KRISHNA CORIOLIS#1: Slayer of Kamsa (2 page)

Dance of Govinda
is just the second part of the Krishna Coriolis, which is interlinked with the much larger Mba series, which itself is only one section of my whole Epic India library. Yet, I’ve laboured to make this book stand on its own and be a satisfying read. Naturally, it’s not complete in the story, since that would require not just the full Krishna storyline but also the larger Mba story and the larger context behind that as well. In that sense, it’s just a part of the big picture; but even the longest journey must start with a single step and if you permit,
Dance of Govinda
will take you on a short but eventful trip, one packed with action and magic, terror and adventure. The reason why the book, like the remaining books in the series, are so short, almost half of the length of my earlier Ramayana Series, is because that’s the best way the structure works. By that I mean the individual parts of the story and the way in which they fit together. Sure, I could make it longer – or shorter. But this felt like the perfect length. In an ideal world, the entire series would be packaged together as one massive book and published at once – but that’s not only impossible in terms of paper thickness and binding and cover price affordability, it’s not the right structure for the story. Stories have been split into sections, or volumes, or, in our culture, into parvas, kaands, suras, mandalas and so on, since literature was first written. You might as well ask the
same question of Krishna Dweipayana-Vyasa – ‘Sir, why did you split the Mahabharata into so many parvas and each parva into smaller sections and so on?’ The fact is, a story needs to be structured and the story itself decides which structure works best. That was the case here and I am very pleased with the way
Dance of Govinda
and the other books in the series turned out.

The
Sword of Dharma
mini-series, as I call it now, is also written in first draft and tells us the experiences and adventures of Lord Vishnu in the heavenly realms. It is a direct sequel to the Ramayana Series as well as a bridge story to the Krishna Coriolis and Mahabharata Series. And since it deals with otherworldly events, it exists outside of ‘normal’ time as we know it, which means it is also a sequel to the Krishna Coriolis and also a prequel to the Ramayana Series. I won’t confuse you further: once you read
Sword of Dharma,
you would understand instantly what I mean because the story itself is an action- packed adventure story where questions like‘when is this taking place?’ and ‘so is this happening before or after such-and-such?’ become less important than seeing the curtain parted and the world beyond the curtain revealed in its full glorious detail. No matter how much I may show you in the Ramayana Series, Krishna Coriolis and Mahabharata Series, all these ‘mortal’ tales are ultimately being affected and altered by events taking place at the ‘immortal’ level, and only by seeing that story-beyond-the-story can we fully comprehend the epic saga of gods and demons that forms the basis of Hindu mythology in our puranas.

But for now,
Dance of Govinda
marks a crucial turning point in the story of swayam Bhagwan (as the Bhagwatham calls him). Not only has he survived every attempt to destroy him at birth, he will grow and thrive. By the close of this book, hewill have gained the ability to stand on his own two feet – hence the title. And even though just a babe for most of the story, he is capable of far more than most grown heroes – not just more action, but more masthi as well! For that is the beauty of Krishna, he is not just a warrior but also a lovable mischievous tyke. There are as many stories of his infantile pranks as there are tales of his derring-do in this book, for I have tried to be as thorough as possible in mining the rich vein of Shrimad Bhagwatham, the Vishnu Purana and the Harivamsha sections of the Mahabharata in seeking every known recorded incident of Krishna’s infancy.

And that too is only part of the much, much larger tale of Krishna, which itself is part of the larger tale of Lord Vishnu, which is only part of the far greater saga of gods and demons. It’s an epic saga but the beauty of it is that each portion is delicious and fulfilling in itself!

Enjoy!

|| yadrcchaya copapannah ||
 

|| svarga-dvaram apavrtam ||
 

|| sukhinah ksatriya partha ||
 

|| labhante yuddham idrsam ||

Blessed are the warriors
 

Who are chosen to fight justly;
 

For the doors to heaven
 

Shall be opened unto them.

Kaand 1

one

Vasudeva raised aloft the ceremonial sceptre of the Sura nation. The rod, shaped to resemble a cowherd’s crook, was impressively cast in solid gold and studded with precious gems at the curve of the handle. It caught a bar of morning sunlight streaming in from a slatted window high upon the soaring walls of the Andhaka palace and gleamed. Beside him, King Ugrasena of Andhaka raised his rajtaru too. The Andhaka sceptre was no less impressive than that of the Suras.

Both rajtarus – the Sanskrit word literally meant
kingsrods
– reflected the sunlight, sending shards and slivers flashing to the farthest corners of the great hall. A calico tomcat, lying curled in the south corner, closed his eyes to slits and bared his teeth, peering against the blinding gleam of the rajtarus. The well-fed palace cat’s expression resembled nothing so much as a satiated grin.

The watching assemblage crowding the sabha hall to the limit of its capacity, and the lords and ladies resplendent in their finery, blinked, then caught their breaths. The sight of the two lieges standing on the throne dais, their traditional rajtarus raised
and glittering in the sunlight, presented a startling tableau. To some of the older clans chiefs in the great hall, it was a sight they had never thought they would witness as long as they lived: two ancient enemies – sovereigns of two of the wealthiest herding nations in the great land of Aryavarta – standing together with sceptres, not swords, aloft! Could it be true? Surely it was just maya? That sight – nay, that vision – could not be real, could it? After generations of cross-border blood feuds, broken only by intermittent outbreaks of war; after so much bloodshed and bitter enmity; after so many failed peace summits and parleys; after a long and bloody history had stained the pure soil of both nations, polluting the sacred Yamuna with the offal of vengeful violence, could peace finally be at hand?

Most of the assemblage, as well as the enormous throng crowding the palace grounds without, doubted it severely. Suspicious frowns creased the faces of many clanschiefs, ministers and merchant lords. Only a few hopeful souls smiled beatifically and fingered their rudraksh-bead rosaries, silently chanting shlokas to ensure the fruition of this historic pact.

There were few such personages; the golden age of Brahminism had long since ebbed, and the long- dreaded Kali Yuga was imminent – the prophesied dark age of Iron and Death. Most doubted that this historic pact, wrought after months of anxiety and expectation, would last, or that it would be honoured at all. Yet, even the most sceptical of ministers, the most cynical of generals, even the hardened veterans who had somehow survived the first violent decades of this dark age, prayed as fervently as their Brahmin brethren. For a while, few believed, all hoped, all desired. If it could somehow be brought to pass, if the devas truly saw fit to grant them this reprieve, they would accept peace, nay, embrace it, with all the warmth they had in them.

So, when both kings brought their rajtarus together in an inverted V, touching the gem-studded crooks lightly together, every citizen, high and low, watched with bated breath. Even the calico tomcat, stretching himself in preparation for a foray into the royal bhojanalya – he had sniffed the unmistakable, delectable fragrance of sweetwater fish being grilled there – paused and turned his head, smelling the sour sweat of hesitant hopes and anxious prayers in the air. The rhythmic, martial count of the dhol playing in the background underscored the whole scene like a giant unified heartbeat, marking the four-by-four count to which all Arya ceremonies were performed.

King Vasudeva’s soft tenor blended with King Ugrasena’s ageing gruffness as both kings recited the ceremonial shlokas aloud, each line cued to them by whispering pundits seated behind the dais. The sacred flame, symbol of Agni, the god of fire, flared up brightly as a purohit, one of the many priests who oversaw the arcana of traditional rites and customs, tossed a ladle of ghee onto the chaukhat. The flames shot up almost to the raised sceptres, licking briefly at the point of their unity. Sunlight above, fire below. It was an impressive and auspicious moment, brilliantly and meticulously conceived and staged by the purohits of the two kingdoms. To the dwindling Brahmins of Aryavarta, such occasions grew more precious with each passing decade since the world was turning away from old ways and traditions.

For the duration of this ceremony, the pomp and grandeur of Aryavarta – literally, the noble and proud – would shine as brightly as a beacon fed by the light of Brahman shakti. The chanting of the kings rose to a peak, ending with a final shloka that seemed to sing out from the very walls of the sabha hall. This last bit of theatrical magic was, again, wrought by the Brahmins, who, strategically positioned at the far walls of the hall, joined in with the kings’ chanting at the penultimate quartet and raised their voices – to match the well-rehearsed baritones of the kings – until it seemed that the entire world was chanting the verses.

|| yadrcchya copapannah svarga-dvaram apavrtam ||

|| sukhinah ksatriya partha labhante yuddham idrsam ||

The chanting died, the doleful drumbeats fading away at precisely that instant. In the silence that ensued, the gathered assemblage could hear the crackling and snapping of the sacred flame as the purohit continued to feed ladlefuls of sanctified ghee to insatiable Agni. The faces of the kings had grown warm from the heat of the flames, a few beads of sweat standing out on the clean-shaven good looks of the young King Vasudeva and the tips of King Ugrasena’s grey-shot beard.

Moving in perfect unison, they lowered their rajtarus to form an inverted V. The crooks of the sceptres dipped directly into the flames and the purohit ceased his ghee-tossing to allow the sacred fire to quell itself somewhat, lest the kings lose the skin of their arms. Beads of perspiration swelled and rolled down their faces as both monarchs held the crooks of their rajtarus in the fire just long enough to let the heat travel up to their bare hands.

Finally, the royal purohit uttered the words quietly enough so that only the kings could catch it, and both lieges broke their stance, stepping away from the fire. They exchanged their sceptres, each handing over his proof of kingship at the exact same time as he accepted the other’s royal seal. This was executed with surprising ease, considering that both rajtarus were close to blistering hot by now. The watching assemblage could hardly know that both kings had had their hands anointed with a special herbal paste prior to the ceremony, or that the near- invisible paste prevented the transmission of heat quite effectively.

The sight of the red-hot rajtarus being exchanged and then held aloft to allow every individual in the hall a chance to witness this momentous event, seared itself into the minds of all present. The painstakingly staged ceremony had served its purpose. Then, with obvious relief, and great smiles creasing their tense faces, the two kings embraced.

The crowd released its breath. Upon the fortified
palace battlements, waiting courtiers blew long and hard on their conch-shell trumpets. The low, deep calling of the conches filled the air for hundreds of yojanas, echoed from end to end of both kingdoms, announcing the most welcome news in over two centuries. Peace. Shanti.

Outside the Andhaka palace, the waiting crowd, which had now swollen to tens of thousands, broke into a ragged roar that almost drowned out the conches. Royal criers rode through the avenues and streets, pausing at corners to shout out the news – in Sanskrit, and then in commonspeak – confirming the details of the peace pact. Stone pillars, carved and ready for weeks, were hastily but ceremoniously erected at strategic spots in the capital city and at junctions along the national kingsroad, setting down the same details for posterity – or at least as long as stone and wind and rain would allow, which would probably be a millennium or two.

Sadly, the peace pact itself was not to last even a fraction of that time.

two

The massive teak doors of the banquet hall flew open as if struck by a battering ram. They swivelled inwards on smoothly oiled tracks and crashed against the stone walls, swatting aside the guards milling about the entrance. Vasudeva glanced up from his meal just in time to see a young soldier’s foot caught by the lower bolt of a door, dragged to the wall, and crushed against the relentless stone with a bone-crunching impact that left the poor fellow’s face white.

The other guards, drunk on the festive atmosphere and milling about jovially, responded belatedly, joining their lances and challenging the rude entrants. The armoured bull elephant that trundled into the banquet hall paid no heed to their shouted challenges. It was armoured in the fashion of Andhaka hathi-yodhhas – the dreaded war elephants of the Andhaka clan – its head couched in a formidable headpiece bristling with spikes that made it resemble some demon out of a myth, its tusks capped with brass horns tapering to resemble spears, and rows of ugly spikes protruding out of its sides.

Vasudeva had seen the destruction that these hathi- yodhhas left in their wake during close combat. His heart lurched at the thought of the havoc even a
single
such monster could wreak in a confined, crowded space like this hall. The dried, brownish smears on the elephant’s armour left no doubt that the shield was not merely for decoration. This particular hathi-yodhha had seen active combat this very day and had taken lives in that action. Vasudeva prayed silently that they were not Sura lives, then felt mean and small for having thought so. All life was precious, all humanity united in brotherhood. No matter whose blood lay dried upon the armourplate of this hathi-yodhha, it was a death he would not have wished for anyone.