the royal pavilion, saw Jarasandha and Kamsa glaring furiously, exchanging words that left no doubt about their state of mind and agitation. 

Devaki leaned forward, speaking across Vasudeva who sat between them. ‘My Lord Akrura, why do you laugh and mutter to yourself?’

Akrura smiled sheepishly. ‘My Lady Devaki, I confess that until this morning I did not truly understand the power of your son. But a vision was unveiled to me that showed me how little I knew. Now, I see wonderment in his every gesture, mischief in his every action. It is a great delight to watch him toy thus with the demon Usurper before they fight. Never before have Kamsa and Jarasandha been treated in this fashion by even the most powerful opponents and enemies. Yet there is Krishna, a mere cowherd boy, embarrassing them before all of Mathura. It is a sight to behold!’

Devaki smiled faintly, her eyes filled with tears of an unnameable emotion. She looked at Vasudeva who took her hand and squeezed it comfortingly. Vasudeva turned to Akrura. ‘I hope he knows what he is doing.’

Akrura nodded. ‘I am quite certain he does.’

He saw an aide leave the royal pavilion and come toward the Vrishni pavilion, clearly despatched with a message to deliver. The man seemed somewhat confused about whom to approach. Unlike his masters, the Vrishni did not have a simple hierarchy: every chieftain was king in a manner of speaking. Technically, Vasudeva was still King and representative of the Sangha, but it had been so long since he had been able to represent his people at any formal event that the very courtiers of Mathura, like this aide, had all but forgotten him. Akrura stood and motioned the man forward. He came with evident relief and spoke his message to Akrura. 

Akrura turned to the others, who were wide-eyed and expectant. 

‘The matches for the tournament have been announced,’ he said. ‘The team for the royals versus our best champions.’

They had been asked to submit the names of their fighters earlier, so everyone was already aware of their own champions. It was the other team they had not been able to identify for certain. Now they knew. 

Many anxious looks were exchanged. Old Kratha started to rise, trying to raise his crook to wave it in protest, but Brihadbala stopped him and calmed him down. 

‘It is an outrage,’ Kratha still managed to blurt out, his words slurred by age and palsy. ‘They have pitted their strongest, most experienced and renowned fighters against our two young boys. How can Krishna and Balarama alone fight so many champions at once?’ 

Akrura shrugged. ‘It is how it must be,’ they say. ‘They have the right to call the draw. And to be quite fair, it was we who only put forth two names.’ 

‘Why?’ asked someone else. ‘Why not a whole team?’

‘Because we chose to make it so,’ Balarama said, coming up to the pavilion. ‘Even our greatest wrestlers cannot stand a chance against their fighters. They are not human anymore, they possess supernatural strength and shakti. To fight them will require superhuman skill as well. Therefore Krishna insisted that he and I alone represent our side.’

Everyone was silent. Nobody knew what to say. There was little to be said. 

The conch shell announcing the start of the tournament sounded. It was time for the Slayer of Kamsa to face the Childslayer himself. 

14

KAMSA
slapped his thighs and rubbed his palms over his well-oiled body. He raised his hand, rubbing the excess oil on his finely twirled moustaches, stroking the ends till they extended far outwards from his face. The crowd had been bustling with noise, like an ocean roaring near a rocky shore, then had suddenly fallen silent. A deathly quiet had come over the arena. Nobody spoke a word. Even Jarasandha, watching from the front row on Kamsa’s side, did not smile his usual half-faced smile. The Hijras flanking him on either side were as impassive as ever. 

On the Vrishni side, though, there were visible emotions on display. Kamsa was pleased to see the obvious concern and anxiety on the faces of Krishna’s adoptive mother and father and other relatives. And there was that young girl who had shown unsisterly affection for him earlier, fussing and cooing around him. Who was she? A pretty young thing, she was. She almost made him wish they were playing for spoils as was often the case in Jarasandha’s wrestling tournaments. Winner takes all: wealth, women, wine, wheat. Then again, he remembered, he was Lord of Mathura. If he won, he would be taking everything the Vrishni possessed, starting with the lives of Krishna’s entire extended family, down to the last remote cousin and his dogs and dogs’ whelps. Not one would be spared. So that pretty young girl was as good as his, if he desired her.